Chapter 2

I decided to talk to Aunt Patricia, our next-door neighbor. She'd known me since I was a little girl, always had a kind word and a glass of sweet tea for me.

She listened patiently as I poured out my heart on her porch swing, the late afternoon sun slanting through the live oaks.

"That Mike," she said, shaking her head, her silver hair glinting. "He's always been a stern one, but this...this ain't right, child. A pretty girl like you deserves happiness."

"He takes them into his tool shed, Aunt Patricia. And they come out...different. Hating me."

She frowned. "His tool shed? What in the world could he be showing them in there?"

"I don't know! He just says they talk."

"Well, I'm going to have a word with him," she declared, standing up with surprising energy for her seventy years. "This has gone on long enough."

I felt a surge of hope. Aunt Patricia was respected in our small town. Maybe Mike would listen to her.

She marched right over to our yard, where Mike was tinkering with the lawnmower. I watched from my bedroom window, heart pounding.

I saw her talking, gesticulating. Mike listened, his face impassive. Then, he nodded slowly and gestured towards the tool shed.

My stomach dropped.

No, not her too.

She hesitated for a moment, then followed him inside.

They were in there for maybe fifteen minutes. When they came out, Aunt Patricia's face was pale. Mike clapped her on the shoulder, a gesture that looked more like a restraint than comfort.

She walked back to her porch slowly, not looking at me.

Later that evening, I went over.

"Aunt Patricia?"

She was sitting on her swing, staring out at nothing. She looked up, and her eyes were...different. Cold. Empty.

"Ashley," she said, her voice flat. "Mike explained things. You really shouldn't be thinking about boys and marriage. It's not for you."

"But...you said..."

"I was mistaken," she interrupted. "Mike knows best. You should listen to your father."

She turned away, and the swing creaked rhythmically, a lonely sound in the twilight.

The betrayal stung, sharp and deep.

My best friend, Liam, was my last resort. We'd been friends since college, and he lived in the city, about an hour away. He knew all about Mike and my disastrous love life.

"This is insane, Ash," he said over the phone. "He can't keep doing this. What's in that shed? Is it like, a shrine to your dead hamsters or something?"

"It's not funny, Liam."

"I know, I know. Look, I'm coming down this weekend. I'll talk to him. I'm not going in any damn shed, though. We'll talk on the porch, like civilized people."

Liam arrived on Saturday, full of bravado. He was a web designer, quick-witted and not easily intimidated.

Mike was surprisingly agreeable to talking. But then he said, "Why don't we step into the tool shed? More private."

"No, thanks, Mr. Miller," Liam said firmly. "We can talk right here."

Mike's eyes narrowed. "It's important, son. For Ashley's sake."

Liam looked at me, then back at Mike. I saw a flicker of something – curiosity? A desire to prove he wasn't scared?

"Okay," Liam said slowly. "But make it quick."

My heart sank. I wanted to scream, to tell him not to go.

They disappeared into the shed.

This time, it was longer. Nearly half an hour.

When Liam came out, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by a haunted expression.

He walked straight past me, into the house, and started gathering his things.

"Liam? What happened? What did he say?"

He wouldn't look at me. He just kept shoving clothes into his bag.

"Liam!"

He finally turned, and his eyes were filled with a strange mixture of pity and revulsion. "Ashley...he's right. You...you shouldn't be with anyone. It's not safe."

"Not safe? What are you talking about?"

"Just...leave it alone, Ash. For your own good. And for...for everyone else's."

He grabbed his phone, and before I could react, he smashed it on the floor. The screen spider-webbed.

"What are you doing?"

"Evidence," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "No evidence." He then picked up the broken pieces and shoved them into his pocket.

He left without another word, his car peeling out of the driveway even faster than Tom's.

I stood there, surrounded by the wreckage of another friendship, the mystery of the tool shed looming larger and more terrifying than ever. Even Becca, my cousin, started avoiding my calls. She'd make excuses, say she was busy with the baby. When I did get her on the phone, she'd just say, "Ashley, just... try not to cause trouble for Uncle Mike and Aunt Susan, okay?"

The walls were closing in.