Page 16 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
“We only met a few times. You knew my brother, though. He was about your age. I’m Ben.” He meets my gaze. “Ben Vandergriff. Austin’s older brother.”
Six
My breath seizes in my throat as I force out words. “I—I—I’m so sorry. I—”
“Here’s the deal, Samantha,” he interrupts, shades back on, his voice ice cold. “You do not get to mention my brother. You do not get to mention your father. You do not get to mention what happened here. Bring it up, and you will wish you hadn’t.”
“Whoa!” Gail lunges between us. “I understand what happened to your family—”
“Nope, I don’t think you do.”
Gail continues, “You’re right. We cannot imagine what you went through—”
“Don’t.”
“But you will not threaten Sam. For God’s sake, she reported her own father for what he did to—”
“Gail?” I cut in, fisting my hands to control my shaking. “Could you wait for me inside, please?”
Her eyes flash, mouth opening to argue.
“Please?” I meet her gaze. “I’d like to handle this.”
I watch as her jaw clenches and unclenches several times before she nods abruptly and goes inside the cottage.
I turn to Ben. “I will not mention any of those things while youare here. However,youwill not threaten me. If you do, I will speak to Ms. Jimenez. Whatever my grandfather intended for me to endure, it doesn’t include being alone on a remote property, threatened by the caretaker.”
“That wasn’t—” He snaps his mouth shut and gives his head a sharp shake. “Fine. I was out of line, but you get the gist of it. Just don’t talk to me aboutenduringanything. This is a rich-people game with a ten-million-dollar prize.”
“Which is the only way I get anything. Ten million or nothing, and my mother—”
“—is sick. Early-onset dementia. I’ve heard, and I’m sure she needs special care, but I’m not the person whose shoulder you want to cry on, Samantha.”
“I never said—”
“If youendureliving on the best damn land in the county for a month, you’re set for life. You know what I get? Three months’ severance.” He cuts me off when I open my mouth. “And don’t offer to pay me to let you live off-site. You aren’t the only one with family to look after. My father had an accident after my brother died.”
He sees my expression. “Oh? You didn’t know that? Yeah. Two days after the funeral. Drank until he could forget he just buried his thirteen-year-old son, got in the car, and hit a tree. He hasn’t been able to work since. But your grandfather—generous guy that he is—came to the rescue. He offered to help my parents and pay me full-time wages if I took over as caretaker for the property here. Sweet deal for a sixteen-year-old kid. But then it came time to go away to college and… Sorry, no, if I quit—or subcontracted the job—my parents would lose their payments, too. Still, I kept telling myself that surely when the old bastard died, he’d make provisions for us, and I could get the hell out of this town. Now he’s gone, and I have one last task: babysit the girl who’ll inherit this place, for which I’ll get three fucking months’ severance. Oh, but he will provide that pension for the rest of my father’s life. Unless I renege on the deal. Then my dad gets nothing.”
I stand there, processing all this, my mind reeling. My grandfathermadeBen Vandergriff look after the land where his brother died? Where his brother had been murdered by my father?
“That’s—that’s—” is all I can manage.
“Your family,” he says. “That is your family, Samantha. I don’t care if you promised me enough to pay that pension for my dad. I wouldn’t take it. I’ll earn that spiteful bastard’s money by making sure you fulfill his stipulations to the letter. And if you get cabin fever, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere?” He meets my gaze. “At leastyougot to leave fourteen years ago.”
There’s nothing more to say after that. Ben Vandergriff isn’t my secret route out of this, and I would never ask him to be, after what he’s gone through. I can only console myself with the knowledge that he has no stake in this otherwise. Whether I go through with it or not, he gets paid—and his father’s care is covered. He only loses out if he helps me cheat or refuses to see this through.
As for what he does here, the overgrown state of the place suggests he’s not a gardener. Apparently, his job is patrolling the property once a day and maintaining my parents’ cottage and the shed. If a tree falls across the driveway, we can call him to clear it away. If we see campers, we can call him to escort them off. Otherwise, he patrols on foot daily, and he will stay out of our way.
I do ask whether the pruning shears and chain saw are still in the shed, so I can clear the driveway. For that, I am told that I will, under no circumstances, be doing anything of the sort. Gail drove through just fine, and the only cutting tool around is the old hatchet, which I can use for chopping firewood. Apparently, Ben doesn’t want the daughter of a murderer having access to too many sharp implements.
Gail and I call Ms. Jimenez about the ankle monitor, and we get a lot of “Oh, didn’t I mention that?” but the upshot is that I need to put the thing on while Ben is watching, and it doesn’t come off for the next month. It will alert him when I leave the property and when I return and those two times better be less than an hour apart. So I strap on the monitor, supervised by Ben.
After Ben leaves, Gail and I argue. With every passing moment, my grandfather’s deal gets worse. Not only staying on the property, but in a cottage frozen at the moment my world shattered. Not anelderly caretaker we could pay to skip his patrols, but the older brother of my father’s victim, who has been victimized in his own way for the past fourteen years. Not being confined to the property by my easily faked phone GPS, but with an actual ankle monitor. Oh, and in case we considered redecorating the place, we can’t. According to Ben—with Ms. Jimenez confirming—I’m not allowed to even buy new bedsheets.
Gail wants to leave. She’s worked out how much money she’ll get and how much of that I’d need for Mom. She’s even calculated a sliding scale. She can give me enough to pay for Mom’s care fully for five years, which provides the breathing room needed to get back on my feet. Then she’ll subsidize Mom’s care until the end. She doesn’t point out that the life expectancy for early dementia maxes out at about twenty years after symptoms first appear. We know the statistics, and we never discuss them.
I understand what Gail is saying, and I am so grateful for the offer, but I refuse. Categorically refuse. The more torture my grandfather piles on, the more walking away feels like surrender.
