All My Darkest Impulses (House of Crows) by Lisa Unger (books for men to read .txt) 📕

Someone had a sense of humor, didn’t he, when he came up with that particular collective noun? The great black birds with glass beads for eyes and that teasing, derisive cawcaw—goddamn it, they were absolutely everywhere.

Right now, three were perched along the fence, staring. They were clearly nesting in one of the cupolas, and in the barn that had been transformed into a multicar garage for his grandfather’s collection of antique vehicles—which had sat idle and untended for so long that it was essentially a junkyard in there. Not a single engine would turn over. Another giant problem with no easy solution.

“Those birds,” he said.

Samantha was clearing the old plants from the beds in front of the house and along the walkway. She’d started the job the day after they’d arrived. “I like them,” she said, standing upright to draw an arm across her brow. “They’re mysterious.”

“They’re disgusting.”

That wasn’t the word he was looking for, exactly. Unsettling. They were like a portent, or an accusation, or a reminder that nothing about this situation was ideal. “No one likes crows. All we need is to be showing the house and have someone think they’ve stumbled into a reboot of The Birds.”

“We’re a long way from showing the house,” Samantha said, somewhat defensively.

Which he didn’t love. She didn’t seem quite as eager to sell as he was. Maybe it was because they had no idea where they were going to go next.

She’d managed to weed and clear all the flower beds along the front of the house, down the path to the drive. It was a huge job, and there were great piles of dead shrubs, weeds, desiccated plants off to the side. It seemed impossible that she could have accomplished so much by herself, and before he even woke up. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, so she’d been out here in the dark. But that was her way—throw herself into whatever she was doing, don’t stop until it’s done right. Even when she’d been sick, he couldn’t get her to slow down. I feel like if I slow down, I’ll die, she’d told him.

She stretched now, peeled off her gardening gloves.

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” she said.

“No.”

That was the goddamn understatement of the year. He’d barely slept at all since they’d arrived at Merle House, over a week ago now. In the mirror this morning he’d noticed that the circles under his eyes were so purple and dark that they looked like shiners. Like he’d been in a fight. The house was kicking his ass. Daily.

“Well,” he said, forcing brightness. “The Realtor’s coming today. Just to look around. Get a sense of the place.”

He didn’t want to tell her that this was the only Realtor who had even returned his phone call.

A frown. “What time?”

He looked at his watch and then up to the sky, which threatened rain. “Ten.”

She nodded, kept her eyes on him. “I heard your phone ring last night.”

“Did you?”

“Late,” she said. “It woke me. I thought you answered it.”

“No,” he lied. “I didn’t hear it.”

“Maybe you should check and see who called. What if it’s important?”

“I’ll check.”

She kept her eyes on him, even though he averted his, pretended to be very interested in the crows again. He felt the heat of her gaze. There were a lot of things she hadn’t said, things any other woman would have. She’d been too sick, too weak, to rail as she should have at the time. But she was getting stronger. And lately he was seeing a new expression in her eyes.

His late-night conversation still rang in his head.

Do you still think about me? Matt, do you?

Sylvia, please. Don’t call me again.

Sylvia. He’d never touched her, not the way she claimed. He’d never laid a finger on her opal skin in desire.

Practically every other professor he knew had had some kind of fling with a young student. College girls, they were of age, many of them eager to please, some of them with a thing for older men in positions of authority. Opportunities were rife. It wasn’t just professional ethics that had kept him in line his whole career. Matthew only ever had eyes for Samantha; she was his sun and moon since the day they’d met. Until there was Sylvia, who appeared midsemester in his comparative literature class, found a seat in the front row.

What was it about her? The flame of her hair, her elegant, slender body, the turn of her pale neck, the oceanic depth of her gaze.

He’d started dreaming about her, her face appearing when he made love to his wife. He’d been stern with himself. Stop it, you idiot. Once he’d lost his train of thought in class, distracted by the way she rubbed at her shoulder.

Then, one night, as he was ending his office hours, she’d knocked on his door.

“Matthew.” Samantha’s voice snapped him back.

“What?” he said, startled. “Sorry.”

“Can you help me bag up the weeds?”

“Of course.”

It took ages to wrestle the detritus into the big bags. He could have Peter bring the pickup truck and haul away the bags. Might as well, while the guy was still on the estate payroll. At some point, he was going to have to let the groundskeeper go. But Matthew, always one to put off the unpleasant, had not let him know that yet.

As they were finishing up, a late-model black Mercedes drifted into view and came to a stop in front of the house.

Matthew had propped the gate open at the head of the drive, much to Peter’s dismay.

The kids, Peter had warned. They sneak up here all the time. They do a lot of damage. Matthew knew where the kids were probably headed. They’d find their way there whether the gate was open or not. They always had.

Meanwhile, Matthew was sure that now that the house was inhabited by able adults, there’d be fewer issues. Besides, he wasn’t going to drive down the road every time he had to let someone in. An