The Walled Cat

By Barbara T. Cerny

At the edge of the Atlantic Ocean and in the tatters of her marriage and emotions, Rielle Barnaby finds comfort in buying a forlorn and abandoned old Victorian to renovate into a Bed & Breakfast. Hoping the project will make her forget her old life and heal her heart, she throws herself into the fray.
In the midst of her personal crisis, she has to deal with a creepy handyman living on the property, a petrified cat, two dead bodies in the basement that have been there for seventy years, and the lost fortune of the previous owner, weird old Mina Rhoades.
The handsome young estate lawyer who helps her buy the house just might be the best thing about Old Saybrook, CT, and her new life. Rielle sorely wants Sam Bennett to pull her out of her doldrums caused by her ex but she is afraid to open herself up again to the pain. Can she let her ex go and allow Sam to love her or will she end up like the bodies in the basement when she finds the long lost treasure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara T. Cerny
• Release date: Mar 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9780990943556

Barbara T. Cerny

Author Barbara T. Cerny has garnered NATIONAL INDIE EXCELLENCE® BOOK AWARDS FINALIST 2015, A READER’S FAVORITE® 2015 AWARDS FINALIST, four A Reader’s Favorite 5 Star ratings, and an INDIE READER APPROVED seal as judged by top industry professionals— not as merely a great indie book— but as great book, period. Named by Novel Writing Festival 2017 best of ADVENTURE Novel Stories from around the world, and Book Viral SHORT LIST of authors for the 2017 Millennium Book AwardBarb grew up in Grand Junction, Colorado, which at that time was a small town of 30,000 people. She left that little burg to see the world, garner three college degrees, and to serve in the US Army. After eight years on active duty and fourteen years in the reserves, she retired as a lieutenant colonel in 2007. While deployed to the Middle East in 2005, Ms. Cerny finally figured out she had to get going on the real love of her life, writing. She wrote her first two novels during that time and hasn’t stopped. She is presently working on novels number seven, eight, and nine. When not writing, Ms. Cerny works as an information technology specialist and supervisor for the US Air Force. She lives with her loving husband, their two active teenagers, and three needy cats. The cats patiently watch her write and listen to her intently as she discusses plot lines with them.

Book preview

The Walled Cat

A house that whispers. A petrified cat. Two bodies in the basement. A creep for a neighbor and a murder mystery 70 years in the making

By Barbara T. Cerny

Copyright © 2017 Barbara T. Cerny

Smashwords Edition

Adult reading material. Some bad language, some sex, minor violence.

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Synopsis

At the edge of the Atlantic Ocean and in the tatters of her marriage and emotions, Rielle Barnaby finds comfort in buying a forlorn and abandoned old Victorian to renovate into a Bed & Breakfast. Hoping the project will make her forget her old life and heal her heart, she throws herself into the fray.

In the midst of her personal crisis, she has to deal with a creepy handyman living on the property, a petrified cat, two dead bodies in the basement that have been there for seventy years, and the lost fortune of the previous owner, weird old Mina Rhoades.

The handsome young estate lawyer who helps her buy the house just might be the best thing about Old Saybrook, CT, and her new life. Rielle sorely wants Sam Bennett to pull her out of her doldrums caused by her ex but she is afraid to open herself up again to the pain. Can she let her ex go and allow Sam to love her or will she end up like the bodies in the basement when she finds the long-lost treasure?

Dedication

I dedicate this book to Ryan and Kathy Joy, my nephew and his wonderful wife. They bought a fixer-upper in California and can relate to the heroine and her quest to make the old lady great, no matter what mysteries she uncovers.

BOOK 1: RIELLE

Chapter 1

Rielle Barnaby Pendergast found herself at the water’s edge in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, idly wondering if she should dash herself against the rocks and end it all. She shook her head and speculated how she came to this, thinking of suicide on the shores where the Connecticut River meets the Long Island Sound, 1,300 miles from her home state of Minnesota.

She had driven until she reached the ocean and could go no further. Rielle had felt a deep need to turn off I-95 onto Main Street of this tiny town, and now stood at the end of the Saybrook Point Marina Pier watching the waves batter the shore. Each wave seemed to slam into her battered heart, ripping out all emotion.

She turned to look at the now sleepy shoreline, void of the rush of visitors she imagined kept this dinky hamlet on the map during the tourist season. The sign into town stated the founding fathers of the little burg set up shop in 1854, and it boasted a population of 10,367. The Minneapolis metro area counted 300 times that, and she was sure there were 10,000 people on her block alone back home.

Home. The only place she wanted to be was the only place she couldn’t go. Ben had dismissed her. Actually, Ben’s mother, Rose, had dismissed her while Ben pretended to blend in with the wallpaper. He’d always been a mama’s boy, but this insult took that label to a whole new level.

They forced Rielle to leave her home and her children without so much as a wave of the hand. She hadn’t been able to say goodbye to her four little ones. Baxter, her oldest, was only five. He would try to be brave for the rest of them but would cry for her when no one was looking. Bryce, at four, would be more interested in a new toy or video game Rose would give him to buy his love and his silence. He had been Rose’s from the minute he popped out. Braden, at two, wouldn’t understand why she disappeared and would spend days wandering around looking for her while hugging his well-worn stuffed elephant. Her sweet baby Brynn, six months old and newly weaned, wouldn’t even remember her mother in a few months.

Rielle stopped thinking about it to keep the tears from sliding down her cheeks in rivers again. She’d already cried enough tears to fill the Dead Sea.

She sadly climbed back into her car and drove idly up Main Street before turning south on Maple. She passed streets named Sherman, Edmund, and Howard before pausing at the street called Machado. A little ditty from Sesame Street popped into her head and she chanted aloud, One of these things doesn’t match the others!

She followed Maple, looking for something she couldn’t see or name. Maple turned east and she soon found herself staring at the ocean again as the street followed the coast for several blocks. She nearly came to a stop in the middle of the road as she neared South Cove. Staring at the street sign for a long moment, she finally turned left just as she came to it, causing the little trailer behind her SUV to sway. South Cove soon turned into Neptune as she continued north, looking for something that seemed just out of her reach. She barely noticed the old houses she passed, built in a bygone era but held onto tightly by the good folk of Old Saybrook.

Rielle rounded a curve to her left and gasped as she turned her head to the north. There stood a grand Victorian home, its wide lawn sprawling over several acres before and around it. Rielle stopped her Cadillac Escalade at the front walkway and stared up at the stately old mansion.

The three-story house seemed huge, belying the size of the yard that couldn’t swallow it. The grounds took up all the land facing a street called Atlantic and ran between the two wide curves of the road. The house sat on a good-sized chunk of the property. It rivaled the Pendergast estate in Minneapolis.

Rielle stared at the middle of the house. Its rectangular shape with beveled roofs, a two-story turret, and windows gracing every space available screamed Victorian. River stone covered the main section, giving it a regal look. To the left, the house stretched out with an addition. A long hallway seemed to end at a square section. Rielle assumed that might be a modern kitchen added on years after the owner built the original home.

The largest porch she had ever seen graced the old house to its right. It wrapped around two sides of the main house and had a part that jutted out for no reason whatsoever. Rielle thought maybe the owner wanted another addition to go at the end of the veranda but hadn’t gotten around to building one.

The house stared back at her, seemingly in a standoff, to see who would blink first. Its forlorn face, drooping with shutters coming off their moorings, begged for love and attention. The house looked like Rielle felt: alone, neglected, and abandoned.

We are peas in a pod, milady. Both of us were tossed out like yesterday’s newspaper.

Drawn to her kindred spirit, she stepped out of the SUV and started up the long and winding walk, passing through a gate hanging on one hinge. It creaked loudly in protest at being disturbed.

She noted the yard was as unkempt as the exterior of the once fine lady in front of her. Hedges overgrew their boundaries and grass choked the flower beds. She spotted patches of dandelions, crabgrass, clover, and a myriad of other weeds in the lawn.

Rielle reached the front steps and then climbed up to the wide veranda without having to deal with yelling owners, barking dogs, or hissing alarms. The porch held some old white wicker furniture, the remnants of some happy and peaceful era long gone by.

She looked through all the windows, searching for a clue as to why this beautiful old house had been seemingly left to rot. She could only see dark and dingy shapes and nothing defined. Rielle swore she could hear whispers talking to her. She looked around the old porch but saw no one. For some reason, the whispers comforted her instead of scaring her. She knew her imagination ran away with her, but right now Rielle needed comfort and an old breathing house provided comfort enough.

She sat in the dusty wicker chair, not caring about the dirt smudging her clothes. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and listened to the house talk to her in its own creaky way. Rielle didn’t want to think about home, or Ben, or the kids. It was too painful. If she just concentrated on the house, maybe her mind would stay away from that torment in her heart.

She dozed lightly when the scraping noise of a heavy step bought her out of her stupor.

She glanced at the source of the noise and jumped up screaming, sure that this huge beast of a man would eat her alive.

The man didn’t move, as if he realized he had just scared her half to death. Rielle began to calm down when he didn’t approach further but she still kept a healthy apprehension and distance.

From the top of his head to the toes of his boots, Rielle thought he shouted homeless man or worse. Stringy, dark-brown hair stuck out from beneath a very grimy Baltimore Orioles baseball cap. The mass of hair came to his shoulders and looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb in a decade.

He boasted a handlebar mustache that must have been five inches long on each side, curled twice around. He also sported a full scraggly beard ala ZZ Top. The only parts of his face exposed were his cheekbones and eyes; the cap obscured everything down to his eyebrows. His once white T-shirt was now the color of old bird poop, and his jeans looked like he had pulled them from the garbage. His denim jacket opened down the front and looked shoddier than the jeans.

But this man’s eyes were the worst part of him. Rielle thought the strangely shaded brown orbs looked utterly lifeless, as if his soul had been dragged out of his body by Lucifer himself.

Rielle stood against the porch railing waiting for something to happen. If the man moved toward her she was poised to jump over the railing and take her chances with the fall.

Instead, he barked, You’re trespassing! in a strange Southern-like accent.

Is this your house? she asked, thinking it matched his dirty and unkempt look pretty well.

No.

Then you are trespassing, too, she retorted, feeling a bit braver.

I live above the garage. He pointed toward the back with his thumb. You’re the one who don’t belong here.

Well, excuse me, she replied, her courage fully returning. Now that the ugly beast talked like a normal human, poor English notwithstanding, he didn’t seem so frightening. But she still found him rather disgusting. You look as bad as this house.

I am its caretaker. He crossed his arms defensively.

Well, you don’t take very good care of it, Rielle commented, or yourself.

He snorted and shook his head. Lady, who do you think you are? You trespass on property that don’t belong to you; you sleep in a chair that don’t belong to you; and then you insult me and the house. You are a real piece of work. He pulled out his cell phone. She noted it looked as battered as the rest of him.

Who are you calling? she asked, getting nervous again.

The police.

Go ahead; they are not going to arrest one of their own tourists.

They do the stupid ones, he retorted.

Oh, you can just go jump in a lake.

That the best you can do? He held the phone up to his ear. Hey, Toby. I have a lively one here for you.

Fine, I am leaving. Satisfied?

He nodded and said, Never mind, into the phone.

Rielle stomped down the steps, angry that this uncouth idiot got in the way of her lovely respite on the porch of a house that somehow called to her.

Halfway down the walk she turned around and looked back at the house. The creepy man had disappeared from the porch. She wondered briefly if she had dreamt the whole encounter. She wouldn’t have been surprised, knowing the emotional roller coaster ride she’d been on the past few days.

Climbing back into the SUV, Rielle turned again toward the house. She blinked hard a couple of times as she swore it really looked back at her and seemed sadder than before. She shook her shoulders and head, trying to get the image of the forlorn house out of her mind.

Driving away, she had to force herself to look forward instead of back at the house whispering for her not to go.

Rielle spent the next two days wandering through Old Saybrook. The charming little town completely drew her in. It was so different from her home city of Minneapolis; it helped to keep her thoughts from constantly turning back to her old life.

She took the self-guided walking tour of downtown. It went the length of Main Street, starting with the old railway and ending on East Street. However, as she studied the Doric pilasters and dentil work on the cornice over the front door of Edward Sanford House, pictures of the front door of the grand old lady on Neptune came to her mind.

Instead of the Georgian proportions of the center chimney and double chimney of the Ambrose Whittlesey House, she saw the roofline of the old Victorian.

The porticos framing the front door and the front porch of the J. Shipman House brought forth memories of the odd porch that jutted out to nowhere and of the wild man.

Rielle finally retreated to the sanctuary of a miniature medieval cathedral called Grace Episcopal Church. There she knelt and prayed for her mind to release the hurts of the past and to move forward in her life.

After dragging herself through the rest of the walking tour, she returned to her hotel room to flop on the bed and cry again.

*****

Rielle spent hours sitting at the water’s edge bundled in her coat and hat against the cool April weather. She watched the waves pound against the shore, the rhythmic timing soothing the horrible breaks in her aching heart.

Her mind constantly brought to the forefront the loss she had endured at her husband’s hand. Or at his lack of hand since he let it all happen with nary a word. She was lost. She had lost everything except a car, her few worldly possessions, and a new bank account. Rielle knew she’d give it all back for her children—her wonderful, beautiful babies. The hole in her heart for their loss couldn’t be expressed in words. No phrase could describe hurt that deep and intense. Every grain of sand in the ocean could be piled up, but it wouldn’t be as big as her grief.

However, in between the angst, thoughts of the grand old Victorian on Neptune Street continued to wander into her head like an unwanted guest. She could hear its whispers calling her name on the wind as it blew by. She did not understand its calling, but by the third day the whispers became too great to ignore, penetrating even her deep anguish.

Rielle stepped up into her car and drove back downtown, looking for the one thing she needed—a real estate agent. She wanted to buy that house. She needed to buy that house. She knew it was irrational for her to want to buy a wreck of a home since she herself was a total wreck, but somewhere deep down she knew she had to live there.

After about 15 minutes of driving around, she finally saw a realty office. She found a parking place and boldly walked into the building. A plump woman met her at the reception desk.

May I help you?

Yes, I would like to inquire about buying the Victorian mansion on Neptune Street, directly across from a street called Atlantic.

The woman gasped. You mean the old Rhoades estate?

I guess so. I’m sorry, but I don’t know the address. It is a large Victorian that sits partly on Neptune and partly on Knollwood where they are split by Atlantic. It is in desperate need of some TLC.

Goodness, exclaimed the woman. "That is the old Rhoades place. Mina Rhoades died about two years ago and the house has languished ever since. Actually, she corrected herself, it languished for decades before Mina’s death."

So no one owns it?

Yes and no, replied the woman. My name is Joyce Eviston. Come on and sit down and I will explain it to you.

Joyce spent the next 30 minutes telling Rielle about the house. Lloyd Rhoades built her in 1903. He owned a factory that manufactured weapons and munitions. He lived in the house with his wife, Grace, and their four children—Aubrey, Alisha, Roger, and Mina. They were the town’s richest and most famous family. But they somehow fell into ruin.

The stock market crash? wondered Rielle, knowing that event ruined many families.

No, I don’t think so. It is truly a mystery. But I bet the secrets lie locked up in the house.

Rielle wondered if that was why the house called to her. Maybe it wanted to give up its secrets to someone who wasn’t part of the town’s history. She shook off the feeling. Houses couldn’t talk, and she was no Nancy Drew.

Mina inherited the house and lived there like a hermit until her death a couple of years ago. She was really old. Joyce paused, But I am not the expert. You should stop by Sam Bennett’s law office. Sam is the estate’s executor and can answer your questions.

Luckily, Mr. Bennett’s office was only a couple of blocks away from the realtor. In no time at all, Rielle sat in Mr. Bennett’s reception room. She had to wait nearly an hour, but since she had nowhere to go and nothing to do, it didn’t bother her in the least. Mr. Bennett had plenty of magazines to read.

Eventually, a young man in his early 30s opened the door to the inner office and motioned for her to come in.

I am Sam Bennett. Pleased to meet you. Rielle blinked a couple of times. She had expected an older gentleman in his 50s or 60s with a country charm about him. This Mr. Bennett was young, blond, green-eyed, and handsome, with a quick smile and a firm handshake.

Hello, Mr. Bennett. I am Rielle Barnaby. I would like to inquire about the old Rhoades estate on Neptune Street.

It’s actually on Knollwood Drive, corrected Mr. Bennett. Are you the heir? We were expecting a man.

Oh, no, replied Rielle hastily. I am not the heir. I am simply intrigued by the house and would like to buy it, if that is possible.

Mr. Bennett raised an eyebrow. "Well, Ms. Barnaby, I will have to look into the legalities of that. There are nearly eight years of back taxes due on it. I will need to check with the county and the state to see if we can sell it. If I were you, I would have it appraised and also have a structural engineer check it out to make sure the darn thing won’t fall down around your head.

However, you must realize it needs a total renovation. You’ll probably spend many hundreds of thousands of dollars putting her back together.

Rielle thought about her newly acquired bank account. That should not be a problem, Mr. Bennett.

His smile grew bigger. Please call me Sam.

After a few more minutes discussing the property, they shook hands. Rielle left him her new cell phone number. Sam was the first person she put in her contacts list.

Rielle spent another day or so getting to know the town of Old Saybrook. She found the library, got a card, and checked out a few books. She used the address of the old Victorian and smiled when the librarian didn’t flinch. The address must not be as well-known as the house’s name, she thought.

Emboldened, she engaged the town librarian in conversation. Hello, my name is Rielle Barnaby. I am thinking of moving to Old Saybrook.

The pudgy 50-something woman smiled and took Rielle’s proffered hand. I am Margaret Whitt. Welcome to our little town.

I really like what I have seen so far, but maybe you could tell me a little more about the place—housing options and things like that.

Are you planning on buying or renting?

Buying. Definitely buying. Rielle immediately prayed that God would see to it that Mr. Bennett and the state allowed her to buy. She’d be devastated if she didn’t get the old Rhoades estate.

Good. Then you will need to know the whole story of the town. Margaret pulled a brochure off the shelf behind her. You can get a lot of information at the Chamber of Commerce but I have this here to get you started.

Thank you. I have already been on the Old Saybrook walking tour which I found quite nice.

Margaret nodded. "We have a lot of beautiful old homes here. Our founders incorporated the town in 1854, but our history goes back to the early 1600s.

Since you’ve been on the walking tour, you already know we are bordered on two sides by the Connecticut River and Long Island Sound. We also boast more than 100 homes that are designated as having historic significance.

Does that include the Rhoades estate?

So you’ve been to see our tired old lady.

I am trying to buy that old lady.

Margaret’s jaw dropped. Oh, my! You know it is a wreck.

Rielle nodded. I am well aware. Sam Bennett warned me, but I think I can help restore her to her old grandeur.

The mayor will probably give you the key to the city if you do that. I hope you have lots of children to fill it.

A pain that was never far from the surface rose in agony to remind Rielle of what she’d lost. She swallowed hard and willed the tears to stay at bay.

I think a bed and breakfast would be more appropriate, she choked, blinking the tears back. I am not married.

Margaret nodded. Ah, that would be a great monument to the old lady. She would come alive again.

Rielle raised the brochure, wanting to leave before Margaret pried more than she wanted to tell. Thanks again for the brochure and the books. I will probably be a regular customer.

She ran to her car and dropped into the front seat of the Escalade just before the tears burst forth. How would she get through life if innocent comments from people sent her into a crying fit? She wiped her nose on her sleeve and backed up, hoping she wouldn’t hit anyone, for she could barely see through her tears.

Once at the hotel, books forgotten, she curled up on the bed and allowed the pain of her lost children to take her once again.

*****

Sam finally called her back. He sounded excited. It looks like the house can be yours as long as you pay the back taxes.

Rielle returned to the real estate agent and asked for the name of their appraiser and a structural engineer.

Joyce bounced in excitement. It will be wonderful to have someone living in that old house again. But you know it’s a wreck, right?

Rielle nodded and gave a wry smile. I’m well aware of its condition. Kind of like me, she thought. Being a wreck was an apt description of her life at the moment. She somehow thought that rebuilding the grand old lady would also rebuild the not-so-grand Rielle Barnaby.

Two days later she met Sam at his office to pick up the key.

I took a Remington and the Erté statue and sold them for my retainer and to fund my search for the heir, he explained as he dropped the key into her hand. I have had no such luck and I will probably need to sell something else soon to continue the retainer.

Are there a lot of valuable antiques in the house? I don’t know if I want to be responsible if something happens to them.

Don’t worry, Rielle. I really didn’t find anything else recognizable as worth something. I could tell that cowboy and horse was a Remington. The Erté looked valuable so I took it. I was right on that account. Maybe the appraiser will find more. Just let me know. He seemed happy to trust her with the key.

Rielle drove to the house to meet the appraiser and structural engineer.

A horrendous smell assaulted them when they opened the door. The house smelled like an old bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in decades. The appraiser took a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his nose and mouth. Rielle figured he would stay as brief a time as possible.

She, however, immediately went to the windows and began to unlatch and open all that she could. Unless there was a dead body rotting in the living room, the cool breezes of the early April spring would help clear out the smell.

The structural engineer wandered around touching every wall, poking every ceiling, and stomping or prying on every floorboard. He spent the most time in the attic and basement. He finally declared the place structurally sound as long as the roof held out. That, he noted, needs to be replaced immediately or this place will fall down around your head. He then took his leave.

The appraiser finally finished rummaging around. I think the house is worth $180,000, if that much, he mumbled through his handkerchief. I wouldn’t pay more than 10 bucks for this travesty since the thing is practically ready to fall over.

Thank you very much for your help. I will await the paperwork. She shoved the weasel out the door and closed it behind her. She didn’t care what that little man thought. She knew this house belonged to her.

Within a week Rielle owned the property at 80 Knollwood Drive. She gave Sam $200,000 in cash to put into escrow in case a Rhoades heir ever showed up. She then paid the back taxes.

Sam rolled his eyes. You could’ve had the house for the back taxes alone, you know. It is foolish to spend more than you have to.

I know, but it is the right thing to do since the heir probably doesn’t even know the old lady has died and that you are looking for him. This way, he will get his due if he ever shows up.

He’s probably as long dead as she is. I have spent nearly two years trying to determine who he is, and I think he doesn’t exist.

In that case, Sam, the money will sit there until I die and then you can have it.

Sam laughed. Since I am older than you are and women generally live longer than men, you are in no fear of losing that escrow to me!

She held out her hand. The rest of the keys, please.

Sam handed her the ring full of keys and the deed.

Thank you, Sam. Now I need to get rid of the wild man who says he lives in the garage.

Sam raised an eyebrow. Wild man in the garage? What wild man?

Rielle relayed her initial meeting with the scary guy on the day she sat on the house’s porch.

Sam started laughing. Oh, you mean Mack. Mack Timpte. The garage belongs to him, not to you. Mina Rhoades gave him the garage upon her death. It is the only official document I have for her estate. It’s not a will, just a piece of paper signed by Mina and two witnesses. It is legally binding and therefore the garage, all its contents, and the apartment loft above it belong to Mack.

That can’t be! Rielle exclaimed, horrified. I can’t have that creep living in my back yard. Why didn’t you tell me the garage wasn’t part of the estate?

Sam shrugged his shoulders. Really, Rielle, I didn’t even think about it. Mack is not the kind of person you think about.

Rielle had to agree. Mack was definitely the kind of person she never wanted to think about. But it seemed she was now pretty well stuck with him.

Sam patted her hand. Don’t worry, Rielle. He is actually a very good handyman and has a solid reputation around town for excellent workmanship. He will be invaluable to you in renovating the Rhoades mansion. Besides, you have me, and if you don’t mind…. He paused for a moment. I would like to take you out on Saturday night.

Rielle stared at Sam, not knowing how to answer his request. Three weeks ago, she thought herself a happily married woman. Now she found herself alone, divorced, devoid of her beautiful children, a couple of thousand miles away from her old life, and absolutely sure she wasn’t ready for the dating game.

She put on her best face and tried to be polite. Sam, I am incredibly flattered. However, it is way too soon for me to think about dating.

I thought as much. I haven’t pried but I guessed you had a recent divorce. He paused, So, how about just two friends going out for coffee Saturday afternoon? Somebody has to welcome you properly to Old Saybrook.

Rielle nodded her head. I think coffee with a new friend would be very nice. Thank you.

She left Sam’s office as a new homeowner and with a new friend who was a really nice, local person. She almost felt normal.

Chapter 2

When she pulled up to the estate this time, Rielle drove up the street heading north from Knollwood Drive to the west of her property. She wasn’t sure of its name but assumed it to be an extension of Knollwood even though that street curved to the east. She spotted a huge stone marker with a Rhoades plaque just before coming to the house behind hers. She thought it odd that there were five or six houses tucked back here on a street with no name but she wasn’t about to complain.

Her new back yard was much smaller than the front yard, and most of it was taken up by what looked like a six-car garage with an apartment above it, two sheds, and a lot of gravel with patches of weeds coming up everywhere.

A very old, beat-up pickup truck sat outside the garage. You’d think with six garage spaces that creep could park his crappy truck away where I can’t see it, she muttered under her breath. She stepped outside her SUV and looked around. She thought the first order of business would be putting up an eight-foot privacy fence to separate the wild man from her property.

She almost felt like taking a can of black spray paint and drawing a line of demarcation over the gravel. A thought of running the line right over his truck popped into her mind. It was so decrepit he probably wouldn’t even notice the new stripe. Rielle pushed the juvenile thought out of her mind and instead walked up the stairs to the back porch and unlocked the rear door to her new home.

It looked wonderful to her. She walked into the kitchen that appeared like it hadn’t been used in years. She opened every cabinet and cupboard to discover all kinds of dishes and other kitchen