Flipping Fates Page 3

  Wilner? Keith. Yes. I’d spoken to him over the phone several times about this house, but we hadn’t met in person. I accept his hand and shake it.

  “Right.” I smile. “Thank you for the rescue.”

  “Not a problem.” Keith beams, his long, thin face wrinkling in a cheerful grin. “When Aaron called, we thought it might be a good idea just to drop by. We saw your vehicles outside.” He pauses as he looks at Cecily. “And you are?”

  “Cecily Coburn.” My brown-haired friend nods briefly.

  “Keith Wilner.” He offers her his hand with a gentle smile.

  Cecily shakes and sets the flashlight on the table in the dining room. “We borrowed the use of this flashlight.”

  “Keith.” I clear my throat. “Nobody mentioned that this house is so full of—well—stuff.”

  Keith sags slightly. “Yeah, we didn’t know either.”

  “It is a mess,” Aaron agrees.

  “It’ll make cleaning more of a challenge, that’s for sure,” Keith says. “But that means we can also hold a yard sale, so hopefully that will mean a greater profit for the Union Rescue Mission.”

  “Is there—anyone living here?” I glance toward the ceiling as another creaking sound echoes in the dark corners of the tall plaster walls.

  “No.” Keith shakes his head. “Actually, nobody has lived here for a long time. Even the owner lived in the RV in the driveway.”

  “You’re joking.” Aaron rests his hand on my waist. “Why? Because there’s too much junk in the house?”

  Keith grinned. “I think so. We’re still piecing together the guy’s story, but we don’t have a lot of information.” He rocked back on his heels. “How long were you two down there?”

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “After eight.” Aaron winces, brushing some of my hair off my shoulder.

  “Wow.” I blow out a long breath. “I think it was noon.”

  “Geez.” Keith cackles. “Eight hours? It’s a wonder you two didn’t go nuts down there.”

  “Have you been down there?” I scowl at him. “It’s horrifying.”

  Keith chuckles again. “I bet you ladies are hungry.” Keith smiles at Cecily. “Anyone up for Vietnamese?”

  My stomach lurches in anticipation of my favorite rice noodle bowl. “I can always go for Saigon.”

  Keith’s grin grows wider. “What’s your usual?”

  “Number 45, all the way.”

  “Hey, I’m a 49.”

  I reach for his hand again, and he barks a laugh.

  “Nice to meet you!” He shakes my hand.

  I laugh with him.

  “We’re going to be friends, Keith.”

  He steps back and gestures to the doorway. “Shall we?”

  Cecily moves past him, and he follows her outside.

  “Hold up.” Aaron stops me. “You’ve got a cobweb here.”

  His fingers brush against the nape of my neck as he pulls the sticky webbing out of my hair.

  “Thanks.” I sigh. “Really.” I turn and gaze up into his face. “That was scary.”

  He sets his hands on my hips. “How do you manage to get yourself into these situations?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m not going down there again. There’s a whole room full of creepy dolls, Aaron.”

  “Creepy dolls, huh?”

  “The creepiest.” I take his arm and pull him toward the door. “Vietnamese is okay, right?”

  He smiles. “Of course.”

  “You’re sure? I know we’d talked about dinner just us, but it seems kind of rude not to go with Keith and Cecily since they’re here.”

  Aaron bends down and presses a gentle kiss against my temple. “Your char-grilled pork is waiting, my lady.”

  I laugh and pull him outside, making sure we lock the door behind us. I shiver as the ugly orange house looms behind me and walk to my car while Aaron heads to his truck.

  I can’t be sure, but I feel like he’s disappointed somehow. But he loves Saigon, and he doesn’t mind Cecily—I don’t think. I know he likes me. I can say that for sure at least, so maybe he doesn’t like Keith? But that doesn’t sound right. Aaron pretty much likes everybody.

  I’m probably imagining it.

  As much as I hate to admit it, Cecily is right about my imagination. It often does more harm than good. I cast an irritated glare at the orange monstrosity of a house and turn the key in the ignition.

  The Guy with the Skull Tattoo

  Coffee.

  I need it to survive. Probably not very spiritual of me, but I never said I was perfect.

  I take a long, slow drink of the latte in my hand and release a sigh as the caffeine soaks into my system. I open my eyes and glare at the ugly orange house and the ridiculous RV in the driveway.

  This might be a two-venti-latte kind of day.

  Another drink and I’m walking up the porch steps. I have all the necessary keys today, thank you very much, and Keith should be here within the next half hour to help my team get organized as we begin the process of decluttering and sanitizing this death trap of a house.

  I unlock and open the door, revealing the trashed interior of the house and its narrow walkways between towering piles of golf clubs, television sets, pillows, and swimming pool floaties.

  Leaning against the door frame, I take another drink.

  How are we even going to do this? This is impossible.

  No, I’ve seen impossible things before. This is more than impossible. This is like trying to get a Baptist to play poker or do an Austrian waltz. There’s more chance old Mrs. Cartwright would stop sitting in her favorite pew than there is of us getting this house cleaned in time for the auction.

  How did I get talked into this again?

  Oh, right. My dad.

  Anyone who hasn’t grown up a pastor’s kid has nothing in their lives to complain about. Ever. And if you disagree, I’ll give you a tour of the fish bowl I’ve grown up in, and we can compare.

  A slamming car door draws my attention to the street.

  Laurel Wozniak, my best friend, stands in the driveway, staring at the house with her jaw dropped open.

  “Trisha!”

  I wave at her, and my stout friend huffs and puffs up the stairs to stand at my elbow.

  “This house is orange.”

  “Morning, Laurel.”

  “Like orange.” She turns wide eyes on me. “Actually orange.”

  “I told you it was.”

  “I thought you were exaggerating.”

  “Right, because I exaggerate like that all the time.”

  Laurel makes a face at me. “Well, on the bright side, nobody will shoot at it.”

  “How is that a bright side?”

  “You’re here. Somebody’s always shooting at you. I’ll feel safer in the house knowing that nobody will possibly open fire on it during hunting season.”

  “It’s not hunting season.”

  Laurel sticks her head through the door and makes a choking sound. “Did Walmart blow up in here?”

  “I think so.” I say with another sip of my coffee. “And a pet store. And a grocery store. And an electronics store. And a bookstore.”

  Laurel stares at me.

  “Oh, and a toy store.” I roll my eyes. “Wait until you see what’s in the basement.”

  “I’m not going in the basement.” Laurel pulls back. “Trisha—the auction is in four weeks, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “How are we going to clean this place up in time?”

  “That’s the million dollar question.” I salute with my coffee cup and sit on the porch railing. “Many hands make light work? I hope.”

  Laurel leans back against the front of the house. “Well, I don’t know how many hands we’re going to have. It’s you and me and Aaron, and I think—Nathan and Prisha and Cecily.”

  “And Keith.” I set my coffee on the railing. “From URM.”

  “Right,” Laurel says. “But I’m pretty su
re that’s it, unless we suddenly just get an influx of single people.”

  I smile.

  Our little singles group had gone through several transitions in the last year. Job transfers. Military orders. Marriages. Now it was really just the six of us, and everyone else had moved on. Sarah and Gina were both married now. Robyn Chen had accepted a graduate position at Tulane University down in Louisiana. Jeff had been transferred with his job to Washington state, and Todd’s Air Force career had taken him overseas to England.

  “Well, I don’t think Nathan will be with us much longer,” I say. “He and Jasmine have been dating for—what—six months?”

  “Almost eight.”

  “Wow.”

  “And Prisha is probably headed home soon.” Laurel folds her arms.

  I frown. “Why is that?”

  “Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Laurel tilts her head. “She’s engaged.”

  “What?” I sit forward. “When did that happen?”

  The slamming of a car door interrupts us, and I look over my shoulder to see Keith coming up the driveway. I wave at him, and he grins.

  Dinner last night had actually been a lot of fun. Granted, Saigon is always good. Best Vietnamese food in the city. But Keith was good company, and Cecily had behaved sort of human-ish, meaning she didn’t talk about snakes, dead bodies, or the Klingon language.

  Aaron had been strangely less talkative than normal, but I chalked that up to him having a long day. After a fierce round of layoffs at his former avionics company, he’d been working for a local construction group for about a month, and the hours were taking a toll on his energy levels.

  Keith pushes the brim of his hat up. He hasn’t shaved, and the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin shimmers in the morning sunlight. His collar is low enough, however, that for the first time I can see the skull tattoo on his neck the size of a half-dollar, positioned just below his left ear.

  Well, I hadn’t noticed that last night.

  “Did you manage to get some rest last night, Miss Lee?”

  I hesitate.

  Keith has a tattoo. I mean, that’s not a problem. Sure, it’s not a problem. I don’t know many people who have tattoos, but that’s on me. Having a tattoo doesn’t make someone a bad person. Even if it is a creepy black-eyed skull.

  “Trisha, please.” I choke out. Nice. Not awkward at all. “And yes. Thanks to you.” I lift my coffee again.

  “Trisha.” Keith nods and reaches his hand to Laurel. “Keith Wilner.”

  “Laurel Wozniak.” Laurel blushes and shakes his hand. “I’m usually the one who bails Trisha out of trouble, so thanks for looking out for her.”

  Laurel doesn’t seem bothered by the tattoo.

  It must just be me. That’s not new.

  “Oh, my pleasure.” Keith laughs. He glances around us. “Are we going to have more than the three of us?”

  Laurel and I trade a glance.

  “We should have a few more,” I say. “Aaron will be here later once he’s off work. Cecily should get here later this morning after she wakes up a bit more. Then we’ll have two more people before noon.”

  “Well.” Keith straighten his cap. “I can show you where the cleaning supplies are and where the trash bags are kept. We might as well decide on an organizing system so we know what can be tossed and what can be donated or sold.”

  See there? Organized. Thoughtful. Professional. He just happens to have a tattoo. No big deal.

  I finish my coffee and stand up. “At your service, sir.”

  He grins and beckons inside the house.

  With a deep breath, I follow him with Laurel on my heels.

  With the black plastic bags over the windows, it’s just as dark in the ugly orange house as it was last night.

  “Oh my gosh, this is creepy,” Laurel hisses behind me.

  We make it into the dining room before I start hearing things. Not loud things. Nothing obvious. Just—noises. Not like normal house settling noises. Creepier than that. More alive than that. Like someone is upstairs rummaging in a paper bag. Or maybe like someone is in the next room breathing heavily.

  Those same phantom fingers from last night crawl up the side of my neck, and I bat them away even though I know there’s nothing there at all.

  I don’t like this place.

  In the shadows inside the house, Keith is a skeletal figure with legs and arms far too long and spindly to be real. His face disappears in the darkness under his cap’s brim, and I half expect his eyes to start glowing at me. The tattoo on his neck melds into the shadows.

  He says something to me that I don’t catch, so I nod and smile, my heart thumping in my ears. Under the rustle of clothing and the tromping of feet on the floor, the tiniest breath of a whisper tickles my senses. Like a sharp gasp or a hiss of surprise.

  I can’t be the only one hearing these things.

  We reach the back room of the house after navigating our way through twisting paths between stacked-up newspapers and magazines. Several propane tanks for an outdoor grill are scattered around the back room, along with four helium tanks taller than Laurel. There’s a wheelchair, a high chair, a rocking chair, an upholstered reclining chair, and all of them are crammed full of cardboard boxes, file folders, and cereal boxes?

  Seriously.

  What on earth?

  Keith beckons me forward. “Did you bring all your keys?”

  “Yes.” I nod and fish the ring out of my jeans pocket. “I’m never going anywhere without them again.”

  “Good move.” He holds out his palm. “Could I see them?”

  I set the keys in his hand, and he flips through them carefully, comparing them to the set he has and switching some of them around.

  “Trisha, look at this.” Laurel gasps, coming toward me with a remote-control truck in her hands. “Why is this here? Who was the guy who lived here?”

  “Old World War II vet,” Keith says as he replaces keys on my ring with some of his own. “He was a bit eccentric.”

  “No kidding.” Laurel gestures to the fruity cereal boxes in the wheelchair. “Did he have grandkids?”

  “Nope. Just a son.” Keith hands the key ring back to me. “Who I’m sure you’ll meet before we’re done.” He points to the ring of keys. “All right, you have keys to the front door, the back door, the basement door, and the second floor. You also have a key to the RV.”

  “Oh really?” I look at the ring in my hand.

  “Yeah, but you also have the key to the RV’s ignition.” Keith shoved his keys into his pocket. “I have all the same keys you do, except for that one. You have the only ignition key.”

  “Got it.”

  “Don’t lose it.”

  “I won’t.” I raise my hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  Laurel peers around my arm. “I want to see the RV.”

  “Why?”

  Laurel giggles. “Trisha, this place is a nightmare. Imagine how bad the RV will be.”

  “You’re not my friend.” I push past her, heading for the door.

  Because, truth be told, I want to see the inside of the RV as well.

  I struggle through the towers of junk to get outside and walk to the door of the RV. I unlock the door and open it, and the reek of spoiled food and stale garbage spills out.

  “Oh, gosh.” I gag.

  Keith groans behind me. “Oh, they said it was clean.”

  “They lied,” I moan.

  Laurel fans her hand in front of her nose. “Never mind. I don’t want to go in.”

  After my eyes stop watering and my coffee stops trying to reverse course, I straighten and poke my head into the RV partway.

  Yup.

  Just as I suspected.

  The RV is full of just as much stuff as the house is. But at least the house doesn’t smell like sour eggs and mildew.

  I pull back and shut the door, locking it back.

  Two venti lattes indeed.

  Or maybe it should be multi-venti. Is that even a wor
d? Sounds Latin. If it is, it’s Latin for stomach ulcer, which is what I’m going to have by the time we finish cleaning all the junk out of this place.

  “So,” Laurel starts, “the guy who owned the house lived in the RV?”

  “Yeah.” Keith winces. “I don’t know for sure, but I was told he actually died in the RV.”

  “Oh, that’s not creepy at all.” I shudder.

  I shove the keys into my pocket and follow Keith and Laurel back to the porch as two cars pull up to the house and park on the street.

  Nathan Freeman climbs out of the driver’s seat and waves at us. Prisha slides out of the passenger seat and smiles shyly. Over the year that I’ve known them, I’ve come to enjoy spending time with both of them. Nathan is athletic and loyal, and Prisha is considerate and sweet.

  Nathan makes a beeline for Keith, probably sensing that he’s the only other male on the property. I can’t help but wonder if Nathan has any tattoos. If he has, I haven’t seen them. I walk up to Prisha and hug her gently, which she returns.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” I say. “We are really going to need all the help we can get.”

  Prisha smiles. “It is very bad inside?”

  “The worst.”

  “Oh dear.” We move toward the house together, and Laurel comes to join us.

  “Prisha!” Laurel embraces her. “I may have spilled your secret. Is it a secret?”

  Prisha looks confused for a moment. “Oh, no, Laurel. It’s not a secret.”

  “Oh, right!” I turn to her. “Engaged?”

  Prisha’s dark eyes brighten. “Yes.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I take her shoulders. “I’m so excited for you. When did this happen?”

  “About a month ago.” Prisha shrugs and slips her shawl off her shoulders. “I will graduate at the end of this summer, and so it’s time for me to consider marriage. I asked my parents to start looking.”

  “Your parents.” I stop. “Your parents found you a husband?”

  “Yes.” Prisha nods. “I know it is not the way Americans do it, but my family is very traditional.”

  I try not to gape.

  An arranged marriage.

  People still have arranged marriages?

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s—I mean, are you happy?” I put my hand on her elbow.