LuckNGlass: My parents house is out of control.

LuckNGlass: Sorry for your loss, btw.

Star2274: . . .

The cursor for the chat window on the hoarding message board blinks expectantly at me, awaiting my response. But I’m stumped.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

There are a thousand things running through my mind. I could go on and on to LuckNGlass about what I’d found at my mother’s house, the boxes upon boxes, the million articles of clothing still in their original shopping bags, tags intact, the sheer amount of junk as far as the eye could see. But I don’t have the words.

Finally, I sigh and type you don’t know the half of it into the chat window. And then, as an afterthought thanks before logging off and closing my laptop.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

This is worse. This is so, so much worse.

I’m so frustrated, I feel like any second now I’m going to start screaming and crying and throwing everything I can lay my hands on, smashing it against the wall. And if I start, I’m never going to stop.

How did this even happen? How the hell had it gotten this far? Why didn’t the lawyer warn me? Why didn’t he make certain I knew what I was getting into before he handed over the keys? I have half a mind to track the guy down and give him a piece of my mind. And a brick through his windshield. He’d mentioned my mother’s clutter problem, but he’d brushed it off like it was nothing.

This? This isn’t nothing. This is the biggest load of something I’ve ever seen. And he’d let me think I could do it on my own. What a load of crap.

Clutter, he’d said. When I pictured clutter—my mother’s own brand of clutter, even—I was picturing the house I’d left when I was nine, the one with the piles of junk that were a little too high, a little too tippy, the ones that could only be navigated by the paths that my mother had left between them. I remember my bedroom being so full with toys that there wasn’t any place to play, the kitchen that had too many dishes for my mother to cook in.

I’d thought I was prepared when the lawyer handed me the keys. I’d just nodded along when he spoke, all smiles and reassuring little “I’m sure you’ll do just fine”s as he ushered me out of his office like he had a train to catch.

Now I know why he was in such a hurry to get me out of there. Because now I’ve seen what’s happened to the house I spent my childhood in, and it’s nowhere close to what I remember.

It’s so much worse.

I shove another bite of bacon into my mouth and try to hold back a sigh. The keys to the house are still in my pocket, and they dig into my thigh with every movement I make. They’re the goddamn albatross around my neck, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve been sitting in this diner for the past hour. Mary-Lou’s Place. I think I remember it from when I was a kid, but if I’m right, it looked different back then. It was a lot more commercial back then. Almost like it had belonged to a chain of truck stops. Now it’s all ’50s revival, all gleaming chrome and teal vinyl. There’s a juke box in the corner, but instead of 45s it plays CDs. They gleam in the light when they shift around in the machine with every song change. It’s all so sickeningly charming. I can’t imagine my mother here.

I can’t even imagine myself here.

If there was anywhere I didn’t belong, this place was it. And it was obvious, apparently.

The waitress who’d taken my order had given me the dirtiest once-over I’ve ever had, her eyes lingering too long on my eye makeup and the tattoos on my arms. She’d huffed and rolled her eyes at me, and had gotten half of my order wrong when she’d finally brought it out.

I sigh and lean back in my seat, draining the last of my coffee from the bottom of my mug. The vinyl is sticking to the backs of my legs and it’s making me itch like crazy, but it’s not like I have anywhere better to go. It’s either the diner, the house from hell, or the freaky little B&B I checked into when I got into town. The town of Avenue isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. I chose that particular B&B because it was the only B&B in the city limits. If there was another one, I’d have moved already. The owner’s this little old lady who never blinks and seems to be a little too fond of her miniature poodle for my comfort. She had the thing up on the counter when she checked me in, and it yapped at me the whole time. It reminded me of one of my old foster moms’ Pomeranian, aka the devil.

If that poodle was the sign of things to come, then I’m pretty much doomed.

I raise my hand in the air and try to flag down my waitress, but she ignores me and moves across the room to top up the mug of an old man who’s sitting in a booth with a little boy. They’re playing Go Fish, their discarded cards littering the table between them. It’s adorable, but it’s no reason to ignore me.

Another waitress, a blonde about my age walks by me with a tray of plates in her arms, and I reach out to touch her arm before she gets too far. She jumps at my touch, but doesn’t lose her hold on the tray. It’s impressive.

“Sorry!” I say, drawing my hands back before I do any more damage. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just wondering if I could get a refill.” I waggle my empty mug in her direction. Her gaze darts between the mug and my face, and the tray in her arms wobbles a bit.

“Star?”

My heart stutters a bit at the sound of my name. How the hell does she know my name? My gaze darts around the diner. I feel like everyone’s looking at me. By now the news about my mother’s . . . condition must have made the rounds through town, not to mention her passing. Stupid small towns. I look back up at her, and she’s smiling down at me, expectantly. “Star Collins?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, baffled, “do I . . . ?”

“It’s me!” she says, and lays the tray down on a nearby table before sinking into the seat across from me. “Lacey Kendall.”

I blink at her stupidly for a second before the name finally clicks into place somewhere in the back of my memory.

Holy shit. I can actually see it now. Her face has slimmed out since childhood, all that baby fat melted away to reveal the woman underneath. The hair is the same, though, bright blonde just like mine is under all the black dye. I can’t believe it.

“Holy crap,” I say. It’s the only thing I can say. I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me when I decided to come back here. I spent the first nine years of my life in this tiny town. Of course someone would recognize me. Especially the girl I used to spend nearly every afternoon in the sandbox with.

“How are you?” she says, face breaking out into a smile. She leans her elbows on the table between us, somehow managing to carve herself out a little spot between my giant lunch platter and my abandoned laptop. I’d been trying to email my roommate earlier, to update her on what was happening, but I’m not sure that my email actually went through. Wi-Fi is apparently hard to come by in town, and while the sign in the diner’s window boasts its availability, its signal strength left something to be desired. I can only hope that I got through. Otherwise my stay here is going to be pretty lonely. As sweet as Lacey seems, all bright eyes and smiles, I’m not really interested in mingling with the locals. Especially if news of my mother’s problem hasn’t passed around town yet.

What they don’t know won’t hurt them.

Or, more importantly, me.

I don’t know how, but if it’s possible, I’m going to keep the house and the hoard under the radar. Just the thought of what the house is hiding has me getting all worked up again. I don’t need any other distractions. I just need to get it cleaned out.