Gilt Hollow

CHAPTER One

Brilliant sunlight stabbed Ashton’s eyes as he stepped into the exercise yard for the first time in a week. He raised his hand to his forehead and paused just outside the door, fighting a wave of dizziness. After five days in solitary, the last thing he wanted to do was appear weak, as if it had beaten him. So he squinted, lowered his hand, and strode forward with confidence.

His first time in the void, as everyone called it, had been torture. Locked inside the eight-by-eight windowless cell with nothing but his own thoughts, an aching jaw, and a broken rib had forced him to face his demons. And it hadn’t been pretty. But as much as being cut off from everything and everyone sucked, when Ashton’s gaze landed on Stanley Swindoll standing in the corner, his dark, toothpick arms pumping the basketball as if it were his only friend, he knew he’d do it all again.

Right about then Stanley spotted him. His eyes widening, he raced across the concrete, driving the basketball like an extension of his hand. Ash! You’re back. I’m so sorry, man. I had no idea—

Ashton clasped the boy’s bony shoulder. Don’t, okay? They had it coming.

But when those guys jumped you—

Seriously, kid. I don’t need a play-by-play. The heat of a heavy stare pulled Ashton’s attention to the bleachers. DW—aka Dip Wad—glared in his direction. Ashton flashed him a grin, thrilled to see that the bruise around the bully’s left eye had turned into a molten mess of yellowish brown.

Did Dip Wad or the others give you any trouble? Ashton asked, keeping his easy grin in place as DW bared his teeth in a grimace, his mammoth frame stiffening. Ashton seriously had no idea how the guy maintained his girth on the slop they were fed in this place.

Nope. The rhythmic slap of the basketball began again. Not since they transferred Jay.

Ashton’s gaze jerked down to Stan’s dark eyes. Wait. What did you say? As hierarchies went, Jay was the king of JJC. If you wanted something smuggled in—cigarettes, candy bars, drugs—you went through Jay. His uncle was the assistant warden, so he got away with everything short of murder. And the jerkhole couldn’t handle that a thirteen-year-old black kid could wipe the court with him every single time.

Jay’s gone. A smile the size of Texas spread across Stan’s face. The ward called me in day before yesterday, and I told him everything. How Jay had been threatenin’ me since that day I trounced him one-on-one. How he put that junk in my food that made me sick. How you jumped in when they pulled the knife on me. Guess the ward had been doing an investigation of Jay because some district head guy’s comin’ in next week for an inspection.

Stan paused in his dribbling and palmed the basketball with both hands. That’s the rumor anyway. He shrugged and set the ball in motion again.

Struck speechless, Ashton followed the five-foot-nothing kid over to the court. No wonder Dip Wad had stayed glued to the bleachers—without Jay, he was a powerless meatbag.

For the first time in three years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, Ashton felt a spark of warmth in his chest. He figured after the beat-down he’d given Jay and his buddies, it would only be a matter of time until it was his turn. In solitary, he’d gone through countless strategies on how to avoid the inevitable retaliation—only to find out now, it would never happen. He’d cut the head off the beast.

Ashton slapped the ball out of Stan’s hands, faked right, and then used his height advantage to lay the ball in the hoop.

Smooth! Stan praised. I might make a player out of you yet.

Ashton grinned, even as he bent over and clutched his aching side.

Keller! A guard approached the court, one who had repeatedly turned deaf ears to Ashton’s complaints about Jay’s reign of terror. The warden wants to see you.

Ashton passed the ball to Stan and cleared his face of all expression. Even if he’d just broken out in a cold sweat, he wasn’t about to show fear.

Stanley smiled and nodded his encouragement, as if the ward intended to give Ashton a medal or something. But he’d been around long enough to know that wouldn’t happen. Even if he had saved the kid’s life, the fact remained that he’d beaten up several inmates in the process, breaking the zero-tolerance policy for fighting.

The guard turned and walked away, expecting Ashton to follow. His feet like bricks, Ashton trudged after him.

Hey, see you at dinner, Stan called.

Ashton lifted a hand without looking back. The guard pulled his club as they passed the bleachers and pointed it straight at DW. Daniel Winston, you’re next.

Any hope of an accommodation dissolved in that moment. If Dip Wad was on deck, this couldn’t be good. Ashton stared DW down as he passed.

But apparently the jerk was even less intelligent than he appeared, because he shouted, I ain’t followin’ no murderer. Then he hawked a loogie that arched straight onto Ashton’s boots.

Red washed over his vision, and Ashton rushed toward the bleachers. With Jay as a shield, this coward had tormented him for years. No more. Ashton threw back his fist, and DW flinched hard.

But the blow never landed. The guard caught Ashton’s arm from behind and hissed, Throw that punch, Keller, and you’re back in the void.

Blood roared in Ashton’s ears. No longer a scrawny kid, he outweighed the guard by at least thirty pounds. He could easily pull away and get in a good slam to DW’s blubbery face before the other guards could reach him. He’d already screwed up—why not go big?

He wrenched his arm out of the guard’s grip but then lowered his fist. This pissant wasn’t worth another week of confinement. Instead, he leaned in and growled, Touch Stanley or any other kid here again and I’ll put you in the ground.

Another guard approached and yanked him back, but not before Ashton saw a satisfying quiver of fear pass over DW’s face. He stared him down until the guards forced him away. He’d had enough of others controlling his life. Those days were over.

Ashton let the guards escort him into the building without a fight. Their boots echoed down the long hallway like jackhammers pounding in his temples. He clung to the familiar heat of anger, but it wasn’t enough to hold back the questions. Did the ward want to hear his take on the Jay situation? No, that didn’t seem necessary now that Jay was gone. Or could this be a status change? If they took away his work assignment on the farm, he would freakin’ lose it. The afternoons bailing hay, tending crops, and looking after the animals were what kept him sane. But the ward wouldn’t mess with calling a face-to-face meeting for something so mundane. He’d just send new work orders through the chain of command.

Then as they climbed the stairs to the administrative wing, it hit him—this was the meeting to inform him he’d blown his chance at early release. All the blood drained from his head and sloshed into his stomach. He’d expected it was coming, but the thought of another year of nights lying in his bunk staring at the ceiling, of holidays when no one came to visit him, and endless hours gazing at the world through a barbed wire fence almost brought him to his knees.

They stopped at the last door at the end of the hall, and the first guard shoved his baton into Ashton’s chest. Don’t move a muscle, kid.

He disappeared behind a door marked Conference Room.

That’s when Ashton realized the warden’s office was at the opposite end of the building. He searched his brain for a reason why anyone would call him here, but before he could grasp onto a theory, the guard returned, seized his arm, and ushered him through the door.

Three men sat at a long table. The guard led him to the single chair on the opposite side and ordered him to sit.

Memories of his police interrogation flashed; the rapid-fire questions, men screaming in his face, the mind-numbing fear that had kept him silent—and taken away almost four years of his life. Stiff as a board, he lowered into the chair.

That will be all, York. Warden St. James nodded, and the guard left, shutting the door behind him with an ominous thud. The ward had always reminded Ashton of Samuel L. Jackson. Not just his wiry muscles or his clean-shaven head, but his no-nonsense, I-could-put-you-down-in-a-heartbeat attitude.

Silence filled the room, and Ashton took stock of his situation. On St. James’s right sat his counselor, Mr. Larkin—or Bob, as he encouraged Ashton to call him in their weekly sessions. And to the warden’s left was a middle-aged man Ashton didn’t recognize, his thinning hair pulled into a low ponytail.

Warden St. James cleared his throat. Relax, Mr. Keller.

Realizing his shoulders were hunched, Ashton ratcheted them down a notch but remained alert.

This is Mr. Reed. The ward gestured to ponytail man, who stood and reached across the table, his hand extended.

A handshake was a show of respect that hadn’t been offered to him by an adult since his incarceration. Following a moment’s hesitation, Ashton rose to his feet and shook the man’s waiting hand. Good to meet you, Ashton. Call me Zane.

Okay . . . Zane. With no idea who the guy was, the greeting came out more like a question.

The ward continued, And I think you know Mr. Larkin.

Bob gave him a brief wave. The man resembled a teddy bear, but Ashton knew his beady stare could turn hard as coal when he didn’t obtain the answers he wanted.

Ashton nodded in Bob’s direction and took his seat again.

Mr. Keller, you’ve just finished a stint in solitary, correct? St. James asked.

Yes, sir.

The warden shuffled the papers in front of him before raising reluctant eyes back to Ashton. I must apologize for that. But it was for your own safety.

Ashton blinked, unsure he’d heard correctly. Sir?

St. James ignored the question in Ashton’s tone and continued. When I became aware of Jay Hanover’s unwarranted power within this facility, I took swift action. He has been transferred to Warren County and his uncle discharged.

Ashton cocked an ear to make sure he’d heard right. A dozen other kids had reported Jay before, but the warden had never cared. What changed your mind?

The warden leveled a sharp stare in his direction. Excuse me?

Ashton clenched his jaw, thinking about all the kids who’d been tormented by Jay since he’d been there and the fear they’d all lived with waiting to see who would be Jay’s next victim. He folded his hands on top of the table, mirroring St. James’s posture. Why believe us now? We’ve been telling you, Bob, the guards, anyone who would listen, about Jay for over a year. Why now?

St. James pressed his already thin lips together as his gaze burned into Ashton. But Ashton didn’t look away. He’d take whatever punishment they were about to give him, but he wouldn’t waste this chance to make them see the truth.

Mr. Keller, this is unnecessary and disrespectful, Bob said in his odd, singsong voice.

Ashton felt the comforting heat of anger descend on his shoulders like a buffer against the world. He leaned forward but kept his voice even. You say you took swift action, but I have a broken rib and a friend who was almost stabbed to death that say otherwise.

The warden steepled his fingers in front of him. "Mr. Keller, I’ve already stated that I took care of the issue as soon as I became aware of it. And it is not your place to question the management of this facility. Nevertheless, this . . . incident has raised my awareness to the vulnerabilities of our inmates, and I assure you, their safety is my number one priority. St. James paused and regarded Ashton over his glasses. However, it is no longer yours."

Every function in Ashton’s body seemed to freeze as he waited for the other hammer to drop.

St. James continued. Your willingness to stand up for a fellow inmate, even at risk to your own safety, demonstrates strength of character and confirms the positive progress you’ve made in Mr. Larkin’s recent reports. He gestured to Bob, who nodded.

Sickening anticipation began to rise in Ashton’s gut, like the feeling he got inside an airplane as it hurtled toward its point of takeoff.

But—St. James leveled his fierce stare at Ashton, sending his hope straight off the runway—that does not mean I condone your methods. Fighting is still a first-grade offense in this facility.

Realizing his fate hung in the balance, Ashton bit off the smart reply on the tip of his tongue and nodded. Yes, sir.

Given your demonstration of leadership, your high GPA, and your strong service reports from the agricultural center . . . St. James cleared his throat and glanced down at his paperwork. Your early release has been approved.

Ashton sucked in a sharp breath and placed his hands flat on the table in front of him. Was St. James joking? He wouldn’t be so cruel. Would he?

The ward continued, Mr. Reed—

Zane, ponytail man interrupted.

St. James’s eyes gave an impatient flicker, and he pronounced the name by holding out the vowel. Zaaane here is your parole officer. After today you’ll be required to report in to him every month . . .

But Ashton didn’t hear the rest over the roar of the jet engine as it rocketed into the atmosphere, taking his stomach with it. He felt weightless. Light-headed. He was out of here? Today? He glanced out the second-story window at the tree line on the other side of the fence and felt the insane urge to crash through the glass, jump to the ground, and sprint as far and as fast as his legs would carry him. But then a single word sucked him back into reality.

. . . mother signed the release.

Ashton turned to St. James. Wait. What did you say about my mother?

Your mother signed the papers for your discharge last week. But since you turned eighteen yesterday, it became unnecessary. You can be released into your own custody now. St. James’s lips pressed together.

My mom . . . was here?

Yes, Ashton.

Of course she hadn’t wanted to see him.

He hadn’t seen or heard from his parents since his conviction. All his so-called friends had abandoned him. Even the girl he thought would stick by his side through anything had disappeared from his life. Apparently loyalty through a manslaughter conviction had been too much for her. But he didn’t need them to start over. He didn’t need anyone. Not anymore. Ashton swallowed the rejection that never seemed to fade, set his jaw, and lifted his chin. During the past week in solitary with nothing but his deepest fears and past regrets to keep him company, it had become clear what he needed to do. And who he needed to make pay.

Zane went over his release paperwork, the schedule for check-ins, and all the terms and conditions. If Ashton so much as stepped a toe on the wrong side of the law, he would violate the terms of his parole and risk ending up back in jail. Not here, but an adult joint. The real deal. No way would he risk it.

Ashton signed the papers and then shook hands with Bob and St. James—who actually flashed a genuine smile—and then turned to his parole officer.

A taxi’s waiting for you out front. Here’s fifty bucks. You’ll need to contact me with your new address within twenty-four hours, and we’ll set up a home visit within the week. Zane handed him the cash, and they shook hands for the second time. Where’re you headed?

Before Ashton could answer, the image that haunted him flashed across his mind—Daniel’s broken body, his blood mixing in the water that lapped against Ashton’s skin as he searched for a pulse, the horrible grief and fear when he didn’t find one. Ashton would uncover his friend’s true killer and make them pay for every hour that he’d lost in this place.

He leveled his gaze on the probation officer. I’m going back. Back to Gilt Hollow.

CHAPTER Two

The familiar squeeze enveloped Willow’s chest as she ducked behind the cappuccino machine. Sweat coated the back of her neck and a chill raced across her shoulders. She peeked out, searching the faces in the one-room café until she found the petite blonde perusing the shelf of organic pastas and sauces. Why did she have to come in here?

Mrs. Turano hated Willow with a passion that bordered on psychotic. Avoiding the woman did Willow little good. In such a small town, their paths continued to cross.

The room began to shrink.

No, no, no! Not now! She lifted her eyes to the paneled ceiling as she attempted to shake the tingling from her fingers. Her second day on the job; she so did not need this right now.

Willow! her manager barked. I asked for a slice of carrot cake to go.

Wishing she could disappear, Willow ruffled her bangs so they fell over her eyes, rushed to the display case, and squatted behind it. Her arm shook as she slid the spatula under an icing-coated wedge, and she barely managed to wrangle the cake into a plastic container before she heard the voice like nails on a chalkboard.

Margaret, Mrs. Turano snapped. I thought you had better judgment.

Reluctantly, Willow stood and met pale blue eyes—the same shade as the woman’s late son Daniel’s—lined with a road map of red. Mrs. Turano had been drinking again.

I refuse to be served by the girlfriend of a murderer!

A hard silence descended on the room, every set of eyes darting between Willow and the poor woman who’d lost her son. Which, by default, made Willow the villain.

She longed to defend herself, to yell that she’d had nothing to do with Daniel’s death. That she’d never been Ashton’s girlfriend. But she knew from experience that denial wouldn’t help. The woman would only insist that Willow admit Ashton’s guilt. Demand that Willow denounce the only true friend she’d ever had. And Willow would walk away without saying a word. As always.

Claire, I— Willow’s manager sputtered, her face flushing a deep red.

"There’s no excuse, Margaret! If she works here—Claire Turano pointed a trembling finger at Willow’s head—then you’ve lost my business. Which includes catering the annual art fund-raiser and the Sleepy Hollow Ball!"

The panic attack in full force, Willow’s airway constricted as if she were breathing through a straw. Wheezing, she backed away from the counter.

Margaret glanced over her shoulder. "Willow, take a break, now."

Gladly.

Willow spun on her heel and ran through the kitchen and out the side door to the shaded patio. She could feel people staring holes in her back, but she didn’t care. She fell into a chair and searched for her focus color. Directly across from her, above a sign advertising the CC Café, she found a sky-blue flag with a peace symbol in the center. It would have to do.

Gasping for breath, she concentrated on the blue fabric and blocked everything out. The loud chewing of the woman beside her. The scrape of iron chairs against cobblestone. The mumble of voices . . .

Inhale through your nose.

1, 2, 3 . . .

Fall into the blue.

Exhale through your lips.

After three repetitions, the fog in her brain began to clear, but the pain in her chest persisted. Her shrink had given her a panic script—phrases to talk herself down. Unfortunately, it only worked when she said it aloud.

Here goes nothing. Still focused on the flag, Willow recited, This is an opportunity for me to learn to cope with this problem.

Cue the furtive glances and scurrying away.

Deep inhale.

I have survived this before, and I can survive this time too.

Slow exhale.

The slam of her heart gentled to its normal beat. She could feel eyes on her, hear them gathering their things and whispering to one another, but she didn’t dare look. She knew what she would see—condemnation and fear with a sprinkle of pity that equaled nothing but ignorant judgment.

Willow stared up at the fluttering green and yellow leaves and then drew a strong, clean breath before chancing a glance at the woman beside her—the only one who didn’t leave. But the old lady’s unwavering gaze made her swallow and look away.

It’s all right, dear. I talk to myself all the time.

Willow didn’t respond, hoping the lady would get the hint and go away like everyone else.

The woman lifted half of her sandwich in arthritic fingers. Want some? It’s ham and cheese. The woman grinned, her cheeks plumping and eyes glittering in sweet enticement.

Willow blinked. Everyone knew you didn’t accept food from strangers, especially not old women with stained dentures, but she’d made the sandwich herself not ten minutes ago and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Her stomach growled like an angry beast, making up her mind for her. Sure.

Accepting the offering, she peeled back the paper and sank her teeth in for a bite. The salty ham and creamy cheese melted in her mouth, dissolving the last of her anxiety. Willow slumped against the back of her chair.

So, why are you so upset?

Willow chewed, her eyes darting in search of an excuse not to talk to a complete stranger about her screwed-up life. But they were the only two left on the patio. When she glanced back at the woman’s expectant face, she shrugged and answered, Old decisions coming back to haunt me, I guess.

I see. The woman’s eyes narrowed. Well, do you have a friend you can talk to?

A lump of bread and lunchmeat lodged in Willow’s throat. How much of the truth did the lady really want to know? That after Ashton had been convicted of killing Daniel Turano and was sent to juvie, he hadn’t responded to any of her letters? That her one true friend had abandoned her and left her here to defend his innocence? That everyone at school either treated her like she was invisible or a freak of nature? Would she want to hear all that?

Willow rolled the sudden tightness out of her shoulders and attempted a light tone. Not really.

I see. Well, you can talk to me if you like.

Willow concentrated hard on her sandwich. When she finished, she folded the empty wrapper into a perfect square. She didn’t want to confess the evil weed that had sprouted in her heart as Mrs. Turano yelled in her face—that her life would’ve been much easier if Ashton had been the one to die that day at the falls. Then she would be the martyr of the story.

But even so, she couldn’t wish it were true, and she certainly couldn’t tell a complete stranger. Thank you, but—

Oh, there you are. Margaret stopped in front of her.

Saved by her not-for-long boss.

We need to chat. She patted down her dyed blonde hair and retied her apron strings before meeting Willow’s gaze.

Of course we do.

Reluctantly, Willow rose and followed her manager’s retreating form but then turned back. Thanks for the sandwich. Willow extended her hand. I’m Willow Lamott.

I’m Mrs. McMenamin, but everyone calls me Mrs. M. They shook hands, a red plaid sleeve falling across the woman’s papery skin.

Willow glanced down and saw scuffed cowboy boots peeking out from the ruffled hem of the woman’s flannel nightgown. She remembered then that Mrs. M had taught English at the high school but retired years ago. Everyone said she was a few clowns short of a circus. Though after her meltdown moments before, Willow didn’t feel qualified to judge.

Mrs. M. held her gaze and leaned in close. All heartbreak fades with time. Don’t be afraid to move on.

The woman shuffled away, calling over her shoulder, And don’t be a victim!

Willow lugged her overloaded backpack up the winding, cobblestone walkway to her new home. Three stories of Gothic Victorian loomed above her, blocking out the setting sun. Sagging wrap-around porch, chipped gingerbread trim, wood siding stained a dirty gray, and, like the topper on a Tim Burton wedding cake, a rusted-out weathervane leaning precariously from the third-floor turret room. She shifted her backpack to the opposite shoulder and walked into the shadow of the dilapidated mansion.

Everyone in town believed Keller House was haunted, and for Willow it was true. But the specters that disturbed her were not of the ethereal variety.

Willow, bet you can’t do this! the boy with the shaggy dark hair and smiling eyes chants as he leaps over the porch railing and jumps to the ground.

Seriously, Ashton, Willow muttered, if you can’t get out of my head, I’m not living in your stupid old house. Even if this is my mom’s dream job. When her mom had landed the job of caretaker to Ashton’s rundown family estate, you would’ve thought they’d won the lottery. But for Willow, living in her ex–best friend’s house was a form of slow torture.

She jerked as the double-arched doors swung open with a baleful creak. But her fright was short-lived. Her mom posed in the doorway like a character in an old movie, hands on gypsy-skirted hips, heavy salt-and-pepper dreads looped in a lopsided bun. She spread her arms wide. Velcome home, Villow! Hov vas your day?

Willow bit her lip to trap a laugh. Awesome, Count Chocula. How was yours?

Her mom’s face fell into a pout as she dropped her arms. I was trying to be Elvira.

Who?

You know, Mistress of the Dark?

That old chick with the black wig and the low necklines? Willow asked.

Her mom nodded and stuck out her chest, making Willow giggle as she slipped into the foyer. You’ve made some progress in here. The dust cloths had been removed from the entry table and parlor furniture. The cherry wood floors gleamed, and the bright scent of lemon filled the air.

Only one problem, Mom huffed, pointing up.

Willow tilted her head back and stared at the centerpiece of the two-story foyer, a massive chandelier dripping crystals and cobwebs.

Can’t find a tall enough ladder, her mom grumbled.

I don’t know, I kinda like it. She met her mom’s dark-chocolate eyes, the exact shade of her own. Could go a long way for the Elvira image.

I want to keep it for Halloween! A four-foot ball of energy in the form of her little brother sped past, his bony elbow knocking the backpack off her shoulder.

Hey! Willow called to the boy who’d sped around the corner. How was school?

Rainn poked his head out and threw a sock at her head. Good!

Willow flicked the tiny stink bomb from her shoulder. For such a little kid, his feet sure packed a punch. Rainn’s satisfied snigger echoed back to her as he disappeared into the house.

Oh, I almost forgot. Her mom walked to the entry table and returned with a wooden picture frame. I found this while cleaning out Ashton’s old closet.

Willow gaped at the intricate pencil drawing of the tree house at the back of the Keller property.