Ghost in the house
Allison Kingsley is a ghost in her own home.
She’s 18 years old. A freshman at Bridgeton Community College, taking night classes to knock out credits faster.
In the evenings, she tutors at Bridgeton High for extra money. It’s not about the money.
It’s about staying out of the house for as long as possible.
The house on Ash Lane is small. The paint is peeling.
The grass in the front yard is too tall because her stepfather Derek never cuts it.
She lives there with her mom, Marla Wright-Kingsley, and Derek.
Her dad, Richard Wright, died when she was 13. Car accident on the highway during a rainstorm. After the funeral, her mom fell apart.
The wine bottles started first. Then the cigarettes. Then the silence.
Six months later, Derek moved in. He said all the right things at the time.
“I’ll take care of you girls. You won’t have to worry about anything.”
He lied.
When Allison was 14, Derek cornered her in the laundry room. His hands were on her. His breath was hot and sour. She screamed. She fought. She ran to her mom crying.
Marla was drunk.
She looked at Allison, then at Derek, then back at Allison.
And she slapped her. Hard.
“Stop lying,” Marla hissed. “You want to ruin us. You want to take this away from us.”
Allison never told anyone again.
After that, she learned how to disappear.
She eats in her room with the door locked.
She leaves for school before Derek wakes up.
She comes home after he’s passed out on the couch with the TV blaring.
Unless they need her to cook or clean, it’s like she doesn’t exist.
School is the only place she can breathe.
And she has Crystal Palmer.
Crystal is everything Allison isn’t.
Bright. Loud. Bubbly. She has long dark hair that falls past her back and a sense of humor that could make a statue laugh.
She wears too much lip gloss and talks with her hands and somehow makes every bad day feel smaller.
They’ve been best friends since middle school.
They met in 8th grade.
A group of rich girls had Allison pinned against the lockers. They were calling her “charity case” because her uniform was from the thrift store.
One of them had her arm twisted behind her back.
Then Crystal stepped in.
Hands on her hips. Chin up.
“Touch her again and you’re dealing with me. And I bite.”
The girls backed off.
Crystal helped Allison up, brushed off her skirt, and said, “I’m Crystal. You look like you need a friend who doesn’t take crap.”
They haven’t been apart since.
Now Crystal is studying nursing at the same community college.
She’s the reason Allison makes it to class on the days when getting out of bed feels impossible.
Allison’s plan is simple.
Finish her credits.
Transfer to Kingston University.
Get a degree in applied math.
Get a job.
Get out of Bayford.
Never look back.
The only problem is the new class she has to take for her math requirement.
Calculus II.
It’s held at Bridgeton High at night.
With a new professor who just moved to town.
She doesn’t know his name yet.
She doesn’t know he lives three streets away from her on Ash Lane.
She doesn’t know he can hear her heartbeat from across a room.
Three streets away, Rowan Knight is standing at his kitchen window.
He’s 32.
Alpha of what’s left of the Northern Bayford Pack.
Two years ago, his enemies attacked. They killed his sister, Margaret Bane. They killed her little boy. They killed half his pack.
Margaret was the only family he had left.
Since that night, he’s been drowning.
He took the teaching job to get away from the blood. To pretend he was normal.
To pretend he didn’t feel the weight of every wolf he couldn’t save.
He’s not looking for a mate.
Mates are for people who still have hope.
He downs the last of his black coffee, grabs his bag, and heads out the door.
Destination: Bridgeton High. Room 204.
He has no idea that lavender and honey is about to walk into his classroom.
And undo him completely.
