Sudden Secrets

By C. Lee McKenzie

One Secret

Cleo has struggled to heal after her baby sister’s death, but the flashbacks to the accident won’t go away. With the move, she vows to keep her tragedy a secret and avoid pitying looks.

One Mystery

Something’s strange about the abandoned house across the street—flashes of light late at night and small flickers of movement that only someone looking for them would see.

Everyone says the house is deserted, but Cleo is sure it isn’t, and she’s sure whoever is inside is watching her.

Another Secret

In one night, Belleza’s life changes forever. So famous, her only choice is to hide her secret from the world so she can silence small town bigotry.

Then Cleo happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Dec 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781772331677

C. Lee McKenzie

C. Lee McKenzie's background is linguistics with a specialty in intercultural communication. She's now a novelist who writes young adult and middle grade books. ALLIGATORS OVERHEAD, her first middle grade novel, received a sterling Kirkus review. https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/c-lee-mckenzie/alligators-overhead/. Alligators Overhead is Book 1 in the Adventures of Pete and Weasel. The Great Time Lock Disaster is Book 2, and Book 3 is Some Very Messy Medieval Magic. Take a look at the Video on Youtube [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h59dYGrVQvs] It's all about fun and magic. Her Young Adult books include Sliding on the Edge (2009, Westside Books) and The Princess of Las Pulgas (2010, Westside Books). Double Negative (chosen the top ten YA in Ezid Wiki), Sudden Secrets, Not Guilty, and Shattered (Indie Book Award winner) are her most recent young adult books, published by Evernight Teen. The eBook anthology called Beware The White Rabbit (2015) includes her story called They Call Me Alice. Two & Twenty Dark Tales (2012) includes her short story, Into The Sea of Dew. Premeditated Cat is her contribution to The First Time (2011). She has dabbled in a bit of horror with Heartless in the anthology A Stitch in Crime. Specialties Intercultural communication in the classroom and on the job. Editing and writing.

Book preview

Chapter One

When the car pulled to a stop at the curb, I gasped. No! It came out way louder than I’d planned, but it caught my mom’s attention.

She spun around in the passenger seat and glared at me. Cleo. What’s wrong with you?

I pointed at the house we’d parked in front of. Most of the windows were cracked or boarded with plywood. Weeds filled the yard. It looked as if it might not survive one more windy day.

You can’t be serious.

I’m only looking, she said.

But our driver, the ever-cheerful and fragrant realtor, grinned. I guessed that grin had everything to do with how Mom clasped her hands and gazed up at the shaky Victorian relic. I couldn’t read minds, but I knew Mrs. Kester’s was printing out: Sold.

I love Queensbury Circle, the realtor said. Cul-de-sacs are always so quiet. Exactly what you said you wanted, Mrs. Brown. She slid from behind the wheel and beckoned us to follow. Wait until you see the spacious bedrooms.

Mom stepped out of the car and gazed around her. Her lips curved into a trace of a smile. It was the first one I’d seen on her face in almost two years, but the cause of this smile worried me.

I sent out a silent plea: Don’t say you want to go inside, Mom. Please. Please don’t. Uh, Mom. Maybe we should—

What did you say, Cleo? She didn’t look at me, and her voice had a dreaminess to it.

Before I could break her trance, she pressed her lips tight, and said, You’re right, Mrs. Kester. This is exactly the location I’ve been looking for.

I closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them I’d see something different, that this was only another nightmare to wake up from. But when I looked again, I still faced the same disaster of a house, and my mom was still admiring it.

Why? And then I remembered pictures of her granny’s house, the one she’d spent so many Thanksgivings at, the one trimmed in wooden lace and with the high-pitched second-story roof. This could be that house. It could be if it weren’t about to crumble.

Mrs. Kester stepped onto the porch, and with one of her heels punched a hole through rotted wood. Oh! She screeched, and recovered her balance by grabbing the railing. Careful, Mrs. Brown. There’s a bit of dry rot here at the front door.

Only a bit? Only by the front door? I didn’t give my opinion out loud, but my mind screamed it. This realtor was insane if she thought she could take advantage of us like this. Mom was desperate to move. I was desperate to move, too, but not here. All I saw was a spooky, dangerous place.

Mom skirted the hole, careful to step lightly, as Mrs. Kester extracted her heel and tried to press it into place on the bottom of her shoe.

Mrs. Kester hobbled to the door. We only acquired the property this week. No one’s put a lock box on it yet.

No one should bother.

From her purse she pulled a metal ring, with three skeleton keys dangling from it. We’re the first people to see inside since the occupants, she gave us a weak smile, . . .moved on.

Moved on? As in they’re dead? I couldn’t stop the shudder, but I hoped this news would wake Mom up and send her back to the car. It didn’t. She waited at the door as it creaked open, just as it would in a horror movie.

Mrs. Kester glared at me. Then she said to Mom, Usually, we’d never show a property in this condition, but from how you described what you were looking for . . . well, I thought, why not?

Mom was on the hunt for a place that brought back good memories from a time she was happy. She wanted somewhere that didn’t have the baby-girl scent of Aziza, that didn’t have her sealed bedroom door at the end of the hall. I couldn’t stop the groan at the memory.

Mrs. Kester flashed me a look of impatience, but Mom was already inside the house, so she didn’t hear me. The realtor limped behind with the broken shoe, leaving me with two choices: stay where I was and give up, or follow, and make Mom see this was not a good decision.

Sticking my head inside, I sniffed the stale air. A thick-armed couch sat shoved against one wall, its three cushions still scooped into the shape of the dead owners’ butts. The fireplace didn’t have a brewing kettle hanging over the ash-clogged grate, but the hook was there and the gargoyle andirons eyed me like devil cats with pointy tails. In the next room was an oval dining table with legs carved into the shape of what looked like dragons.

This was worse than I’d imagined.

Mrs. Kester removed her one good shoe, then pulled aside a window curtain. The late May sun filtered through the dust particles and onto the worn floral carpet.

There’s a lovely southern exposure in this room, she said to Mom, avoiding my eyes. And you say your father-in-law lives with you? That front porch will be perfect for him.

Something small and furry scurried along the floor and around the corner, then ducked into the next room.

Varmint. Grandpa Zack’s word leapt to mind.

My grandpa wasn’t going to like this place. He was opposed to varmints, which he classified as anything with fur and four legs. That included Tut, our Great Dane, and especially Nefertiti, my cat. Since Grandpa had moved into the guest bedroom with his pet boa, he wrapped that sneaky Clyde around his shoulders and strolled through the house so Nef would scramble out the cat door. Clyde was the only thing she feared.

Mom. This place is filled with mice. That should have snapped her out of her trance, but she ignored me and pushed open the swinging door at the end of the room, leaving Mrs. Kester and me behind. The realtor eyed the floor and drew herself up ready to sprint for the door. It was clear she didn’t like varmints, either.

The two of us had one of those awkward silences that I filled by staring up at the ceiling, a ceiling with serious cracks. I was concentrating on finding a way to get Mom out of there when Mrs. Kester asked me, Will your father be coming to see the property?

I didn’t know what to say, so I answered her with a shrug, and I could tell she thought I was just another rude teenager. I wished that was true. I wanted to be in the just another group again, instead of an outcast in the Brown clan or the girl from Buena Vista High that everyone pitied.

The stuffy silence between us drove her to follow Mom through the door with more sales pressure. You’ll only be two miles from the museum, and the commute. . .

I didn’t hear the rest, because the door swung shut behind her. I was sure she’d go on about Morgan Heights and how quaint it was compared to Buena Vista, where malls and parking garages ruled. She’d started that monologue in the realty office and continued as we climbed into her Mercedes. Like a tour guide, she’d driven us down the one main street, taking her time to point out the perfect mix of boutiques and art galleries, and the town square with the fountain and clock tower.

Midwest atmosphere without the humidity, she’d said.

I’d translated what she said about Morgan Heights into one word: boring. But then I had to admit, living in a different place, even a small town, might not be bad. It definitely wouldn’t be filled with Buena Vista life-pausing memories. It would have a new pulse, a pulse of its own, maybe even a steady one. I glanced around me. But in this house?

Alone in the living room, I had the queasy feeling that everything in it waited to pounce. With three quick steps, I made it to the swinging door and shoved my way into the kitchen.

I peered out the grimed-up windows at the backyard. Like the front, it was waist-high in dead grass. A toilet, minus the seat, nested between thistles like an abandoned piece of yard art. A stack of old magazines melted into the earth next to it.

Someone's warped sense of humor? If so, it’s not making me laugh. It’s only making me think this move is another awful thing on the ‘all my fault’ list.

I pressed my fingers against my eyes and willed them to stop stinging.

Mom and Mrs. Kester stood at the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room as the realtor talked on and on. I’d say, from the furnishings, that the last time anyone took interest in the place was in the thirties . . . But I know there were occupants here until sometime in the sixties. Two women, I’ve heard. And there are four lovely sized bedrooms upstairs. How many children do you have?

Mrs. Kester didn’t see the jolt of electricity that shot through my mom, but I did. I saw the pain that streaked across her face and the way her eyes dimmed. She blinked as if she could erase the image I knew she was seeing at that moment.

Naturally, we’ll take this as-is. Mom skipped any logical connection between what Mrs. Kester asked and her answer before she pushed back through the swinging door and hurried toward the living room.

As-is, I repeated, the dread in my voice as thick as the air around me.

Their conversation grew fainter along with their footsteps as they climbed the stairs. I sighed and followed them, hoping this place might get better if I went higher.

At the top, I almost leapt out of my shoes before I realized I was staring at my reflection in a towering gilt-framed mirror. The gold paint had almost flaked off, and since most of the silver backing was gone, I looked like I’d developed a horrible skin-eating disease. I hurried past.

At the first room, I nudged open the door with my foot and peered inside. The bed, dusty with time, was neatly made and a nightgown trimmed with delicate lace lay folded into a tidy square at the foot. Once, that gown and its lace had been white, but time had made it shroud gray. An icy shiver crept across my skin, and I pulled my sweater tight at the neck. Atop the bureau, a hairbrush and comb lined up next to each other. Alongside these was a round silver compact. I read the engraved initials: C. F.

Living with an archeologist and a museum curator, I was used to hearing how you could decipher stories about people from the objects they left behind. My mom and dad never tired of artifacts. In this house, we’d be surrounded with tons of them.

From the way the items were set out, the woman who’d slept in this room had been a neat freak. In her last moments here, she’d expected to return at night, put on the nightgown, brush her hair and climb between those smooth sheets. So what had happened?

With one finger, I lightly traced the C.F. on the compact. The questions Mom or Dad might ask popped into my head: Who were you? What’s your story?

Cleo?

I swiped the dust on my jeans as Mom poked her head inside the room and walked to me. So, what do you think? 

Sorry, Mom, but this place? It’s . . . creepy.

Some repair, cleaning, and new paint will make it perfect. I love the Victorian style, and it gives us the room we need. Did you see the detached garage?

I didn’t see it.

A perfect place for Clyde’s cage. Doesn’t that make you feel better? Grandpa can keep him out of the house.

She looked around the room. So how does this bedroom suit you?

When I didn’t answer, she put her hands on my shoulders and stared at me. Cleo. Help me out here.

The pleading in her eyes surprised me. I was used to the dullness she surveyed me and everything else with. Seeing her look out at the world instead of inside at her pain, pulled up that optimism I’d felt on our drive here. It might be a sign of her healing process, just as the counselor said each of us would experience.

I couldn’t hold out against those eyes. It’s fine.

She squeezed my arm. Thank you.

As that was such a major breakthrough, I risked some Brown family humor.

You’d better get an exterminator in here before the decorator arrives. There are varmints everywhere.

She made a little clicking sound with her tongue. You and your grandfather. She hadn’t blown me off. She’d come back with something almost fun. Come on. She pulled me down the stairs, where Mrs. Kester was clicking off her cell phone.

The bank is interested in your offer, Mrs. Brown. I think we may have a quick deal here.

Since nobody else was there to talk her out of this very bad buy, and since we seemed to be talking to each other, I had to try changing her mind one last time. Mom, this is not a good idea.

She patted me on the arm. It’s going to be perfect. You’ll see.

Don’t I get a vote? I used to. I took a big risk by bringing up what used to be, but I was desperate.

Cleo. . .. She rolled her head slightly from side to side, her way to release tension, and followed Mrs. Kester out onto the shaky porch.

I guess that’s a no, I said to her back. She didn’t turn to look at me. Fine. I threw up my hands and followed Mom outside. Remember the family meetings when you’d ask if I wanted to help you out at the museum? Or, how about when you’d give me a choice. Like, did I want Baklava or the semolina cake for dessert? Well, this . . . I pointed back at the house. This is way more import—

Cleo, that’s enough. She leveled her museum curator look at me, the one she used when she was being the boss. It was her way of telling me to remember who was in charge.

While Mom and Mrs. Kester did a quick inspection of the weed-choked driveway, I surveyed the neighborhood. There were only four houses on the short, dead-end street. Between their fenced yards and where we stood there were two empty lots, with trees and overgrown paths to houses no longer there.

The house across from us was another Victorian style with gingerbread trim and tall windows. Ivy wound its gnarly fingers around the walls, slowly crushing the place to dust.

Is that for sale? I pointed at the house, looking at Mrs. Kester.

It looks like that’s been vacant for a while, too, Mom said.

No one seems to know much about the place. It’s owned by someone who I believe lives out of state. It’s on my list of houses to research. Maybe I’ll be able to put it on the market before too long. If I do, I’m sure someone will snatch it up and rebuild. It’s a great lot. That should boost your property values very nicely. She opened her car door and slipped behind the wheel.

Mom sat in the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt as I climbed into the back. I dreaded the ride to the real estate office where we’d left my cranky Honda and where Mom was going to sign a paper with the offer on one of the creepiest houses still standing. I wanted to say more to her, to tell her we should find another Victorian in better shape, but doing that was too big a risk. We’d talked. We’d shared the morning. I didn’t want to risk cutting myself off from her again.

As we pulled away, I glanced out. A shadow flickered across the upstairs window of the vacant house. It was only a split second, but somebody moved inside that place. I was sure of it.

Chapter Two

We moved into our new home that September. Grandpa put Clyde’s cage in his bedroom, the one next to mine––so much for Mom’s detached garage idea. Nefertiti took over the garage and refused to come nearer than the back steps unless I carried her to my room. Tut hadn’t turned out to be our brightest dog, so he ignored Clyde, even when Grandpa’s snake was due for a feeding, and its slitted eyes sized everything up like a main course. Mom said we must be grateful that Clyde was an island boa and small––otherwise, we’d be living with a hundred pounds of snake instead of twenty. Still, Clyde might grow. He was young.

I sighed when I heard things like that, but I sighed a lot anyway. Sighing was one way to release sad ghosts.

I gave Mom credit. She threw a lot of energy into the house project. She hired a construction crew, an exterminator, a cleaning service, a professional painter and a decorator who worked out a balance of restoration and modernization. We had heat and cooling fans, but no air conditioner. We had good period lighting––that’s what the decorator called the bronze chandeliers and wall-mounted brass fixtures. We kept the skeleton key lock, but added a deadbolt above it. Mrs. Kester beamed when she presented Mom a fancifully wrapped housewarming present of the original keys. Mom hung them by the front door, from a decorative hook with a cobweb of scrolls.

By the time I hauled my suitcase up those stairs to my room, the old Victorian had been changed into a place I could learn to like.

I was glad my window looked onto the street and faced south, so I didn’t get morning light, but lots of afternoon sun. Still, I wasn’t crazy about it looking directly into the house across from us. Every time I glanced outside, I remembered back to a few months ago when we first came here, and I was sure I saw movement inside that second-story window. Thinking about that sent goosebumps trickling down my arms, but all I saw now was an empty derelict, sagging into the ground.

The first morning in my new room I stayed in bed, thinking that by the following week I’d be getting up early

Reviews for Sudden Secrets

[skgregory · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Cleo lives with her rather eccentric family, her mother and grandfather, after the death of her little sister. Her father has left the country to escape his pain and when her mother moves her to a new house, she feels more alone than ever before. When she sees movement in the house opposite, the mystery draws her in. Along the way she makes new friends and attempts to put her family back together. Well written, with a great main character, this book kept me hooked. I would definitely recommend it.

[beverlyjean-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Sometimes a tragedy occurs in a person’s life, a tragedy so heartbreaking they want to keep it a secret. They try to run away from it, perhaps by moving to a new town, hoping to start over again. But the secret haunts them, and they can’t forget. They shouldn’t forget, for it’s a part of their lives, forever.SUDDEN SECRETS, Author C. Lee McKenzie’s latest novel for YA readers, is a story the reader won’t forget for a while, at least this reader won’t forget. It’s the tender story of a family falling apart. High school junior Cleopatra Brown, her mother and grandfather, along with Tut, a Great Dane, Nefertiti, a cat, and Clyde, Grandpa’s pet boa, move into a dilapidated old house in a new town. They hope to put the past behind them. Cleo’s father is in Afghanistan “saving pieces of history” rather than being with his family that needs him, especially Cleo. Cleo is supposed to go to a new school and live, like everything is normal. But her life isn’t normal. It never will be again because of the secret she carries with her. Even handsome hunk Ethan, funny Rudy and gorgeous Stacy, her new friends, cannot help Cleo forgive herself. My favorite character is Rudy, with his mostly positive attitude that brightens the darker scenes. Then there’s the house across the street that appears to be empty, except for the occasional light Cleo sees through the window and the van that arrived every Saturday morning.C. Lee McKenzie has woven a tale of mystery and suspense in SUDDEN SECRETS. The effect of the tragedy on the family is believable, and I was hoping they’d resolve their problems and be a family again. Then the author threw in an unexpected surprise, at least to me. And I’m not saying what. Looking back I can see the subtle hints Ms. McKenzie planted along the way. Very nice.SUDDEN SECRETS may bring tears to your eyes. It did mine. I felt the pain of the family, especially Cleo, as they struggled to survive the past. An enjoyable read that I highly recommend. ###

[fictionzeal · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

How to you deal with painful memories? This family ran away. They relocated from Buena Vista to Morgan Heights. Cleo’s mom selected an old (as in ‘needs a lot of work’) Victorian that reminded her of her mom’s house where she had many fond memories. Cleo just saw the ‘work’ part. Cleo’s dad, Derek, was on an extended work opportunity in Afghanistan. She had no idea when he’d return home but she missed him and felt they all needed him now. So, Cleo, her mom, Grandpa Zack, and three pets move into their new (old) home. Aziza is missing. She was Cleo’s little sister who died in a horrific accident. She’s the reason … the memories they hoped to escape.Cleo is a junior high student and is actually looking forward to the fresh start in school, a new place where people won’t look at her and judge her. The first night, she realizes the ‘vacant’ house across the street doesn’t appear to actually be ‘vacant’ after all. She meets and befriends Ethan Gallagher, the junior class president, Stacy , Ethan’s girlfriend, and Rudy Krantz, his best friend. Ethan takes an obsessive interest in the house across the street. Rudy takes an obsessive interest in Cleo.I liked Cleo, and felt her pain for the loss of her sister. I fell in love with Rudy who went out of his way to prove to Cleo that he really was interested in her. Grandpa Zach was an odd character who loved Clyde, his pet boa constrictor. He didn’t have a lot to say, but when he did, it made me giggle. I liked that the stereotypical picture of Stacy was broken. Cleo had assumed she was a high maintenance prima donna, but she discovered they actually had a lot in common. Finally, I really liked the mystery surrounding the house across the street. My only concern is the ending. There was an epilogue, but even still I found it to be rather abrupt. This is for teen and young adult readers. I tend to agree — there was no inappropriate content. Rating: 4 / 5.