Twisted (Editing)

Chapter 1 (Edited)

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Let me tell you about Evansville⁠⁠—it's a beautiful, quiet town where everyone knows everyone. That's what an online forum told me. It's a scenic, secretive place where visitors go to stay. That's what my parents told me. And it was an expanse of trees and green grass and gray stone houses covered in ivy. One of those houses was to be ours. The car stopped and my Dad rolled to a stop in front of a light green house. The grass was trimmed short and there were white flowers in planters beside the step. The house had two stories, and a bay window curved outside of the wall. Whatever room that was, it was about to be mine.

"Imani, come help me unpack the car." Mom stood with her hands resting on her sides. Her t-shirt stuck to her chest with sweat. The afternoon was hot, the sun bright and dazzling between the branches of the trees. "Thank God the moving truck got in before us. Hopefully, that means I can clean the shower and hop in right now."

I went over to her, shrugging off my sweatshirt as I walked. The air became smoother with my bare arms free. I picked up boxes from the car, brought them into the house, and returned. The motion was familiar: we'd moved ten times in seventeen years. But Mom and Dad promised that this would be the last. This down⁠⁠—in the middle of nowhere⁠⁠—was to be my forever home. I"m not sure if that made me happy or bitter to the bone.

"I'm taking the room with bay windows," I said.

Dad came into the house. "Only if it's not the masters'."

"I don't think it is."

"Then it's your prerogative."

I gave him an easy smile and jetted up the stairs. I entered my room. It could use some love. It was dusty and the walls dingy, but a bright coat of paint, a cushion for the window seat, and a few plants on the bookshelf would make the place real nice. Dad would have to help me move and assemble the bed frame, but I could start by dusting out the closet and putting my clothing away. But where had we packed the dustpan?

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

"Imani," Dad yelled. "Can you get this?"

"Yes, sir." I passed him struggling up the stairs with boxes on my way down. I swung open the door. A tall woman stood in front of me. She was tall, model-tall. I was (still am) about 5'8. She had two, maybe three inches on me. To top that off, she had heels on so she stared straight down at me.

"Hello," she said. Her eyes were ice-white. She was, in practice, very pretty, but that pale blue shade could paralyze anybody in their place. I fought the urge to inch away. "You must be the new family in town. I heard you all were going to be moving in sometime this week."

Who did you hear that from? I wanted to ask. But I didn't. I smiled instead because she flashed a bright white smile at me and she had a leather person that had to be Italian or French or some other kind of expensive. She must do something important, important enough that she should be flattered.

"You would be right," I said.

The woman nodded, before stepping to the side, revealing a boy taller than her. "My son and I came with dinner. I know it's hard to get settled after the first day, and this is a day of rest around here, so most everything is closed."

My mind spun with a dozen different theories. Were they Mormons? Fundamentalists? Second-amendment cultist. (All right, I didn't actually think of the last one, but I should've. Stranger things could've happened). Anyway, the boy looked about 6'4, 6'5, and definitely unhappy to be there. He held out two plastic bags. I took both from his hands and lifted my eyebrows at their heft.

"My husband is the mayor here," the woman said. "And this is a tight-knit community, so I like to meet new residents as soon as they come. Here"—she handed me a business card—"this is my number. You and your family should come have dinner with us. We'd love to hear your story."

"That's very kind of you, thank you." And completely pushy too. I looked from her to the boy again. I can't lie: he looked good, with a strong jaw, dark hair, and eyes that were a much darker shade than his mother's. But he had a shower face that ruined the entire picture.

"So how long has your husband been the mayor?"

"Some years now," she said. And if she noticed that I was still waiting for a real answer, then she didn't show it. "We've been in Evansville a long time," she added. "His family actually founded the place."

"Oh, that's amazing." And it was also my cue to avoid these people. There was just something that I felt about people who had money in their families for a long time. I had no reason to feel that way, I just did. Maybe I"d been watching too many t.v dramas. "Well, thank you for coming over," I said. "I have to get back to my Mom. I'll tell her you stopped by."

"Of course, anytime." I waved to them and waited until they were down the street to shut and lock the door. Mom, of course, wasn't busy. She was watching from the couch., unwilling to be bothered by a supermodel mom and her preppy, lacrosse-looking son.

"Who were they?" Mom asked.

"The mayor's wife and child."

"They're tall as giants. What did they feed that boy?" She peered into the bag in my hands. "This maybe? What is this?"

"A casserole."

"Oh." Her face turned upwards. "God, I pray they didn't do anything funky to it. Like raisins."

"Look at them," I said. "They don't do any of their own cooking."

"That doesn't mean they wouldn't pay the cook to put raisins in it. Let's order a pizza."

"The woman said everything would be closed."

"Did she? Then we'll pull some grass and make a salad before we eat this. You don't know what strangers make in their homes."

She went off to find Dad, probably to talk about the dinner plans, and I sank into the couch. The windchime we'd just stuck up on the door clinked with the breeze. I turned the card over in my hand. Julia Evans and her husband Otto Evans. And a third name on there too. I think it was the boy's. Jonah Evans. I flicked the card away, probably to be buried and trampled and forgotten about in due time.