Love the Way You Lie (House of Crows) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Lisa Unger

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781542027304

  Cover design by Anna Laytham

  1.

  The next day, fifteen-year-old Matthew had all but forgotten about Mason, the trip to Havenwood, and the Dark Man. He was too young to acknowledge at the time that he had a gift for that, for burying dark and unpleasant things so deep that they disappeared from his consciousness. He was too young to know what a bad thing that was, even though it seemed like a good thing.

  Claire maybe seemed a little off, but she had since the whole hide-and-seek thing. And she was a girl. As far as Matthew was concerned, there was no more mysterious creature in the universe.

  Anyway, no one had brought up Mason, the creepy building out in the woods, the things Mason had said the night before. It hadn’t come up that whole lazy next day at the lake, during the muggy walk to the general store for ice cream, in the woods behind the house up to the edge of the old walled garden. Claire loved the walled garden, to wander among the overgrown plants, the gone-wild rose bushes, the towering grasses, the tangles of ivy. Matthew always walked out of there sneezing, or brushed up against some poison ivy and itched all night. If anyone had been thinking about the strangeness of what had happened, of Mason and his craziness, no one said a word.

  It wasn’t until they’d returned to Merle House from the day’s adventures and seen the police car sitting in front that yesterday came back in a rush to Matthew. The red-and-white lights on the roof spun slowly, silently, casting an eerie kaleidoscope on the trees, the walls, glinting off the tall windows.

  “Oh shit,” said Ian softly.

  A tall, thick man who was not wearing a uniform, but instead a dark suit, stood on the porch with Matthew’s grandfather. Next to the tall man with the heavy brow, Matthew’s grandfather looked bent and small. His hair a wild gray mane, where the other man’s was close shorn, salt and pepper. The besuited man was obviously a cop, an aura of authority radiating from him.

  Old Man Merle lifted a hand to them as they approached, waved them over. Matthew had just been about to lead the others around the side, headed toward the back entrance that led directly into the kitchen, where he ate most of his meals. Instead, they all came to stand in front of the tall front entryway.

  “I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” Grandpa Merle said to Matthew. The old man seemed a bit put out, annoyed. Matthew had never seen his grandfather at the door. He was in his study, or seated at the head of the dining room table, or wandering the grounds. But never at the front door, which was always answered by the eternal housekeeper, Penny, if anyone other than Matthew’s friends ever came to Merle House—which was never.

  Matthew could feel Claire crowding in close, hiding behind him and Ian.

  “Officer Braun has some questions,” Matthew’s grandfather went on. Matthew knew that tone, a kind of superior patience.

  “Detective Braun,” the other man corrected.

  Old Man Merle looked at the cop with a frown, certainly not used to and not interested in being corrected. “Yes, well, let’s do this inside, shall we?”

  Penny, who was standing nervously inside the door, ushered them all into the kitchen. In spite of the many grand rooms at Merle House, Matthew spent most of his time with Penny in the kitchen, or in his father’s old bedroom, Matthew’s bedroom now, or when his friends weren’t around, lying in front of the fire in his grandpa’s study while the old man read, or they talked languidly about all sorts of things—girls, politics, history, algebra, turning over rocks to find frogs, the best climbing tree on the property. Matthew loved his grandfather, then. He’ll love you, and you’ll adore him until you become a man with ideas of your own, Matthew’s father had warned. As a kid, Matthew had had no idea what that meant. But he’d figured it out soon enough, and it turned out to be true of his grandfather—and his father too.

  “Kids,” said Detective Braun when they were all seated at the long, heavy kitchen table that stood along a row of windows. Outside it had grown dark. “Your friend Mason Brandt? Unfortunately, his father passed away.”

  Claire released a little gasp, and Ian blanched a bit. Matthew could still hear Mason’s strident, angry voice echoing off the stone walls of that creepy basement:

  I want my father to die. He beats me, and my mom. He’s a drunk and a monster. And I wish he was dead.

  “H-h-how?” Matthew managed. His palms were sweaty, so he put them under the table.

  “He was doing some repairs on the roof, apparently, and took a fall.”

  Everyone knew that Mason’s father was an alcoholic, always out of work. Matthew, the few times he’d been to Mason’s, had never seen his father not lying in front of the television in the darkened living room. It was hard to imagine him making repairs of any kind. The house was a wreck.

  Claire had started to cry a little, and Penny brought her a tissue, stood behind her with a protective hand on her shoulder.

  “A tragedy to be sure,” said Matthew’s grandfather, with obvious indifference. “But what does that have to do with these children?”

  “Mason claims that he was with you last night. Is that right?”

  They all looked at each other, nodded. As their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, a tacit agreement passed between them to say nothing about Havenwood, or what they had seen and heard.

  “Yeah,” said Matthew, always the leader of the group. “We were all together last night.”

  “What were you kids up to?”

  “Not much,” said Matthew. Claire was still sniffling. “Just playing in the woods.”

  The detective had not been offered a seat, so he stood, notebook in hand.

  “Until what time?”

  Matthew shrugged, looked at the other two.

  “They’re meant to be in by dinner,” said Penny. “But they were late.”

  “We lost track of time,” said Matthew.

  “Of course they did,” said Grandpa. He also stood, in a kind of ready posture by the door. He used a cane most of the time, but he didn’t have it now. “They’re kids. They’re supposed to lose track of time, especially in the summer.”

  “Mason ate dinner here,” said Penny. “Left sometime after that.”

  “What time exactly?”

  “Nine,” said Matthew. “Maybe later.”

  Everyone nodded. No one contradicted him, though Matthew might have been padding the time a little to give Mason some cover. What if he did push his father off the roof? Matthew wouldn’t blame him.

  “Well, there you go,” said Old Man Merle. “He was here late. Let me show you out.”

  “Did Mason ever talk about his father?” asked the detective, ignoring the old man’s obvious annoyance.

  They all shook their heads.

  It was true, usually. Mason’s declaration was an anomaly. Parents were not a topic that was of any interest, except for passing complaints, snarky observations, or declarations that they would never do the t
hings their parents did. But no one ever wanted to go to Mason’s house. Merle House—with its ready housekeeper, and endless rooms, hallways, and passages to explore, the giant pool, the wild grounds, their total freedom there—was by far the preferred hangout. Claire’s was a fair second, because there was a pool table, big-screen television, and comfy furniture in the finished basement. Ian’s house had all the best snacks, and his mom always let them order pizza—no matter what time of day it was. They might ping-pong from house to house during the day, but Mason’s rundown ranch was very rarely on the rotation.

  “What about Amelia March?” asked the detective. “Did he ever talk about her?”

  Again, a group head shaking. They were all obeying that unwritten rule: kids against grown-ups. No one was going to say that he’d been talking about her just yesterday. Claire took Matthew’s hand under the table. Her fingers were ice cold. He felt a little thrill at her touch, squeezed her fingers with his.

  Ian cleared his throat, spoke for the first time. “She’s missing, right?”

  “Did you know her?” asked the detective, moving subtly closer to them.

  “She was older,” put in Claire. “I used to see her at school sometimes. She ran away, right? With her older boyfriend?”

  “Did Mason tell you that he was following her? Turning up at her work? At her house?”

  A chorus of noes. Ian’s voice picked that moment to crack.

  But, thought Matthew, not surprising. Mason was weird. It sounded like him to do creepy things. After all, didn’t he just show up here? Matthew couldn’t even remember how they’d become friends. He was just here at Merle House one day, seemed to know Matthew’s grandfather. Seemed to belong. His family had worked for the Merle family in some capacity forever—wasn’t that it?

  “Mason was the last person to speak to his father. According to the neighbors, there was yelling earlier in the afternoon. And he was the last person seen with Amelia March the night she disappeared.”

  They all stayed silent. That was bad, thought Matthew. Really bad.

  “Okay,” said Old Man Merle, stepping away from his place by the door. Suddenly he didn’t seem so bent and frail, or old at all. “That’s enough. There won’t be any more discussion on this topic without the presence of my lawyer and the parents of these minor children.”

  Detective Braun failed to control a smirk, lifted his palms. “That won’t be necessary. I am just asking questions.”

  “You’re trying to get these kids to say something to incriminate Mason Brandt, when for years the police in this town have done nothing to protect him and his mother from an abusive man. That’s not going to happen on my watch. Good evening, Officer.”

  There was a lot of data in that statement, too much for fifteen-year-old Matthew to process. But it was clear that his grandfather knew more about Mason than Matthew had been aware. And for the first time Matthew saw the fearsome business titan people talked about when they talked about his grandfather—who to him had always been just a kind old man who gave him money and let him have total freedom.

  Detective Braun made a show of slowly putting away his notepad. He took a couple of business cards from his pocket and lay them on the table.

  “Kids, I’ll be in touch. And in the meantime, call me if you want to talk about Mason, or Amelia, or—anything.” It seemed friendly, but it wasn’t. There was a hard glint to Braun’s eyes. He was a man with an agenda.

  Then to Old Man Merle, “Do you mind if I take a look around the grounds?”

  Grandpa smiled mirthlessly, glasses shining in the overhead light. “May I see your warrant?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I didn’t think so. Good evening.”

  Detective Braun bowed his head like a shamed schoolboy and headed for the door—with Penny at his heels to usher him out.

  “Rule number one, kids,” said Matthew’s grandfather when they heard the heavy front door close. “Never talk to the cops, even if you’re innocent, and especially if you’re guilty. Penny, call Benjamin Ward.”

  “Yes, Mr. Merle.” She’d just returned, but hustled off again.

  “Now.” He turned a hard gaze on Matthew. “Tell me what really happened last night.”

  2.

  Merle House receded from view in the rearview mirror as Samantha took the Jeep into town. She’d called up the stairs to see if Jewel wanted to go for a ride. But a persistent silence was the only answer. She hadn’t walked up and pushed into Jewel’s room. Because, to be honest, Samantha could use a little time to herself without the weight of everyone’s misery like a yoke on her back.

  She felt a kind of release as she passed through the open gate and left the grounds, as though she’d been freed from a grasp she hadn’t realized was painful. When she glanced in the rearview mirror again, it was gone, and she saw only the green tops of the trees.

  If they were having guests, she’d need to do a big grocery shopping trip. And according to Peter, there was a woman in town who’d long been the housekeeper at Merle House. Did he say they were distantly related? Peter thought she might come part-time to help Samantha get the rooms ready, be on hand for some light cleaning, help in the kitchen. Samantha hadn’t even mentioned it to Matthew, because he’d balk at the cost. According to Peter, Penny Grann worked mornings in the coffee shop, where there was also free Wi-Fi. All the talk about Amelia March, about the house, about the abandoned boys’ school out in the woods, about Matthew’s grandfather, had her curious. She had some more research she wanted to do, without interruptions, without Matthew or Jewel looking over her shoulder. So that would be her first stop.

  She pulled the Jeep into a spot in front of the café in the picture-postcard town square. A little park sat in the center, with a gazebo and a playground, a sign announcing the fall festival and pumpkin patch this coming weekend. She wondered if Jewel would want to go, then remembered that her daughter wasn’t three anymore, full of giggles and smiles and wide-eyed wonder. The reality of the outing—dragging a sullen teen through a pumpkin patch while the kid stared at her phone, shooting miserable glances at everyone and everything around her—would not match Samantha’s momentary fantasy of a joyful family outing.

  She locked the Jeep—though, really, who would want it? Then she crossed the sidewalk to step inside the warm, cozy space lined with booths and bustling with chatter and clanking cups—mommy groups, students with open laptops, solitary workers, the usual daytime coffee shop crowd. The aroma was heavenly, and she was desperate for a real cup of coffee, not the sludge they’d been drinking at Merle House. The sign said SIT ANYWHERE YOU LIKE, so she chose the spot by the window and slid in.

  A blessed sense of freedom washed over her as she shifted off her jacket. She found herself staring at the black Jeep. What if she just didn’t go back? Then guilt, a flush of heat to her cheeks. How could she even think such a thing? She could leave Matthew, maybe even should. But not Jewel. And Merle House—what was it about that old place? It needed her; she knew that. She couldn’t leave. Not yet.

  “Good morning.”

  The woman standing by the table was older, with a pretty blonde bob and kind, watery hazel eyes. Was it still morning? Samantha glanced at her phone. Yes, just.

  “Good morning,” said Samantha.

  The other woman looked at her with a tilt of her head. “Oh, are you Mrs. Merle?”

  “I am,” she said, surprised. “Samantha.”

  She hadn’t spent much time in town, didn’t really know anyone yet. Yet. They weren’t staying here, she had to keep reminding herself. She may never meet anyone here.

  “I’m Penny Grann,” offered the waitress. “I used to be the housekeeper there. Pete said that you, young Matthew, and your daughter were living up at the house.”

  Samantha stuck out her hand; the woman’s grip was firm and warm.

  “That’s right,” said Samantha. “In fact—I’m here to see if we can’t lure you back for a couple of weeks. We’ll be having some com
pany and could use the help. Around your schedule, of course, part-time?”

  Something passed across the other woman’s face, a sadness, as if remembering something dark. “I’m almost done with my shift here.”

  “Join me for a coffee, then? My treat,” suggested Samantha.

  She was surprised at how eager she was for this woman’s company, for her to come back to Merle House. The thought had only recently occurred to her, and now she felt an edge of desperation for it to be so.

  The woman hesitated, smoothing out her apron. Samantha thought she might refuse. Even Peter, whom they rarely saw, seemed to be edging further away daily. They’d see him out in his gray jumpsuit doing something or other—mowing, trimming, blowing leaves. Tasks they’d neither assigned nor really needed to be done. Maybe he knew that the money was running out. Maybe Penny knew that too.

  But then the other woman surprised her. “Lovely. I’ll just be a minute. What can I get you?”

  Samantha smiled. “A triple latte would be heaven.”

  After Penny had left her, Samantha opened her laptop and cleaned out her in-box—which was mostly junk. All but the most stalwart friends had long since dropped away. A battle with illness, followed by Matthew’s scandal—his alleged affair, the woman in question still missing. Most people, especially those associated with the college, distanced themselves right away. As if whatever had touched Samantha and Matthew was contagious, as if the years of friendship, parties, professional favors, school pickups, backyard barbecues had meant nothing. And maybe they hadn’t. Maybe none of it was ever real. Certainly, now that they were ensconced at Merle House, it all seemed like a distant dream—that life, the people they were.

  In the morass of newsletters, coupons, advertisements, missives from Jewel’s online school, one email made her stomach clench.

  I’m still looking for her, read the subject line.

  It was from the private detective who had taken on the case of Matthew’s missing student, Sylvia Rowan, hired by Sylvia’s female lover and supposed partner in crime, another con artist who preyed on married men in power positions in corporations and academia. Their trick apparently was to seduce a man, allege assault, and then ask for a payout to go away. If they didn’t get it, they caused a scandal. Matthew was one of a long line of ruined men in their paths.