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Back The Second Home Save as PDF
Chapters (47)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraphs
  5. Prologue
  6. Part One
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. Part Two
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. THIRTY
  38. THIRTY-ONE
  39. THIRTY-TWO
  40. THIRTY-THREE
  41. THIRTY-FOUR
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. Newsletter Sign-up

Perplexed, Michael stuffed the business card in his wallet and sat down on the sofa. That was when he felt something hard and heard a sharp crack. He lifted up the sheet and saw the photo of himself with Ann and Poppy that had always remained on the mantel. That photo meant everything to him, because, after what had happened, Ed and Connie had kept it on display when they could have stuffed it in a drawer.

Why, now, was it hidden under the sheet? The crack ran right down the middle, right through him.

How did it get there? He set the photo back on the mantel as it was. He felt spooked enough to drive back to the shop and pull the Shaws’ house key from the pegboard. Jason still had the Shaws’ key, and it dangled teasingly all these years.

Michael parked his truck down the street and walked quietly down the long driveway toward the brown house, careful to make sure nobody was watching him. The sun was going down, and he admired the slit of light on the horizon over the bay. There, in that eerie afternoon light, was the bluestone patio he’d once laid, visible in the gullies where the wind had lifted the snow. There were the rosebushes, although nobody had bothered to cover them with burlap. The key slid into the lock, and the door creaked when he opened it. He walked back into the place and felt as if he’d been body-slammed against the massive white walls. This was where his youth had died. It took him a moment to collect himself. What was it about houses, the power they had? The houses he’d once inhabited now inhabited him. They were witnesses to who he once was, to the people he’d loved—and hated. He could practically hear the fall of Anthony’s footsteps, the jingle of Maureen’s bracelets, the bored lamentations of the boys. And Ann, Ann, Ann. He could practically reach out and touch her ponytail, her bare feet, her smile.

Everything that had seemed modern and new now looked old and worn. The sheet on the couch was rumpled, the vase at the center of the dining room table was empty. He had to leave.

But first, he had a mission to accomplish, just a flick of a switch. Only Anthony might appreciate how a single gesture could cause such great destruction.

TWENTY

Ann