Fractured Legacy

4. 1. Kaylyn-1

Chapter one

Kaylyn

I pull the covers over my head, wishing they could block out the ruckus threatening my sleep. But after another series of knocks on the front door, I’m left in silence again.

That’s not necessarily a good thing, and I hold my breath while I wait.

Sure enough, a floorboard creaks in the next room. Then, my little sister’s voice fills the space. “Come on, Kay. You can’t avoid me when I have a key. We’re going to be late.”

Sometimes, Cole is a far worse enemy than the alarm clock. Despite being my younger sister, she’s usually the one on top of things. Especially dragging me out of bed and, unfortunately, she doesn’t have a snooze button.

“Go away, Cole. I’m sick,” I lie, but I need an excuse—any excuse. She’s not going anywhere, and I really don’t have a choice in the matter since eventually I’ll have to crawl out of bed and head to work. But I’m exhausted. So, despite the sound of Cole’s footsteps entering the bedroom, I refuse to crawl out from under the covers.

“Bullshit,” Cole says. “If anything, you’re hungover.”

Of anyone, she should know that isn’t the case, but obviously that reputation is going to follow me for a long, long time.

“I haven’t had a drink in almost two months.” Not since the binge I’d gone on a week after Ian packed up and moved out. I’d had a hell of a hangover the next day, too. Although at the moment, I think I’d kill for a drink… or several. “We’ve worked for Carlisle for more than three years, he won’t mind if we’re a little late.”

He never does. Set schedules aren’t his thing, and I’m totally okay with that. Although we’re technically supposed to adhere to scheduled hours when possible, we typically work on an as-needed basis anyway. Let’s face it, that’s a good part of what makes this my dream job.

“We have a meeting,” Cole says, tapping her hard-soled boot on the floor. “Mr. Edwards. Historical Society. Wooden box engraved with occult symbols. Ring a bell?” Cole’s voice rises with every phrase, so by the time she finishes, I want nothing more than to bury my head deeper into the pillow.

Oh, yeah. That explains why she’d barged in. I groan and flip the covers off my head to finally face my sister eye-to-eye. She stands over the side table, leaning against the inside of the doorway. A crisp pink collar sticks out from the top of her dark grey pea coat, which is paired with matching grey slacks. Her makeup is minimal, but perfect, and her long brown hair is swept back into a low bun and topped off with a wide pink headband.

Always overdressed, I think. I can’t imagine spending that much time or effort getting ready every morning. Not that I’d know where to start. Especially for a job that usually has us crawling in dank and dusty places. I pull myself up, teetering on the edge of the bed before I can force my body to move toward the closet.

“If you don’t hurry up”—Cole’s shrill lecture reminds me of her presence—“the cappuccinos will get cold.”

“You know I prefer it that way,” I say dryly as I pull some moderately business-casual clothes out of the clean clothes pile and head to the bathroom.

“Weirdo,” Cole calls after me.

I answer by slamming the bathroom door. Thankful for the brief moment of silence, I take my time sliding into a pair of black jeans and a blue, long-sleeved V-neck. I smooth out the wrinkles in the shirt, then focus on my matted hair, finally facing my reflection in the mirror. Cole and I may share brown eyes and brown hair, but in every other way, we’re polar opposites. In many ways, it’s why we work so well together, but lately, she’s like a beam of light highlighting every one of my weaknesses.

Like the fact that I look like s**t, and there’s no way I can fix it in the next five minutes.

Fuck. I poke at the circles under my eyes and quickly smooth on some concealer before pulling my hair back into a low ponytail. Good enough.

As good as it’s going to get.

Cole pats the door. “Come on, sis, we’re supposed to be there at 9:30.”

Two days until the weekend, I promise my reflection. Then, nothing is stopping me from sleeping as long as I want.

Nothing except the dreams.

It seems like I go through this conversation every morning lately. Counting down until I can catch up on the sleep that never comes. Before I know it, Monday morning drags me back to work, and the cycle begins again.

As soon as I step out of the bathroom, Cole corrals me toward the front door, leaving me just enough time to grab a jacket and my phone. Outside, her black Mustang is parked behind my red ‘68 Chevelle. The Chevelle is my baby. After all, Dad and I spent two summers fixing her up before he gave me the keys at my high school graduation.

Cole wasn’t into that. Muscle cars with bite, she loved, but working on them, not in a million years. When I spent days in the garage with Dad learning all about pistons and getting grease under my nails, she’d be trying out the latest craze in nail color or drooling over a new pair of shoes. Such is the nature of our duality. She’s ketchup. I’m mustard. She’s a tailored pea coat. I’m a leather jacket.

And together we used to make for a kick ass team. More and more, it seems like I’ve become the gimpy leg in what used to be an equal partnership.

I silently apologize to Chelle as we walk past. This morning, I have neither the energy nor the time to engage Cole in our old banter over which car is more appropriate. She came all this way to drive me to work, since obviously she no longer trusts me to do it myself, so I quietly slide into the passenger seat of her Mustang and pluck the cappuccino out of the cup holder, inhaling the aroma as I pop back the tab.

At least scalding my tongue on the boiling hot liquid means I don’t have to talk.

I live just outside the central part of town, far enough out that I only have to deal with squirrels and the occasional possum rather than neighbors. I don’t tolerate neighbors—I’d rather have a raccoon in my garbage than have to listen to someone’s excuse for entertainment blaring at all hours of the day. The one-bedroom bungalow had been a pretty good deal when I moved into it with Ian almost a year ago, but after living together for nine months, he decided that he’d had enough of my secretive job and distant behavior. Especially when I started waking up screaming in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.

I sink lower into my seat.

Cole taps her fingers against the steering wheel, then glances over. “What the heck would you have done if I hadn’t shown up to drag you out of bed?”

With a low moan, I lift the cappuccino to my lips. “Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about that, huh?”

That non-answer isn’t going to fly with Cole, but it’s all I have.

Our meeting is only a few minutes away, in the historic riverfront district of town, but on the busy one-lane streets of Chatham, that short drive is slow going. As Cole dodges pedestrians and navigates the tight back roads through town, she also launches an inquisition, which includes an assortment of brash allegations concerning guys… booze… parties….

All of the distractions that had plagued me in college, and maybe a bit in high school. That’s probably why Dad always tried to keep me occupied during the summer with the car. But it has been years since I’ve had the time or energy to party—let alone socialize. Apparently though, my old habits have left their mark.

Without the energy to interrupt or point out that I have been home every night for the past month, I press my forehead to the cool window, sip my cappuccino, and mumble a response when absolutely necessary.

Luckily, the numbness in my head from lack of sleep makes ignoring the details quite easy.

By the time we pull up to the stonehouse—a beautiful historic building built from large, weathered sandstone blocks—it’s 9:36.

“Of course, we’re late,” Cole grumbles, parking the car in the graveled lot next to the building.

The structure is one of the oldest buildings in town; its stone blocks were carved from a nearby ledge of rock more than two hundred years ago. Despite representing a huge portion of our history, the building faced extinction in the early seventies, so the historical society rallied together to raise funds to preserve the structure and petitioned to have it added to the national registry. The building then came into use as a museum and archive by the society. While in college, I spent a good deal of time in the archive researching the cultural history of Chatham and learning about preservation, but the director I worked with has since retired.

I unfasten my seatbelt, but even after the cappuccino, my eyes refuse to focus. I reach for the door handle, only to receive a punch in the arm from Cole.

“Try to act alive, Kay. We gave up the part-time newbie s**t over six months ago—”

As if I need a reminder. For years, this was all I looked forward to. And now that I have it, I can’t seem to focus on s**t.

Cole stares off through the windshield, her body rigid. “Carlisle took a chance putting us together—”

“I know.” I groan. I wish I could just snap out of it or reach back through time and find an old and slightly less broken version of myself.

“Well, is this not what you wanted?”

“Of course it is.” I nearly trip over the words, too shocked to thoroughly process her question. “It’s all we dreamed about as kids.”

Although back then, we never realized that such a thing could become a reality. I bang the back of my head against the headrest. I don’t know how to make her understand—hell, I’m not even sure I understand what’s happening. It’s just this fog. This…. Lack of sleep. And I don’t understand why I can’t sleep. Maybe it’s the strange hours and strange working conditions. Or the f****d up things we encounter.

I could watch days of horror movies as a kid without a single nightmare or walk through a haunted house without flinching, but now I can’t even close my own eyes. It’s like a switch was flipped and suddenly I’ve lost control over my whole life. Everyone else seems to notice it, too, but if I even consider talking about it, it seems like all the pathways between my brain and my mouth seize shut.

Cole shakes her head and throws her door open. I can only imagine what she has considered throwing at me next, but she keeps her mouth shut and I follow suit. She’s bad enough when pissed, I don’t want to push her into the fuming zone.

All I can hope is that it all blows past.

She is out of the car and at least ten steps ahead by the time I close the passenger door. I shake enough dullness from my head to manage a quick sprint to catch up. Each thump of my feet against the ground echoes through my head, drowning out the latest spiel from Cole—yet another lecture.

I rub my forehead, hoping to ease away the impending headache. Something is seriously off with this family dynamic.

“He was supposed to meet us at the main entrance,” Cole says, huffing as she pulls uselessly on the front door. “But it’s locked.”

“So….” I throw up my hands. “Lecturing me about being late was all in vain?”

Cole clicks the heel of her boot against the concrete porch, and her lips press into a tight line. “Or he gave up on waiting.”

“Five minutes, Cole.” I cross my arms and try to mirror Cole’s f**k-off glare. “No one gives up after five minutes.”

We both peek through the windows on either side of the door. Inside, old wooden furniture lines the far wall, adjacent to a fireplace with various metal instruments hanging a couple of feet above the opening. The public portion of the building doesn’t seem to have changed much since the last time I visited.

“I don’t see anyone around,” I say, hoping that like me, Mr. Edwards had lost track of time, or just plain forgot.