Family Secrets (Brannon House Book 2)

by Stacy Claflin

  The slideshow ends, then one of my sister’s colleagues comes up to speak. So many people have such nice things to say about her. I’m glad not everyone in her life was against her. Just two people she trusted more than any other. I clench my fists just thinking about them.

  A couple of her friends from school speak, the pastor gives some closing thoughts, and then it’s over. The service, anyway. There is still a lot to do before we can head back home and collapse.

  Ember and I help Mom stand, then the three of us make our way back to the foyer and line up to receive condolences and speak with the guests. My mother does a good job of interacting with people. Other than the fact that she didn’t use anyone’s names when speaking with them, it would almost be impossible to know the true state of her mind.

  The sanctuary empties, and I glance around for Graham. I’m still annoyed with him, but I also want to see him again before he leaves.

  The pastor invites everyone to go downstairs for food and fellowship.

  Ember and I help Mom down the stairs and into a seat at a table. I ask her what she wants to eat, and she replies with a story about a checkers match with someone at the home.

  “I’ll find something you like. Stay here.”

  She picks up a napkin. “It was so nice that Jack made it to the service, don’t you think?”

  I give her a double-take. “What did you say?”

  “Jack. He’s such a nice boy.”

  Blood drains from my face as I exchange a worried glance with Ember. “Maybe you should stay here with her.”

  “Okay.” She sits.

  I struggle to take a deep breath as I make my way to the food table. Really, I shouldn’t let her words get to me. It’s just the ramblings of a woman who can’t make sense of her memories. But my uncle wasn’t someone she ever would have met.

  It’s just plain creepy.

  Unless she’s confusing her memories of Dad with his brother. Relief washes through me at that thought. Sure, it’s a stretch, but so is making sense of how her mind works. She must be recalling times with Dad when they were young and childless. Still not sure why she’d call him by his deceased brother’s name, but she’s clearly somehow confused the two men. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

  I’m either good at weaving wild tales or I’m the memory whisperer. Doesn’t matter. As long as I stop thinking a ghost resides in my house.

  As I stand in line dishing up food for Mom and me, I look around for the detective. The man seems to have disappeared. But what do I expect after glaring at him the way I did?

  Near the end of the table, a few girls about Ember’s age are gathered together. I’m trying to figure out if they’re her friends or just kids of other guests when part of their conversation drifts my way.

  “Everyone says it’s a haunted house.”

  “I heard about lights turning on when nobody’s home, even when it’s not Halloween.”

  “My mom says there used to be science experiments in the basement—done on people!”

  I bite back the urge to tell them to keep quiet and take the plates over to the table. Ember is sitting with Gretchen, and they’re sharing a plate of food.

  Mom picks up a miniature sandwich from the plate I’ve slipped in front of her then starts talking about a friend who passed away years earlier.

  I stay half-engaged, my attention divided between her and looking around for Graham again. He’s nowhere to be seen, but one of the other officers is sitting near the back.

  He’s staring at my mom.

  They can’t seriously be looking at her as a suspect? The woman has no real memories of the past, much less of any crime she might have been framed for.

  I take a deep breath and march over to him.

  He glances up at me, his expression surprised. “Is everything okay, Miss Brannon?”

  “I’m looking for Detective Felton.”

  “He was called out during the service. Said he’d stop by your house on Monday.”

  “When was he called out?”

  “During one of the songs. Just before the slideshow. Why?”

  I shrug. “Just asking.”

  His gaze drifts back to my mom.

  “You do realize she can’t remember anything?”

  The officer turns back to me. “Pardon me?”

  “My mother. You keep looking at her.”

  He doesn’t deny it.

  “She thinks she’s living in an episode of I Love Lucy. You’d be better off focusing on real criminals.” I don’t give him a chance to respond before walking away.

  It takes me forever to get through my plate of food because people keep stopping over to speak with us. I don’t blame them, but my stomach is rumbling and I need sustenance. It’s been such a long day. I’m definitely looking forward to going home. Ember and I will probably crash on a couch and stream a movie while eating flavored popcorn. Doing that has turned into our thing.

  After the room empties, Mom turns to me. “Are we going back to your house? I’d like to see Jack again. He’s such a nice boy.”

  “You’ve mentioned that.” I exchange a look with Ember.

  Mom’s expression lights up. “I can come with you?”

  I check the time. “We’re supposed to return you to your home soon. You only have a day pass, not a night pass.”

  She frowns. “Can I come back soon? Will you bring me?”

  Guilt stings. She’s probably been super lonely in that home. “I’ll speak with the person in charge.”

  “I’d love to visit. Maybe even stay a while.”

  My stomach knots. “I’m not sure about that, Mom.”

  She blinks a few times. “Why not?”

  “They have rules.” How do I explain to her that she’s there for a reason? That Ember and I aren’t able to meet her needs. We couldn’t leave her alone at the house, and I can’t watch her all the time. Ember will be starting school before long, and we both work in the evenings for the most part.

  Mom remains quiet as the pastor helps us gather the things into my car.

  As we near the retirement home, Mom turns to me. “I remember the day Claire was born.”

  “You do?”

  “The happiest day of my life.”

  “That’s great.” Thanks, Mom. What about the day I was born?

  Obviously, I’m not that memorable. At least not to my mother.

  3

  Ember

  I flop onto my bed and close my eyes, every muscle aching. The stress didn’t hit me until we got home. Obviously, my mom’s funeral was horribly emotional. I mean, seriously, who expects that at fifteen? I have enough to deal with as it is without adding my mom’s murder to everything.

  It’s no wonder my aunt keeps bringing up the idea of counseling. But I don’t want to unload everything to some stranger, no matter what kind of training she’s had. I can deal with it myself just fine. So far, so good.

  Thank God I have a best friend who knows me. Gretchen wrapped her arms around me even though we aren’t the touchy-feely type. She made fun of the mean girls who were there to make me feel better. I don’t know if that makes us awful or not, but it felt a lot better than having to talk to them. Maybe one day I’ll be ready to face them, but today is not that day.

  Bump, bump.

  I jolt at the noise. It’s probably just Kenzi getting ready for bed. But this enormous house makes all kinds of sounds, especially at night. Thumps, bumps, knocks, scratches—you name it.

  It doesn't help that our house is the subject of so many rumors. The cute guy who delivers our groceries always tells me stories. At first, he was nervous, thinking my aunt would get him fired, but since I never told her anything he said, he’s come to trust me.

  It’s hard to say how much is true, but from how many stories Luke’s told me, it’s hard to believe they’re all rumors. And he doesn’t even know about the ancient murder scene I discovered on the third floor. The police took the knife and bedding—going as far as to
cut out the bloody part of the mattress. My guess is they’ll never solve the murder. If one of the servants killed another, that would’ve had to be over a hundred years ago.

  Kenzi and I will have to eventually go through the boxes upstairs to figure anything out. But our main focus is on the first two levels while we continue to settle in. And given how many people today expressed interest in visiting us, we not only have to keep working on that, we need to work faster. There are still a lot of things covered in sheets and rooms we haven’t gone into yet.

  Like Jack’s room.

  A chill runs down my spine thinking of that. It was driving me crazy when Grandma kept talking about seeing him. She never once met him if Grandpa’s stories are true. Family history indicates he would have died before they were adults.

  My great-uncle’s room is actually next door to mine. This was Kenzi’s room growing up, and now it’s mine. She has Grandma and Grandpa’s old room.

  I wish my mind would shut up. The last thing I want to think about is any of this. I just want a normal life. But that isn’t going to happen. Not when I live in the Brannon House, a local legend that literally goes bump in the night.

  What else can I think of? There has to be something else.

  Actually, there is.

  The letter that I’ve been ignoring. It’s from my mom, and in it she told me everything she knows about my birth father. I haven’t told anyone about it.

  Now that I have the information I need to find him, I’m paralyzed. There are too many what-ifs. He probably has a family of his own by now and doesn’t want it interrupted by a surprise child. His wife will likely despise me. So will his other kids.

  On the other hand, he might actually be happy by the news. It’s not like he knew about me and ran off. He and Mom had one night together and went their separate ways across the country from each other. And that leads me to my greatest worry.

  If he actually wants me in his life, he might be able to take me away. I don’t want to live on the east coast. Don’t want to leave my friends or my school, even though most of the kids are jerks. I’d rather take my chances with Kenzi and this potentially haunted house than whatever unknown lies clear across the country.

  Better the devil you know than the one you don’t, or whatever that saying is. Not that my aunt is evil—she’s surprisingly cool. It’s just my life has fallen apart and I’m just starting to rebuild. I don’t want to have everything ripped from me again. And a birth father might be able to make that happen.

  His name is Graham. The other name from the letter is Sasha Beckett—Mom’s friend who took her to the party. Those names are burned into my mind now. The question is, will I ever do anything with that information?

  Bump, bump, scratch!

  What if Kenzi’s moving something heavy again? I better see if she needs help before she hurts herself.

  I force myself off the bed, my muscles protesting, and I open the door.

  Everything is dark except the faint glow coming from the nightlights every fifty feet or so between here and the bathroom, which is closer to Kenzi’s room than mine even though she has a private bathroom. Some things in this house make no sense.

  I shut the door as quietly as possible. If there are ghosts, I don’t want them to know I heard them. My hope is that if I act like I don’t believe, they’ll leave me alone. Kenzi says the house is just settling, and she hasn’t heard anything unusual. Or if she has, she hasn’t told me.

  Goose bumps form on my arm. Why do I do this to myself?

  I jump into bed without changing into my pajamas and pull the covers up over my head. You know, because that will protect me from a malicious spirit.

  4

  Kenzi

  It’s Monday, and Graham is already five minutes late. I pace the kitchen, looking out the window each time I pass it. Given his job, running late seems to be par for the course. He runs into life-or-death situations every day, and coming here to discuss a decades-old crime is the least of his concerns.

  I’m glad Ember is helping out at a kids’ art camp this week. It not only gives me the space to talk freely about this with Graham before telling her about it, but the job will also help her get her mind off everything. I heard her sobbing when I got up for a midnight snack. She ignored my knocking and asking if she was okay. Then this morning, she acted like nothing happened. Seems to be how she’s dealing with things—on her own. Maybe I can get her to open up with ice cream later.

  Ding-dong!

  I stop my pacing and mosey to the door. He made me wait all weekend to hear what he found, so he can wait a minute as I make my way to the entry.

  When I open the door, he gives me a big grin and pushes off his aviators, balancing two coffees. “Sorry I’m late. I stopped to pick up lattes.”

  My mouth falls open. He stopped to pick me up coffee? Well, us. Graham picked up one for him and one for me. Probably from a stand on the way. They’re all over. It’s no big deal.

  He holds out one toward me, still smiling.

  “Thanks.” I take it. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Peace offering.” He steps inside. “Kitchen?”

  “Sure.” I lead the way. “This is a peace offering?”

  “You weren’t very happy with me at the service for not telling you everything. And you were right, I shouldn’t have said anything other than the fact that we needed to talk.”

  I sip the latte. It has a hint of caramel and the corners of my mouth twitch. He really is sorry. “Nobody’s perfect. I say things I shouldn’t all the time.” Like the time I invited him on a date when he was investigating my sister’s death. If anyone should understand a running mouth, it’s me. “Are you hungry? I have donuts.”

  He lifts a brow. “You saying that because I’m a cop, I automatically like donuts?”

  “No!” My face warms. “Ember likes them, so I picked some up. Actually, now you can’t have any.”

  Graham laughs. “That’s too bad. I love donuts.”

  “Too late.”

  He looks at me like he can’t tell if I’m serious or not.

  “Plain yogurt for you.” I open the fridge and look around.

  “I’ll stick with the latte, thanks.”

  I turn around, grab the donut box from the counter, and take it to the table. “I’m totally kidding. Eat.”

  We make some small talk for a few minutes while we eat and drink our daily intake of sugar.

  Then he leans back and takes a deep breath. “So, you probably want to know about the knife.”

  A door slams upstairs.

  He glances toward the hallway. “Is Ember mad?”

  “No, she’s not here. I have some windows open, and it doesn’t take much of a breeze for some of them to open and close.”

  “You don’t find that unnerving?” He turns back to me.

  “Why? Because this is the legendary Brannon House?”

  He doesn’t answer the question. Instead pulls out his phone and looks at it for a moment.

  “What did you find from the bedding and knife?”

  “I already told you about the prints.” He’s still looking at the screen.

  “Yes, and that makes complete sense given that my mom lived here for over forty years. She and my dad were the last ones to go up there that I know about.”

  The detective looks up at me, his mouth in a straight line. “But that doesn’t explain the DNA.”

  “What about it?” My voice catches, not allowing me to say more.

  He holds my gaze for a moment. “It belongs to a relative of yours.”

  The words are like a slap to the face.

  “You don’t happen to know of any relatives whose blood that might be?”

  “One … one of my relatives? The blood belongs to a family member?” My mind swims, trying to make sense of the news.

  Graham nods. “Do you know of anyone who died here? Or was seriously injured? I couldn’t find anything in the city records.”

  I ta
ke a few slow breaths to give myself a moment to gather my thoughts. Then I look him in the eyes. “How do you know it belongs to one of my relatives?”

  “DNA can trace familial lines.”

  “I know that! But I’m not on file, and I can’t imagine why my parents or sister would be either.”

  “Yours is on file. That’s how I know the blood belongs to someone in your family line.”

  The room spins around me. I reach for the table to steady myself and nearly knock over my latte.

  He reaches over and grabs it before it falls. “Are you okay?”

  “Why is my DNA on file?”

  “The reason is sealed. You must’ve been a minor.”

  “Obviously,” I mutter.

  Graham rests his hand on mine. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. Maybe I should talk to another of your relatives.”

  “Who? Ember will know less than me—she’s only fifteen. And my mom has dementia. I’m all you’ve got.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “My brother?”

  Graham nods, his hand still on mine. “He might be the key to the answers.”

  “I don’t have a brother!”

  “Is he dead too?”

  I stare at the detective. “No. I don’t have a brother. It was just Claire and me.”

  His brows draw together and his expression tightens, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s a birth certificate for a son born to your parents ten years before your sister.”

  I struggle to breathe, to keep my balance. “You’re wrong.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? Do you need to lie down?”

  “No.” I don’t know which question I’m answering. “What’s the name?”

  “Of what?”

  “On the birth certificate!”

  “I believe it was Jack.”

  Jack. The same name my mom kept mentioning at the service. She kept seeing Jack all day.

  Had she been talking about her son? Not my uncle?

  “No!” This is ridiculous.

  “No?” Graham asks. “His name wasn’t Jack?”