Page 4 of Bewitched By the Djinn
“Hey, Cassie,” Mimi calls as I pass the open doorway of the kitchen.
Dammit.
I shift my purchases behind my back. “Hey, Mimi.”
“What’s in the bag?” Her focus remains on the food, not even glancing at me.
Mimi is like a steel cable. She looks like she’d snap in half with a strong breeze, but she’s tough as old leather—weathered, unyielding, impossible to wear down.
“Nothing important.”
“Lie.” She points her wooden spoon in my direction like a tiny wizard casting a truth spell.
That spoon has seen some things. We’ve had it since Uncle Jeb died—possibly longer. It’s cracked, stained, and looks like it should be in a museum next to the Rosetta stone, but Mimi swears it makes everything taste better and won’t listen to my concerns about things like bacteria. She refuses to part with anything that still works, which includes the battered Dutch oven simmering on the stove, her ancient floral slippers, and the bright blue silk robe wrapped around her that she bought in 1967.
Normally I wouldn’t even attempt to lie to Mimi, but I’m not ready to share until I figure out more about what is going on. Not because I have an unhealthy obsession with it. Nope. Not at all.
She’ll just worry unnecessarily. I’m sure it’s no biggie anyway, a lamp that calls to me, strange malignant shadows, me losing my mind. Nothing to see here.
“I’ll show you later.”
“Another lie?” Her piercing gaze finally strikes me. “Now I’m curious. What do you have in there?”
Ugh. I should have thought of a good cover story before coming home so I wouldn’t set off the lie-dar. Something true-ish. It’s impossible to get away with anything when she’s around.
I stride toward the stairs. “We’ll talk later,” I yell over a shoulder. Retreat is always the best option in these situations.
“You can’t run from me.” Her words drift up the stairs.
“But I sure can try,” I murmur.
Thank the stars she doesn’t have super hearing.
I peek in on Jackie, napping in the armchair tucked into the corner of her room, a book splayed open on her lap. The floor is its usual war zone of discarded clothes, fuzzy socks, and a rainbow of tangled hair ties. Her desk is drowning in papers and empty tea mugs, beneath them an ancient, wheezing computer blinking like it’s holding on by sheer willpower.
Online school was the only option this year. She’s missed too many days to keep up in person.
At least she’s resting.
I linger in the doorway a few extra seconds to make sure her chest is rising and falling, then pad down the hall.
The sound of running water echoes from the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that connects Jackie’s room to Kevin’s. I knock lightly.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I call.
“Okay!” he yells back over the spray.
I continue deeper into the house, climbing the second staircase—the one that creaks less—up to the third floor, to my room and the office.
The house is too big for only the four of us. It made sense when Mom and Dad were here, when there were enough hands to keep things running. But they’ve been gone over three years, and now...
The ceilings are tall, the windows drafty, and every room is painted in some vibrant color or wallpapered with patterns older than Methuselah. It’s beautiful in that eccentric, lived-in way, like a house that’s seen too many Mardi Gras parades and refuses to tone it down.
No mortgage to pay, thank the heavens, only taxes, utilities, and an endless list of repairs sucking the life out of me one busted pipe at a time. I could sell. But that would mean declaring them legally dead. And even if it’s true, I’m not ready to let go of that last thread.
I push open the heavy door to my office and it thumps into something solid.
I squeeze through the doorway, sidestepping Kevin’s chaos. His sports bag is behind the door, his mitt and ball have taken over the recliner, his backpack has exploded across the chaise, and his bat is leaning against my desk.
