By Barbara Michaels
There are negative secrets and techniques from generations prior buried at Maidenwood. clinical pupil Julie Newcomb has lower back to her family's decaying plantation—the web site of such a lot of painful adolescence memories—to are inclined to her tyrannical grandmother, felled through a stroke. the fireplace of malevolence nonetheless burns within the merciless, despotic matriarch's eyes—yet, for Julie, a faint spark of redemption and moment percentages sparkles during this hated, haunted position. yet her hope—and her life—are heavily threatened by way of a nightmare reborn . . . and by way of the bleak discovery at the lonely street to Maidenwood of the earth-browned skeletons of a mom and baby.
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I took the meat out of the bag and put some of it onto a plate. The plate was cracked and its design was faded, but there were traces of gold remaining around the rim, and I 58 / Barbara Michaels smiled as I put it down next to the bowl of stew. Feeding stray dogs with hamburger in a Sèvres plate—typical of Maidenwood. “Here, doggy,” I said. The bushes rustled, but the animal didn’t show itself. Shirley said, “It won’t come out while you’re here. ” I followed her into the house. ” I asked. “Or water?
How about lending me your car? I’ll run into town and pick up a few things. ” The request caught her off guard; for the first time I saw her serenity ruffled. “I can’t. ” “Saturday. ” She frowned, and I burst out laughing. “Sorry. I sound like a whiny kid. I’m a good driver, Shirley, honestly. ” “It’s not that. Truth is, I don’t have the car. ” 46 / Barbara Michaels I almost asked to whom, but caught myself in time. It was her car, after all. ” Picking up the tray she went out, moving rather more quickly than usual.
Hello, Mr. Danner. Remember me? It’s been a long time. You’re looking—you look—uh—” I would never have known him. He had been a tall, burly man with a red flush of health under his tan and a ready grin. The face that looked back at me was that of a well-preserved mummy, the cheeks cadaverous, the wrinkles etched as if by acid, sour-shaped and ugly. His 50 / Barbara Michaels lips parted just enough to let a few words squeeze out. “Evening, Julie. ” “Fine, thank you. How is…” I couldn’t recall the girl’s name, much less that of her brother, whom I hadn’t known as well.