All My Darkest Impulses (House of Crows), Lisa Unger [top 10 novels .txt] 📗

electronic gate was not an option. The lowest bid had been nearly $20,000.

A tall, severe person in a black suit emerged from the car. The truth was he hadn’t been totally sure in their conversations whether Avery March was a man or a woman. And as the very slim person with slicked-back, longish gray hair approached, Matthew still wasn’t totally sure. March seemed to glide rather than walk, and Matthew wiped off his hands on his pants and went to greet him—her?

“Mr. Merle?”

“That’s right.” Something about the body language kept Matthew from offering his hand right away.

“Avery March,” March said with a little bow, both hands on the handle of a black case.

Matthew nodded and turned. “Pleasure. My wife, Samantha.”

“Oh, we’re wrecks,” said Samantha, smoothing out her clothes, then offering her hand.

“Not at all.” It looked like they exchanged a firm handshake. That was manly, right? Or was that sexist? Plenty of women had firm handshakes.

But when March took Matthew’s hand, the skin was so soft, the hand itself so delicate. He noticed a glint of diamond studs. And there was a feminine prettiness to her features, the light scent of lilacs wafting from her clothes.

“Well,” said March, looking back and forth between them, then up at Merle House. “This place is every bit as impressive as I remember it. But we are going to have to do something about those crows.”

Remember it? When had she been here before?

“I think the crows come with the house,” Samantha joked.

March gave her a concerned look. “That will never do.”

“I told you,” said Matthew, glad to have someone agreeing with him about anything.

“The house, the name. Merle. It literally means black bird,” said Samantha. Was there something defensive, protective in her tone?

Avery March was undaunted, shaking her head firmly. “Something will have to be done. People don’t like crows.”

“Well,” said Samantha, matching March’s clipped tone. “Whatever it is, it will have to be humane.”

March looked at her, a quick up and down. “Of course.”

“Should we go inside?” asked Matthew.

“After you.”

In the foyer, he heard music playing. Jewel must be up. The raucous tones of the death metal she favored were just a whisper on the air. The angry music used to rock the walls in their old place. But Merle House seemed to swallow sound. There was no shouting from room to room, and none of the phones were getting consistent service. So if he wanted to talk to Samantha or Jewel, he had to go looking. He’d never even seen Jewel yesterday.

“Is there someone else here?” asked March.

“Our daughter,” said Samantha. “She’s not too happy with us at the moment.”

“Moving is a difficult transition, especially for kids.”

“Do you have children?” asked Samantha, light, trying to make conversation, or make up for the tension over the crows.

“No,” said March with a firm shake of her head. They both waited for her to go on. But no. “I’ve heard from other clients.”

They all stood awkwardly for a beat, the music tinny and faint on the air.

“Coffee?” offered Samantha brightly.

March seemed to consider, then nodded. “Maybe we should sit and talk first, about the house, about your expectations and plans, before we tour the property.”

“Good idea,” said Samantha, leading the way to the kitchen.

There was only one plan as far as Matthew could see. Fix as little as possible to get rid of this monster at the highest possible price, and reboot the life to which he’d taken a wrecking ball. Get his wife to forgive and trust him again. Maybe it was too much to ask that his daughter stop hating him. But that would be nice too.

And all this needed to happen as fast as possible, before this place got its hooks in. It had a way of doing that. He’d seen it before. Another item filed away in the things-he’d-rather-not-remember category.

March and Samantha disappeared through the swinging kitchen door. And Matthew stood listening to Jewel’s music.

Was there another sound beneath the racket? He’d heard it a few times. A kind of low hum. It was a sound that he found vaguely familiar. He stood, listening, and he found himself remembering the final summer he’d spent at Merle House—and his childhood friends, Claire, Ian, and Mason. And everything that happened.

He found himself thinking about Havenwood, which seemed more like a dream than an actual structure that still stood, as far as he knew, about a mile away from the house through the woods.

“Matthew,” said Samantha from the kitchen doorway. That annoyed, snap-out-of-it tone. “Are you coming?”

“Sorry.”

She walked up close to him and grabbed his shirtsleeve. “I can’t have you checking out, okay? I’m not doing this on my own,” she said, her voice a low but urgent whisper, eyes pleading.

He touched her face, traced a finger along her jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She smiled at him, just a little, but it was something. “I know you are.”

He pulled her in for a kiss; to his surprise she leaned into him.

“God. Get a room.”

Jewel breezed past them and pushed into the kitchen. Samantha leaned against him for a second and then followed.

Great. Family meeting.

He stood alone a moment, still listening for that strange hum. When he didn’t hear it, he pushed through the kitchen door, feeling a tingle of unease.

4.

Claire’s phone was ringing. The chimes reached her through layers and layers of drug-induced sleep. She resisted. And then swam up toward the sound, a gentle jingling of bells.

In the dim of her bedroom, she reached for the phone, hand slapping at the bedside table, where she’d left it. But by the time it was in her palm and she was pulling off her sleep mask, the ringing had ceased.

Who would call at this hour?

She checked the time: Noon. Oh.

There were always a few seconds on waking before it all came back like a wave. Sleep came only with pills—and that chemical slumber was an abyss, a psychic wasteland. And the first few moments of awakening were blessedly