Page 71 of Fake Dark Vows
The driver pulled up outside a wide set of rusty metal gates at the top of a steep incline. “You want me to wait?”
I paid him, added a sizable tip, and told him I’d take it from there, ignoring the fleeting look of surprise that crossed his features.
I understood why when I let myself in through a crack in the creaky gates and reached the mansion at the bottom of the slope. The once-white walls were green with slimy moss and mold from the breeze drifting in from the lake it overlooked. Spiders had made themselves at home in the porch eaves, and small mountains of mulch and trash had collected around the bottom of the house as if providing a buffer against bad weather.
No one was home. I walked around the property, peering through weather-stained windows at the abandoned rooms, and stopping outside the overgrown backyard choked with weeds and nettles. It raised my hackles like a cat sensing danger.
I walked to the lake edge, skimmed a stone across the surface, and turned around to peer at the house. There was no sign of life. No curtains twitched at the windows; there was no aroma of food being cooked in the kitchen; no smoke curling out of the chimney and getting lost in the sky.
But someone was there.
Either the house had adopted the souls of past generations, and was guarding their secrets against intruders, or someone was hiding behind a window and watching me watching the house. I didn’t believe in haunted houses, premonitions, or sixth sense, but the urge to get as far away from this place as possible was overwhelming.
The walk back into town was long. I tried Sam again—still no answer. I made some calls, trying to locate Carlos Russo and was told that he was in Italy, taking a much-needed break and visiting family.
What I didn’t understand was, why start a vendetta against me now when old man Russo wasn’t here to oversee it? Was this down to his sons and nephews? Did Carlos Russo even know what was going on?
I tried to get hold of him in Italy, but he wasn’t at his residence in Rome, and the person I spoke to refused to give me an alternative location or telephone number. They were protecting him. I needed to figure out from what. Perhaps he was sick and had gone home to convalesce, but this was also at odds with the family starting this feud with me now.
My finger hovered over Julia’s contact number several times while I walked back into American Falls, but my raised hackles told me that would simply open a whole new can of worms that was best left shut.
Another cab back to the airport. Another driver.
This one fancied himself as a historian and tour guide at no additional cost. “Did you ever hear the story about the underwater city?”
“No.” I kept my eyes on the front passenger window, prepared to zone out.
“American Falls—the original town—was built slap bang in the middle of the natural reservoir on Snake River. When the government decided to build the dam, the townsfolk had to pack up their homes and relocate to higher ground.”
I nodded, cleared my throat, gave him a polite fleeting glance as the airport came into view.
“The whole town had to move. Homes, churches, schools, grocery stores. All packed onto flatbeds and rolled along the railway tracks like a circus procession. Can you imagine that?” He kept glancing at me as he spoke, gauging my reaction. “Once the town had been moved, they built the dam and flooded the old location. It’s still there. High summer, you can sometimes see the sidewalks and street corners. Gravestones. Initials carved on sidewalk locations. Spooky, huh? Regular ghost town right here on our doorstep,”
During the flight back to Vegas, I thought about the driver’s story and wondered what had attracted Carlos Russo to the area. Sam said he’d become a bigshot amongst the locals, restoring listed buildings and throwing money at the community. Perhaps he had history there, but it still didn’t add up to the abandoned property on the lake and the warehouse that had seen better days.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. The cab driver eyes me up in the rearview when I answer the call.
“Mom.”
“When were you going to tell me, Brandon?”
I already know where this is going. “Tell you what, Mom?”
“You got married.”
“Congratulations would be the general response to this news.”
Pause. “Did you stop to consider your future?”
A twisted half-smile peers back at me from my reflection in the window. “Every day. It’s the mantra you and Dad have been drumming into me since I was old enough to feed myself.”
“Don’t be facetious, darling. It doesn’t suit you. What was it, a drunken gesture to assuage your guilt? A dare?” Another pause. “Please don’t tell me this has anything to do with your brother and his silly wager with that woman?”
I instinctively glance at the driver’s eyes in the mirror, and he looks away. “This has nothing to do with Damon.”
“Is this your way of telling me that you intend to spend the rest of your life with Rose?”
I take a deep breath as flashes of last night roll behind my eyelids like a movie preview. “That depends.” My voice is still caught up in an image of Rose begging me for more.