The Carmichael Sunshine

Chapter 1

This was certainly the biggest house I've ever worked for. There was a strange sort of ominous energy as I pulled up to the old Victorian...castle? I mean, there was really no other word for it. I'd lived in Boston my entire life. I'd seen historical buildings at every turn. But living in the city, you don't see many homes like this anymore.

The Carmichael Manor.

That's what my manager called it.

"You're perfect for the position," she'd told me yesterday. I'd just finished with a patient in upper-Boston last week and had been waiting for my next assignment. I desperately needed the work, so who was I to refuse? Despite the fact that it was a bit far out of town and my old car was practically sputtering down the country road in the early Spring rain/snow mixture.

I parked my car, as directed, in a 'guest' spot.

I took a long moment to admire the architecture of the manor. It had to be at least a hundred years old, maybe even two hundred. I whistled under my breath as I climbed out of my old Ford. Old reliable. I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck – the wind was blowing snow against my cheeks.

"Fuck," I muttered. It was cold.

When was winter going to be over?

I reached into my backseat and grabbed my medical bag.

I'd been doing at-home healthcare for a few years now, since leaving after hardly a semester of med school. I wanted to stay in the industry. But there was only so much I could do with my pre-med degree in Biology. It was never a plan of mine to be a nurse or a healthcare provider. I had a whole map of my life. Get into a great undergrad program – check. Get into med school – check. Stay in med school – still unchecked. Become a world class surgeon – still definitely unchecked.

But that's the thing about plans, isn't it?

You can't count on external factors fucking them up.

Grumbling, I made my way to the main entrance. This place was humungous, and wildly intimidating. I only knew a bit about the patient.

Gunshot wounds. Actively recovering. Male. Early 30s.

He'd been shot four times, one of which in the leg, the other three in the back. It was a miracle he was alive. I didn't know the circumstances of how or why he got shot, but that wasn't really my business – was it?

I rang the bell and tapped my foot nervously.

I always got weird the first day of a new job. What if the patient didn't like me? They were almost always surly, to say the least. I'd gotten tough over the years. Positivity was key. At least, that's what I told myself.

A moment later the big, ridiculous door opened.

A small gray-haired woman with questioning eyes assessed me.

"Hello!" I smiled brightly, "My name is Ava Morales! I'm with HomeCare. I know I'm a bit early!"

The woman blinked, as if taken aback by my voice.

Was I too loud?

I cleared my throat awkwardly, "I'm here for..." I checked my phone, "Connor Carmichael?"

The woman didn't move.

I shivered on the step.

Was I at the...wrong house?