Chapter 7

Hennessee House’s interior looked different when touched by sunshine. The wood seemed brighter, tinged with a reddish hue Lucky didn’t notice before. The air felt lighter, as if pulling the curtains back finally allowed the house to breathe.

Georgia, the curtain culprit, had opened them in the parlor room to the left and Lucky watched as she finished in the sitting room on the right. Chase and Stephen stood nearby behind a loveseat with dark green velvet cushions and carved wood trim.

“You forgot one.” The final curtained window was dead center on the far wall. Lucky headed for it with the aim of being helpful.

“Oh, no point in opening it. House wants it closed.”

Lucky froze, hands hovering near the thick drapes. “Really?”

Georgia nodded as she took the camera Stephen was holding, leaving him empty-handed. “Walk out the room, come back, and it’ll be closed.”

Chase added, “It’ll stay open as long as someone is in here. Hennessee isn’t that rude.” He also had a camera.

“Maybe you should try it,” Stephen said. “See what happens for yourself.”

Challenge accepted. She inspected them first—a matching velvet, albeit a darker shade of green than the couch, and soft to the touch. A bold choice. The cleaning bill must have been outrageous. Xander better not be expecting her to dust while living there.

“My guess is they’re on a timer or there’s a mechanism to close them remotely.” The moment she pulled them aside, a strong cinnamon scent blew into her face. “Did they put perfume on these?” She sneezed twice in a row.

“No.” Stephen’s tone was noticeably flat. “Why?”

“You don’t smell that?” She waved the air in front of her face. “It’s like a milky cinnamon latte with extra cinnamon shoved right into my nasal passages.” It was so strong she could taste it, and she began to cough a little.

“That’s specific. I don’t smell anything,” Stephen said, and Georgia nodded in agreement before adding, “Must be for you. Nice glasses.”

“Thanks. Never go in public without them.”

Georgia raised an assessing eyebrow as she gave Lucky a once-over, who returned the gesture. She never played girl hate games but knew that wasn’t true for everyone. Georgia might have been used to flying solo on their team and saw her as a threat instead of a potential ally.

“I like your outfit too.” Georgia’s grin didn’t feel entirely harmless. “It’s so quirky.”

“I like your…everything. Captivating suits you.”

Georgia, taken aback, seemingly glanced at Stephen for help.

“I tried to warn you,” he said, shaking his head.

Countering with unique compliments never failed Lucky, especially when she meant them. Charm didn’t come naturally to her. She’d put in a metric ton’s worth of effort studying how to be the kind of person everyone liked. Learning how to work a room by using innocuous flirting had been a big part of that.

A name like Lucky came with certain expectations. There was a story there. It made people stop and smile. Do a double take and ask questions. Lighting up a room with her presence, and all it entailed, became her default.

Chase cleared his throat. “Lucky, have you had breakfast yet? When Maverick comes in he’s going to cook as part of the show.”

“Only picnic basket snacks. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room.”

He seemed surprised as he led the way. The sitting room, dining room, and kitchen were connected, only separated by beautiful open archways and differing décor. “And you actually didn’t? That’d make you the first.”

Her pleasant smile grew strained on her face. “…what?”

“Oh yeah.” Chase paused to laugh. “The next morning everyone else fessed up to wandering around.”

Sonofa—

Lucky’s swear-filled thoughts came to an abrupt halt as they crossed under the archway into the dining room. Peppermint, stronger than the cinnamon had been, flooded her senses. It stung her nose, burned her eyes, and tingled on her skin. “Oh my god.” She regretted speaking because it coated her mouth with an overpowering frosty aftertaste. “What is that?”

“What’s what?” The three of them stared at her.

“It’s like one of those scented wall plug-ins exploded in here.” She gripped the back of the closest dining room chair to stay upright, fingers squeezing into the wood to keep from overloading into a blackout. “You don’t smell that? At all?”

Chase’s camera was suddenly trained on her as Stephen said, just as monotone as before, “I don’t smell anything.”

She squinted at him through her discomfort. When she eventually made her way through reading the team, he’d be first. That couldn’t be the same man from her interview. He’d turned uninspired, as flat and dry as a water cracker.

“The house does that sometimes.” Georgia’s relenting sigh was a welcome sign of solidarity. “Makes you smell things that aren’t there.”

Stephen cut his eyes at her—a clear supervisory glare meant to shut her up.

Olfactory hallucinations! If Lucky weren’t in pain, she’d be thrilled. “But I don’t just smell peppermint. It’s like it’s invading me.”

“What does peppermint mean to you?” Maverick stood behind them with Rebel at his side, both their faces pinched with concern. “If you’re the only one who smells it, then it’s specifically for you.”

“Nothing?” She answered honestly and then realized what he’d said. “Even if it did, how would the house know that?”

“Why don’t we have breakfast?” Chase said loudly. “The kitchen is right there. Let’s just keep moving. Come on. Let’s go.” He waved them forward as if he were directing traffic while deftly continuing to film.

Rebel darted forward, grabbing Lucky’s hand. “Do you want to sit together? My dad is making omelets!” For someone so small, she could double as a mini tow truck. They passed under the second archway together, entering the familiar kitchen, and the overwhelming scentsation instantly faded.

“Better?” Rebel asked immediately.

“Yes, actually.” She blinked, suddenly feeling perfectly fine, as if the peppermint scent hadn’t nearly incapacitated her entire body. “How did you know that?”

“My dad said the smells don’t travel from room to room unless they’re leading you somewhere.” Rebel waved her down and whispered, “That was supposed to be a secret, but it looked like it was hurting a lot.”

She grinned and whispered back, “I see. Thank you.”

Secrets turned out to be the theme of the morning.

Chase and Georgia set up their cameras on opposite sides of the kitchen to get a full view of…whatever they expected to film. Stephen proclaimed no one was allowed to tell Lucky anything else about Hennessee House until after she’d had her interview with Maverick, which made breakfast a spiritless affair with everyone eating in near silence. He didn’t want anything else to potentially influence her testimonial.

One thing became clear to Lucky.

Okay, two things.

First: Maverick could cook. Seasoned and sautéed mixed vegetables with buttery cheese wrapped in impeccably fluffy eggs with a side of grilled red potatoes—hands down, the best omelet she’d ever had the pleasure of devouring.

Second: Manufactured or not, the production team decided to commit to the bit. Everyone behaved like Xander had during the interview: wholeheartedly certain of Hennessee House’s activity. This was fantastic for two additional points.

If the house wasn’t haunted, she won—that’d be an automatic platform to set herself up in opposition to manufactured hauntings. Call her Houdini.

If the house was haunted—all the better. She’d be the one to get to the root of it. And again, an automatic platform to talk about her experience and how she planned to continue, parlaying thirty days of sacrifice into a career.

For the time being, she decided to accept that the olfactory hallucinations hadn’t been a stunt. She couldn’t figure out how no one else had been affected. It’d been so intense, the only way to avoid it involved not breathing, but every single person had spoken at some point.

Post-breakfast, Stephen, Georgia, and Chase resumed their work in the backyard, hoping to film something called pre-bloom.

Lucky was once again denied context.

Rude.

Before heading back to the library, Maverick made a pit stop, depositing Rebel in the room across the hall. The office was comparable in size to the library, except with fewer bookcases and the addition of a fireplace. A wide desk and stately chair sat front and center facing the door. An antique floor globe, empty glass vases, and oddly shaped lamps were the only other items in the strangely minimalist room.

“You’re in here.” He pulled out the chair for Rebel.

“But, Dad—”

“I don’t wanna hear it. You, right at this desk. Bathroom breaks only.” He set a laptop down in front of her. “Make me a rough cut using your talent show footage. Any style you want. Think you can do that?”

She nodded glumly. “Can’t I work in the library with you?”

“That’s my set. Guess where you’re not allowed?”

“But I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t some magic word that makes people automatically forgive you. I know you know what you did was wrong, otherwise you wouldn’t have done it behind Georgia’s back. How are they supposed to trust you if that’s how you choose to behave?”

Lucky began creeping closer to the door to give them space and experienced an immediate change in the room’s temperature. It was colder but subtly so, as if a few degrees had been swiped from the air by a skilled pickpocket. One would only realize the absence if they were concentrating. Her preoccupied companions didn’t seem to.

Rebel eventually answered, “I don’t know.”

“Not having an answer yet and needing more time to think about it is okay.” He inhaled, filling his lungs, holding it and exhaling as fast as he could. “Let’s just put this conversation on pause for now. We’ll talk through it some more when we get home.”

Lucky had made it across the hall, and was standing in the library doorway when Maverick joined her. She showed him the secret room. He remarked that the camera had been on the entire time. And they sat in their respective chairs again.

It didn’t take much more than that to realize something was wrong.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “She’s fine. Sitting in the next room.” They could even see her from where they sat.

Maverick had held it together at breakfast and in front of Rebel, but his internal turmoil began seeping into Lucky the second they were alone. He was spiraling—distant, almost robotic, and ensnared by a mental loop.

“I know. I—” He squeezed his eyes shut, slightly shaking his head.

She placed her hand on top of his to ground him. Occasionally she’d let her nanny care extend to parents. While this wasn’t what she’d been hired to do in Hennessee House, taking the time to help him wouldn’t hurt anything. She made tight circles with her thumb along his wrist.

His attention snapped back to the present, focusing on their hands and then her face. The look in his eyes made her heartbeat jolt from normal to erratic in what had to be record time, but under her thumb, his remained strong and steady.

“Thank you for finding her.” He used that tone again, the same one from earlier when he’d said her name.

“I didn’t,” she said honestly, automatically. “It was pure coincidence.”

“There’s no such thing in Hennessee House. I was terrified it lured her away—maybe it did, I don’t know.”

“Rebel told me she saw the red square in some pictures. She even asked permission first, but Georgia said no. I think she was making her own choices. A bad one, but a choice.”

All at once he took a deep, shaking breath, entire torso moving with effort as he returned to himself. “Yeah, that’s what she told me too.”

Lucky casually pulled her hand away under the guise of fidgeting in her seat. She tried to hide taking the deep breath she needed as well. Did he have any idea how intense he felt? “I am in no place to question you, but I’m wondering if it’s safe for her to be here?”

“It should be.” He scoffed lightly. “The house doesn’t mess with children and Xander was adamant that it’s dormant-reactive during the day.”

Lucky noted the phrase, dormant-reactive, and tucked it away to ask about later. It sounded straightforward enough for now. “How does he know that?”

“Neighborhood kids dare each other to break in all the time and Hennessee safely escorts them back out. Usually through the front door—we have footage of it opening on its own and them leaving,” he said. “I think that’s why they thought the show would work, but apparently, the safety features don’t apply to adults.”

“That is…interesting.” He really sprinkled in that revelation like it was a garnish to add a little extra flavor. It took every ounce of willpower she had to remain calm and not bombard him with questions. She had to focus on him. On helping him like she planned. And then she’d ask. “Anyway, um, Rebel’s very special. You’re doing great with her.”

“Special, yeah.” He exhaled into a laugh.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t being sarcastic. She’s very creative and—”

“It’s okay.” He held up his hand. “You don’t have to do that. Rebel is…her namesake, in the best and worst way. I know she’s not sorry because she didn’t apologize to me. That would require lying, which she doesn’t do. Dance around the truth? Bend it until it warps? Omit important details? Yes. Without hesitation. But she never flat out lies to me.”

“Ah, so she’s a tiptoe trapper.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when they tiptoe around the truth so well, they trap you with semantics and all you can say is Well you’re not wrong, which makes them think they’re right even when they’re not.”

A quiet, triumphant thrill shot through her as the right side of his mouth quirked. “Did you make that up?”

“I did. Saw it enough and figured it needed a name.”

“Saw it where?”

Not only had she walked right into that, she’d been the one to open the damn door. How did he keep doing this to her? How? Maverick’s eyes held the kind of intensity she usually avoided. A true penetrating gaze, he could probably see straight into her soul and tell her exactly how many lies she’d told in her entire life. If she weren’t sincere, she suspected he’d know it immediately.

She needed to read him. Soon.

Reluctantly, she said, “I used to be a nanny.”

“When?”

“During college. And after.”

“Stephen said you never had a job before.”

“I said, ‘according to my résumé.’ I never confirmed that. They hired me to be a storyteller. So, I made one up about myself.”

“Right.” His disappointment lanced through her, hot then cold.

“I really wanted this job and being a nanny isn’t relevant work experience,” she said quickly, eager to explain. “People see ‘live-in nanny’ and automatically reject. It’s not my fault society doesn’t value childcare.”

His eyes softened. “How long were you a nanny?”

“Six years, and I was damn good at it.”

He nodded, considering her answer. “Why the career change, then?”

“Because this is where I want to be.” With a deep breath, she took off her glasses and looked at him. “This is what I’m meant to be doing with my life.”