No Tomorrow in Greyhaven

"Put the leather trunks right there. Yes, on the center of the mattress."

Claire’s voice echoed down the mahogany staircase of Ashford Manor.

It had only been thirteen days since my mother’s funeral.

I huddled in the shadows of the steps, a seven-year-old ghost in my own home.

A blizzard battered the windows of Greyhaven, Massachusetts, but the real storm raged inside these walls.

My new stepmother adjusted her grip on an eight-year-old girl’s hand. Vanessa. My half-sister.

"Careful with those dresses," Claire snapped at the maid. "Vivienne had expensive taste. They’re mine now."

"Yes, ma'am," the maid murmured.

Snipping sounds caught my attention.

Another servant stood by the fireplace, dragging heavy shears across a silver-framed photograph.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Following orders," she muttered, letting my mother's shredded face fall into the trash.

My mother, Vivienne, had jumped from the third-floor balcony less than two weeks ago. Now, she was just paper scraps.

"Leave it!" I lunged forward.

My fingers brushed against a heavy gold locket resting on the vanity.

It was a custom piece from Asia. My name, Evie, was engraved on the back.

"That's mine," I whispered, clutching the metal to my chest.

A massive hand clamped onto my shoulder.

"Drop it." My father, Richard, towered over me.

"Mommy gave this to me," I pleaded.

His palm struck my cheek with the force of a falling brick.

I hit the freezing marble floor. The locket skittered away.

"Everything in this house belongs to me now," Richard sneered, looming above me.

I didn't cry. A strange, hollow giggle escaped my lips instead.

"Look at her. Completely unhinged, just like her mother."

My grandmother stepped into the room, her pearls gleaming under the chandelier.

"She’s not crazy, Mother," Richard sighed. "Just stubborn."

"No, Richard. It’s her fault." The old woman crouched, her icy New England drawl piercing my ears.

"You know why Vivienne went mad, don't you, Evie?" she asked.

I stared at her, my jaw tight.

"You screamed every night as a baby," my grandmother whispered. "You broke her mind. You killed her."

The words buried themselves in my chest.

"Get her out of my sight," Claire demanded. "It's Vanessa's birthday. We have guests arriving."

Upstairs, the ballroom sparkled.

Champagne glasses clinked. A pianist played a lively tune for Vanessa’s eighth birthday.

I sat in the dark.

They had shoved me into a storage room off the kitchen.

A busted radiator leaked freezing water into the corner. The stench of camphor and mold choked the air.

I pulled a damp, rotting blanket over my shoulders.

My stomach cramped. A sharp, twisting pain.

I crept out of the cardboard boxes and pushed the kitchen door open.

"What are you doing out of your box?" the cook demanded, spotting me by the counter.

"I'm hungry," I said.

"Not my problem. The master said you get fed in the morning."

"Just a piece of bread," I begged.

A half-eaten slice of cake sat on a porcelain plate near the sink.

I reached out.

Fingernails dug into the back of my hand.

"Miss Vanessa hasn't finished with that," a maid hissed, yanking the plate away.

"She's upstairs. She doesn't want it," I argued.

"You don't get to decide what she wants. Back to your hole."

I retreated to the dark.

I vowed right then, shivering on the floor, that I would never celebrate a birthday.

Birthdays were just a reminder of the day my mother began to die.

Years didn't thaw the freeze in Greyhaven.

"Evie, wipe down table four!" my manager shouted over the diner's bell.

"On it," I called back.

I scrubbed the sticky formica, my blistered hands stinging under the harsh soap.

"Hey, kid, you missed a spot," a trucker grunted, pointing to a spilled coffee stain.

"Sorry, sir. Getting it now," I replied, scrubbing harder.

"You look half-dead. Don't you sleep?"

"Not much," I muttered.

I wore a faded public school uniform beneath my apron.

Just a few miles away, Vanessa strutted through the halls of an elite private academy in haute couture.

"Evie! Stop chatting and clean!" the manager yelled.

"I'm not chatting!" I shot back.

"Watch your tone, or I'll dock your pay. Shift's over. Get out of here."

He tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the counter.

I shoved the cash into my pocket and walked out into the biting winter night.

The wind howled, driving snow into my eyes.

I needed a place to warm up before the long trek back to Ashford Manor.

The high school hockey arena sat at the edge of town, its lights buzzing in the gloom.

I slipped through the side door.

The air inside was cold, but the wind couldn't reach me.

I climbed to the very last row of the bleachers and sank into the shadows.

Skates carved into the ice below.

A scrimmage was underway.

"Pass the puck, Hale! You're double-teamed!" a forward shouted, banging his stick on the ice.

I leaned forward.

Adrian Hale. The captain.

"Get out of my way," Adrian growled.

"You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Try me."

Adrian moved like a freight train, his massive shoulders dropping as he slammed into a defender.

The impact echoed through the empty arena.

Ice chips sprayed into the air.

The defender crumpled. Adrian kept going.

"Foul!" someone yelled from the bench.

"Play through it!" the coach barked.

Adrian flicked his wrist. The puck slammed into the top corner of the net.

"Lucky shot," the goalie muttered.

"Nothing lucky about it," Adrian fired back.

He ripped his helmet off.

Sweat plastered dark hair to his forehead.

A fresh cut split his bottom lip. His right eyebrow bloomed with a purple bruise.

His jawline looked like it was carved from granite. Thick veins snaked down his heavy, muscular neck.

The hockey jersey clung tightly to his massive chest, stretching across shoulders that seemed too broad for a high schooler.

Every movement he made radiated violence and raw power.

"You've been playing angry all week, Adrian," a teammate said, gliding to a stop near him.

"Mind your business, Miller," Adrian replied.

"Just saying. You're gonna break someone's neck."

"Better theirs than mine."

He wiped a drop of blood from his mouth with the back of his glove.

His massive biceps flexed under the fabric of his jersey.

Bruises painted his knuckles. He looked like a beast let off a chain.

"Take a breather, Hale," the coach ordered.

"I'm fine," Adrian snapped.

"You're bleeding on my ice. Sit down."

Adrian didn't sit. He stopped.

He tilted his head.

He turned away from his team and faced the dark, empty stands.

His gaze drifted upward.

Past the glass. Past the lower seats.

Straight to the back row.

Straight to me.

Our eyes locked across the distance.

He didn't blink. Neither did I.

"Hale! Coach wants us in the locker room!" someone yelled.

Adrian didn't move an inch.

He just kept staring at me, his chest heaving, the blood drying on his lip.

"Who are you looking at?" the goalie asked, following Adrian's gaze.

"Nobody," Adrian replied, his voice a low rumble.

But he didn't look away.

Instead, his skates shifted on the ice.

He stepped toward the rink door, his eyes still fixed on mine.

He was coming up to the bleachers.