House at the End of the Street

by Lily Blake

  “Elissa, this is my brother, Jake, and his best friend, Robbie.”

  “Heard you were in a band,” Robbie said. He was shorter than Jake, with hipster glasses and tight, black skinny jeans.

  “How did you hear that?” Elissa asked. Ryan Jacobsen had heard her playing her guitar one morning—was it possible someone else had too?

  “Google.” Robbie shrugged. “Nothing is sacred anymore. Anyway…you sing, I play drums, Jake plays bass. We have this thing coming up.”

  Elissa blushed, knowing he must’ve found her old website, one she’d created two years ago when she was determined to “get her voice out there.” She’d uploaded all her original songs, half hoping her dad would discover it and call her. He never did.

  Robbie dug into the front pocket of his tight jeans, prying out a green flyer that had been folded into a neat square. He passed it Elissa—the paper was still damp with sweat. She opened it anyway, surprised at the block letters on top. BATTLE OF THE BANDS, it read, with a graphic of a guitar. Robbie shifted in his gray low-top sneakers.

  “What do you say?” Jake asked. “Want to come sing with us?”

  Elissa narrowed her eyes at them. “And if you suck?” she asked, only half joking. She’d been invited to play with enough “bands” to know that the good ones were rare. And she couldn’t imagine anything worse than standing on stage, trying to play music, when everyone around her was fumbling to keep up.

  “We don’t,” Robbie said. He pulled a memory stick from his backpack and tossed it to Elissa with a new confidence. “That’s a recording of us. Listen to it. If you like it, come check us out—we practice tomorrow.”

  Jake and Robbie took off back down the quad, leaving Elissa there to think about it. She’d never been in a band, per se, unless you counted those months before her father left. They would spend good nights in the kitchen, gathered around the table, her dad moving his fingers so quickly over the neck of his guitar she could barely recognize the chords. Elissa would strum along, and Sarah would sometimes sing with her. Now her father was known entirely separately from them, the bass player for the Constants, a small indie band that toured mostly in Europe. She wondered if Robbie had discovered that too—if that was the real reason he wanted her to join up with them.

  Jillian stood, glancing over Elissa’s shoulder at the flyer. “They are good,” she said. “You should go. I’m about ready to ditch the famine relief fund anyway.”

  She looped an arm through Elissa’s, something Elissa would normally hate. But standing there with Jillian, the idea of this band on the horizon, she felt more at ease than she had since she arrived in Woodshire. Maybe, just maybe, her mom was right—maybe this was a new beginning for them both.

  Sarah stood in her hospital scrubs, drumming her fingers against the counter as the barista fixed her coffee. She checked the time above the kiosk. It was just after three o’clock, which meant Elissa had finished last period and was heading home…presumably. For the last couple of days, Sarah hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Elissa, and the look on her face when she walked in the door the other night. When Sarah asked her about her first day, she’d frozen, providing only one-word answers. This wasn’t exactly new for them, but Elissa looked a little shaken… scared, even. The only thing she had said was that he had gone to the famine relief meeting, and Ryan Jacobsen had given her a ride home.

  Had he done something to her? Maybe Elissa was right—maybe the Reynoldses were just closed-minded, but it was strange that that boy lived in the same house where his parents were murdered. What kind of person would be okay with that? And why didn’t anyone in town seem to know him? She’d seen him leaving his house in the middle of the night twice in the past week, the old sedan loud enough to wake her up.

  The barista handed her the coffee, and she turned, noticing a police officer standing outside the hospital’s front entrance. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than her, with dark brown eyes and short black hair that was combed perfectly into place. She couldn’t help herself. Before she knew it she was outside, leaning against the wall next to him, tapping her foot five hundred times a minute, trying to figure out just how to get his attention.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked, looking down at her foot. He smiled, a dimple forming in his right cheek. “I usually have that effect on ladies. I’m trying to not be so devastatingly handsome.”

  Sarah laughed. Was this guy flirting with her? “No, no,” she tried. “I wanted to ask you something. I’m Sarah Cassidy.”

  ”Bill Weaver.” The man put out his hand for her to shake.

  “My daughter is seventeen, and we just moved here. We’re living in a rental on Sycamore Lane. And—”

  “And you wanted to ask me if I thought it was possible that you could have a seventeen-year-old daughter. I would have to say no.”

  Sarah smiled. This guy was definitely flirting with her. “It’s about Ryan Jacobsen, actually.” Bill’s face grew serious as she said the boy’s name, his brows knit together. “He gave Elissa a ride a couple of days ago. Which is fine, I guess, but I see him coming home late at night. I was just wondering if you knew anything about him. If he’s…” She trailed off, not wanting to seem too judgmental.

  “Okay?”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said. “Finding out your parents were murdered like that, by your own sister? It’s kind of intense.”

  Bill leaned against the wall, wiping a thin layer of sweat from his forehead. “You’d think people might have a little sympathy. I was the one who told him and his aunt. I drove three hours upstate to tell them personally. Ryan was living with this senile lady who could barely talk. I think he took care of her, not the other way around. He ended up moving back here with her, and she died last year. The kid’s had a hard life. Look, I’ve never had any trouble with him and no one else has as far as I know. But people sure as hell like to bitch about their property values, don’t they?”

  Sarah stared at a spot on the concrete, suddenly a little embarrassed. Was she just as bad as that uptight woman at the Reynolds barbecue? Elissa would be mortified if she knew Sarah was going around, asking random police officers about Ryan Jacobsen. “I guess they do.…” she said.

  Bill turned to her, resting his hand on the radio at his belt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dump on you. I just know the town board’s been trying to get him out of that house for years, and it pisses me off. He has every right to be there—that’s still his home.”

  Sarah knew, logically, that he was right. If Ryan Jacobsen was dangerous, wouldn’t that have been more obvious? For years he’d lived in that house, and all the neighbors had to complain about were the peeling shingles, or the overgrown lawn. They talked about the double murder as if he himself was implicated just by being related to Carrie Anne. He’d been a kid himself. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Thanks, Officer,” Sarah said, turning back toward the automatic doors. Her break was ending, and the doctor on call was OCD about shift changes.

  “Please—call me Bill,” he corrected. “I’ll see you around?”

  He was smiling. There was that dimple again. “Sure, Bill,” Sarah called over her should as she entered the air-conditioned lobby. She took off down the hall, chucking the empty coffee cup in the trash. He was right—Ryan was a victim himself. Ryan had a right to live in that house, and just because he sometimes drove around at night didn’t mean there was anything wrong with him. Maybe he was trying to clear his head, or couldn’t stand to be alone in that house at certain hours.

  She went into the elevator, her stomach dropping as it rose to the tenth floor. But as she started back to the nurses’ station to check in, she couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. She remembered the bright headlights shining for a moment through her bedroom curtains. If Bill was right, if Ryan wasn’t dangerous, then why did she still feel sick at the thought of Elissa in that car?

  Elissa bounded up the side stairs, careful to jump the broken slats. She rapped
on the door twice, noticing Ryan through the foggy glass pane. He was hunched over his laptop. Brown grocery bags were scattered over the kitchen counter. “Hey…it’s me,” she said, opening the door a crack. “I made you a CD.”

  Ryan fiddled with the web page a moment before he turned around. He looked nervous, as if she’d caught him doing something wrong. She took a few steps closer, noticing the screen. He was looking at her old website. The first song she’d ever written—“Daylight”—was paused halfway through. “That’s my page,” she said, not quite believing it.

  “I wanted to hear more of your music,” Ryan said. “That’s not weird, is it?”

  “Not unless you didn’t like it,” Elissa said, sidling up beside him.

  Ryan looked down, seeming so much shyer than he’d been before. “It was beautiful.”

  Elissa poked him playfully in the chest. “Right answer.” She laughed. She glanced around, for the first time processing that she was inside the house—the Jacobsen house she’d heard so much about before she’d even seen it. It smelled dank and musty, cut with the scent of bleach. The couch was a strange polyester print, like something out of That ’70s Show, and yellowed drawings were taped to the fridge in the kitchen. On the counter, by the sink, there were three loaves of bread, a stack of frozen dinners, and nearly twenty cans of soup, among other things.

  “Stocking the old fallout shelter?” Elissa asked.

  Ryan blushed with embarrassment. “I don’t like to go into town more than I have to.” Elissa noticed the thin metal bars on the windows. She’d heard murmurings at school—vandals sometimes came by Ryan’s house, throwing rocks through the windows. At one point someone had literally tried to burn it to the ground. Part of her understood what that was like. Maybe their old apartment outside Chicago hadn’t been targeted by vandals, but there were always robberies and shootings on her block. They had security bars too, and barbed wire coiled around the fire escape.

  Elissa held up the CD. “I want to play you something.” She started into the living room, where an ancient stereo was sitting on a bookshelf. The bookshelf was filled with hardcover novels, and there were stacks of more books around it, piles of tattered paperbacks and worn copies of old plays. Elissa grabbed one off the top of a stack— ”Arcadia” by Tom Stoppard.

  “I see you like to read.” Elissa studied him, starting to piece together what it was Ryan did in his spare time. He must be one of those guys who spent days reading, studying, content to be alone. Who could he really connect with in this town anyway? Nearly every single person had heard about the murders, had been convinced they knew exactly who Ryan was before they’d spoken two words to him. He never really had a chance.

  Ryan just ran his hand through his hair, brushing a few strands off his forehead. He blushed, as if getting so much attention embarrassed him. “Let’s hear it,” he said, nodding to the stereo. “The CD.”

  Elissa fiddled with the buttons, and a low, crackly voice filled the room. She’d been obsessed with the band Continuum since her dad played her their first album. She loved the lead singer’s raspy vocals and the way the piano music swelled in the background. She stood there, just inches away from Ryan, watching him take it all in.

  Ryan smiled up at her. “You like it?” she asked, studying his face.

  “I do,” he said. He did that thing again where his eyes traced over her lips, her cheekbones, down her throat to the plunge of her V-neck T-shirt. “Very much.”

  She turned away, feeling the stirrings of nervousness. What was it about Ryan Jacobsen that made her so self-conscious? As Ryan stood there, listening to the next song, she glided around the room, taking in the framed photos on the wall. There was one that must’ve been Ryan’s parents. The young couple was in wedding garb, the bride staring into the camera with brilliant blue eyes. Elissa turned back, waiting for Ryan to say something, but he was still by the bookcase, lost in thought.

  She walked down a narrow hallway off the living room, where another shelf of books was. She studied some of the titles, letting the music drift in from the other room. There was a door just a few feet away. She tried the handle without thinking, imagining it was the first-floor bathroom. Instead, it was a tiny bedroom. The walls were covered in bright circles—teal, pink, and purple. The bed was still covered with a musty quilt. She took a few steps in, noticing the wooden chest of toys that sat in the corner.

  Elissa heard Ryan behind her. She turned, immediately regretting what she’d done. “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have come in here.”

  She took a few steps, trying to get around him, but he blocked her way. “You don’t have to go. I haven’t been here in a long time.” He was strangely calm as he moved past her, going deeper into the room. He picked a teddy bear off the bed and brushed away the dust.

  Elissa pulled her blond hair into a tight ponytail, twisting it hard. Why had she opened the door in the first place? “Ryan, I’m so sorry,” she tried.

  Ryan looked up, meeting her gaze. “When I first got here, I kept her room exactly the same in case she came back.”

  “How long has it been? Four years?” Elissa asked.

  “Yeah, I know.” He let out a sorrowful laugh. “Stupid, huh? I even used to leave supplies for her in the woods— food, blankets, even though I knew she could never have survived out there. She would’ve starved to death. She never could’ve been out there on her own. She needed constant care. My dad wanted to put her in a home, but Mom wouldn’t let him. That’s why they sent me away. They had enough to deal with as it was, without me in their hair.”

  Elissa lowered her head, not sure if she could bring herself to ask about it. Everyone in town talked about Carrie Anne, but no one ever said what had really happened to her—what made her that way. “What happened? To your sister…”

  “We were playing, and she fell and hit her head.” Ryan stared down at the teddy bear. “This was the bear she played with that day. I was seven and she was five. She loved that game. She’d snatch it from me and run through the house, trying to get away. I chased her out into the yard and tackled her, wrestling the bear out of her hands. We laughed for a while, and then played the same game we always played—seeing who could swing highest on the swings.”

  Elissa could picture the little girl clinging to the swing, her tiny legs pumping back and forth. Her blond hair blew away from her face, then forward, hiding her. Ryan was next to her, reaching for her hand, but she was always just a little out of reach, the swings not yet in sync.

  “I looked up at the window,” he continued. “To see if my parents were watching. They spent all of their weekends in their room, with the curtains drawn, smoke wafting from under the door. They always seemed in some far-off place—I know now they were battling an addiction. I was looking up at the window, waiting for them to see. That’s when Carrie Anne fell. She tumbled off the swing, hitting the ground hard. The last thing I remember is standing above her, screaming. It seemed like a long time before they came out of the house.”

  Elissa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. It was a horrible story.

  Ryan stared down at the teddy bear, slowly remembering where he was. “When she woke up she was different. She had brain damage. She would scream all the time. Break things.”

  “Is that why all the window have bars on them?” Elissa asked, not entirely certain what to say.

  “Yeah, she didn’t understand where she was all the time, and she’d run out into the woods. They were to keep her in. They’re useful now, though—stops the townies when they come down here.”

  They stood there in silence. Ryan still clutched the teddy bear in his hands, looking at it as if it were the first time. Elissa wanted to say something to comfort him, but everything she could think of seemed false, wrong. She wanted to say she understood, but how could she? Even the worst things she’d been through—her parents’ divorce, her father leaving—were nothing like this. Instead, she reached for his hand and squeezed.

&nbs
p; Ryan leaned into her. Then he set the teddy bear gently on the bed and led her back into the hallway. “I don’t like coming to this part of this house,” he said softly. He shut the door tightly behind them.

  Elissa looked up at him, wanting to throw her arms around him in a hug, even if three days ago they’d been just strangers. “Then we won’t,” she said, pulling him back toward the living room, where the music still played. “I promise we won’t.”

  Elissa sat next to Ryan on his bed, their fingers just inches apart. The room was too small for them. There was only a narrow twin bed and a desk, but the ceiling was peaked, with a small circular window looking out into the backyard. A framed photo hung on the wall. His parents had their arms around each other. Carrie Anne stood in front with her teddy bear, and Ryan was off to the side. He looked so serious. He was the only one who wasn’t smiling.

  “So that’s Carrie Anne,” Elissa said, studying the blond girl with brilliant blue eyes. She stood in front, her mother’s hands on her shoulders. “Her eyes are so blue.”

  Ryan leaned in, his shoulder pressing against hers as he studied the picture. “She was the heart of the family. After the accident, things changed. My parents got worse.”

  “What do you mean…worse?” Elissa asked.

  Ryan shook his head, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. “It was just different.”

  “Is that when they sent you away?” Ryan looked up, and his eyes met hers. He didn’t answer the question, and she didn’t want to push. “I know it’s not the same, but everything changed when my father left. It’s like everything was split into before and after. It’s hard, knowing he’s touring, that he’s out there without us. Sometimes I wonder if he even cares about me at all.”

  “He must, right?” Ryan said. “He has to.”

  Elissa stared straight ahead. She hadn’t heard from him in over a year. She would sometimes follow his band online, keeping track of their tour stops. When she was packing up the apartment in Chicago, helping Sarah put the kitchen supplies in boxes, she thought: Berlin. My father is in Berlin. As the days passed she thought, Munich, Amsterdam. All the while she wondered if he ever thought of her, or if he’d been content to keep that part of his life separate, never mentioning the daughter he’d left behind.