“I’ve never understood why you read those.”
“Kids like scary things. I wouldn’t read one now if you paid me, but anyway,” I say, drawing out the word as much as I can, “it was your fault for letting me.”
Her brows arch. “Let you? The first time I caught you with one, you’d snuck it out of our bedroom.”
“What? No, Dad lent it to me.”
“No, he did not. He left it on our nightstand and you took it without asking. When he realized it was gone and you had it, he and I had a very tense discussion because I thought you were too young. You were only about ten, I think, maybe even nine. By then you’d read more than half of it, so he thought we should let you finish and if you got scared, so be it.”
I rub my forehead. I clearly remember my dad giving me Carrie and telling me I might like it. It was the first adult horror novel I’d ever read. I wouldn’t even have considered it if not for my dad. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
My fingers curl the photo, but I catch myself before it creases. “Can I keep this?”
She blinks twice. “Take whatever you want.”
“This is enough.” I flick the picture against my thumb. “We were so silly, weren’t we?”
The front door opens, and my dad calls out, “Barbara, I’m home!”
“We’re up here,” Mom says.
Dad thumps up the stairs. “Hey, bug.”
I wrinkle my nose at the nickname and hug him in return. He smells faintly of cigarettes, a habit he’s been trying to break for years.
“Did you have fun?” Mom says.
“Yeah, Dad, how was golf?”
“You two. It wasn’t that bad. I may have even had fun,” he says. “But the storm’s finally rolling in. They’re calling for thunder and lightning, maybe even some flash flooding in your area.”
“I should head out then,” I say, sliding the photo into my pocket. “Ninety-Seven is a bitch when it rains.”
“I’ll fix up a container of pasta salad for you to take home to Ryan,” Mom says. “I promise I’ll be quick.”
When I leave, with repeated admonitions from both of them to drive safely, the sky is gunmetal, air thick with the scent of the impending squall.
Becca always loved the rain.
I push the thought away and get in my car. Turn at the end of my parents’ street and pass the field, but instead of continuing straight, I make another turn. At the end of the street, I pull to the side with the engine running.
The house looks completely different. For one thing, it’s visible from the street now; the hedges are gone. In their place is a low border of hostas. No room for kids to hide. Without the heavy greenery, the stone appears lighter. Then, the porch was fairly small; now it spans the length of the facade, with a white railing and squared columns supporting the roof. Wicker lawn furniture with flowered cushions sit on either side of the front door. That’s been changed, too. Once solid wood, now it has an oval of etched glass in the center.
I close my eyes. Hear the susurration of our voices and footsteps breaking the silence. How many times did we sneak in it that summer? It’s a wonder we never got caught.
There might’ve been signs of a struggle at her house, but that last night we weren’t there. We were here. The fine hairs on my nape rise. You don’t need flickering lights or doors slamming shut, the parlor tricks of a poltergeist, to be haunted. The true ghosts are made of deed and word and live deep inside the marrow and bone.
She begged me to help her. And then her eyes closed.
My own snap open. “Stop it,” I hiss, my voice loud and ragged. The photo is a weight in my pocket. I slip it out, shove it under my purse on the passenger seat.
She begged me.
I shake away the thoughts, jam the car in drive, and pull away as the first drops of rain strike my windshield.
* * *
With Ryan still out like a light, I slide out of bed, throw on leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and grab my keys and purse, bagels and cream cheese on my mind. No rain today, but no sun either. A drowsy sort of day. I’m near Panera Bread when I turn toward Gia’s instead. It’s not the best idea, I know, but I’m so close and it’ll only take a few minutes. What’s the harm in driving by? If Ryan wakes and sees I’m not there, he’ll text me. I can tell him Panera was crowded. Won’t even be a lie. Not on a Sunday.
The neighborhoods in West Annapolis are nice, most of the houses old but heavily renovated. Modest yards. SUVs with roof racks for kayaks and paddleboards. Cedar swing sets peeking over wood fences. An A-frame at the end of Gia’s street has a shiny blue-and-white FOR SALE sign in the yard. I drive slow, gaze panning left and right.
I recognize Gia’s house from her Facebook photos. They’ve placed two Adirondack chairs, stained deep blue, on the front porch, a small table between. A hanging basket of flowers. Garage doors closed tight. No cars in the driveway. Front porch light still on. I drive to the bottom of the street, turn, and make another pass, driving even slower. Even though I’m not doing anything wrong, I feel conspicuous. Guilty.
I park by the house for sale. Great idea number two. Why not make it three? Mouth dry, I act casual as I get out of the car and walk up to the front door. Peek in the window. The furniture inside is staged, so the owner’s already moved. To anyone who might be watching—and this neighborhood seems even quieter than mine—I’m interested in the property. After making a show of looking over the fence into the backyard, I take to the sidewalk.
My heart beats double-time. I feel like a stalker, but I’m not. I’m investigating. I slow my steps, eye the neighborhood. I should go back. Get in my car. But no one’s around.
Fingers taut, I approach Gia’s house. Two steps lead to the porch. Four to the front door. While it’s solid wood, there are narrow glass panels on each side. No curtains. Inside, a long hallway leads to a kitchen. To the left, a living room. To the right—
Behind me, a door shuts with a heavy thud and I jump. I don’t see anyone, but it’s warning enough. Tonguing sweat from my upper lip, I make myself walk a normal pace down her steps, away from her house. Once I shut my car door, I giggle. Good one, Heather. Very clever. Maybe I should’ve knocked on her door, said I was in the neighborhood. Checking out old friends. Accidentally, of course.
I rub the end of my nose with the side of my index finger. This peeking around does me no good. What can I hope to learn? Her taste in furniture? An accidental meeting, though … that could work. A way to get in front of her. To actually talk. To feel her out, so to speak. And no, she might not want to talk to me, but it’s at least worth a shot. Since we live so close, I should be able to manage something. Just not here. This was a fool’s game.
My phone chimes with a message from Ryan: MORNING. I text him back with a quick AT PANERA, WANT ANYTHING SPECIFIC? I’m waiting for his response when a shadow falls across my lap and three raps sound on my window. I drop my phone, biting back a yelp.
The man beside my car is in his midfifties. Short gray hair, slim build, navy-blue polo shirt. Narrow chin, deep brackets around his mouth, dark eyes. My instinct is to gun it, peel away from the curb fast, but I lower my window.
“You lost?” he says, without a trace of kindness. A smell of aftershave lotion, the kind with a ship on the bottle. My dad used it when I was little.