“Oh, do I?” He grunted a laugh into his microphone.
Annoyance crept back into her forehead, the familiar lines creasing the skin. “Kevin, please. Don’t ruin this. I like chatting with you.”
“I like chatting with you too. Want to see how much?” The face on the computer screen next to her slid up and out of view as his camera panned down.
Margot let out a small laugh, gratified by his full attention. “Well, that’s very nice.”
“It’s for you. Let me come over there and give it to you.”
“Hmm . . .” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I wish you could.”
“I don’t live that far away. Your husband isn’t home.”
She shook her head at his persistence. This wasn’t the sort of fun she was after—and then his words sank in. I don’t live that far away.
“You don’t know where I live,” she said, sitting up.
“I know more than you think, baby.” His voice sounded menacing now. “I know he leaves you alone all day. I know he lets you broadcast your ass all over the internet and doesn’t do a damn thing about it. So when can I come over?”
“Will you keep your voice down?” She turned down the volume on her laptop and shot a glance at the door. Did Hunter hear that? The face on her screen had turned mean. The eyes pointed in a glare. Suddenly aware of her nudity, Margot grabbed her silk robe and pulled it on her shoulders. “I think that’s enough play for today, Kev.”
“Like hell it is! You think you can just tease a man to the breaking point, then walk the fuck away?”
“Yeah.” She smiled viciously at Camera 1. “Yeah, I do. That’s the whole point, you moron.”
“What did you call me?”
“A moron. Look it up, Junior. This session is over.” She reached for her mouse.
“Bitch, I’m gonna find you and your fucked up husb—”
The voice stopped with the click of a button.
Margot pressed her lips together in a hard line while the tremor in her hands made its way up her arms. “Damn it,” she hissed at herself. It was the first time she’d ever gotten into a fight with one of her viewers. Her eyes circled the room as though trapped for a moment, and then she slapped her laptop shut.
Hunter was halfway down the front stairs when his mother emerged from her studio in her pink bathrobe, flushed. She startled at the sight of him. “Hunter! Hi! I mean, good morning. You, uh, going out?”
“Yeah. Library.” He hardly looked at her as he made his way down the stairs.
“Again?” What did he hear? she wondered. “What’ve you been doing over there?”
If he had heard anything, he didn’t let on. “Research, I guess. Walking around.”
“Research on what exactly?”
He sighed his impatience. “Dead people.”
Her eyes widened, and she tightened her grip on her bathrobe. “Dead people? What dead people?”
“The people that used to live here.” Feeling her worried eyes on him, he decided not to reveal his acute interest in Benny and his dead girl. “Like, a research project on the area. Did you know they buried a bunch of the old Shakers just down Lee Road next to the grocery store? There’s a plaque and everything.”
“Really? I’ve never seen it.”
“It’s hidden behind these overgrown hedges. The gravestones are all falling over and hard to read. Some are dated before the Civil War. But they didn’t used to be there. They used to be buried in another place along Shaker Boulevard or something, and the city dug them up.” His eyes wandered up the stairs toward the attic.
“Wow. That’s . . . pretty interesting.” Dead people?
He shrugged and trudged out the front door, leaving his mother staring after him.
27
The Rawlings Family
January 19, 1931
Someone was there.
Ella felt it before their fist pounded on the front door. She set the teapot back down on the counter and headed into the foyer. No one ever knocked on their front door. Not in weeks.
She studied the strange man on the front stoop through the side glass and reluctantly unlocked the door. He had the look of a scoundrel—unshaven face, bloodshot eyes, rumpled cheap suit.
“I am sorry, but Missus Rawlings is not receiving guests today.” Ella kept her grip on the handle, only opening it a crack. Her foot and knee braced against the wood.
“I ain’t here for Missus Rawlings.” The man’s breath reeked of grain alcohol. He motioned to the laundry bag on his shoulder. “Big Ange sent me with a delivery.”
The large woman sighed. “Deliveries are to come in the back only. Yes? Go round.” Then she slammed the door in his face, shaking her head. This bad business is out of control, her expression said as she waddled through the foyer into the kitchen and to the side door. The neighbors will begin to suspect.
Unfortunately, better choices had run out on Mrs. Rawlings.
By the time Ella arrived at the back door, the unsavory man was waiting, his yellow grin an inch from the window.
“You.” She pointed a fat finger in his face. “You must tell this ‘Big Ange’ that all these comings and goings will get noticed. You should have uniform for laundry service.”
“I’ll pass along the message.” He pushed his way past her into the kitchen. A pot roast sizzled in the oven, filling the air with the welcoming smell of a proper home. He drew in a long breath and glanced longingly at the oven but kept walking. “Where should I put this?”
From the awkward bulk of the sack on his back, she knew what he carried. “The sugars go up, up to the attic. Here, I show.” She led him up the back stairs, pausing in the second floor hallway long enough to make sure little Walter’s door was closed and Mrs. Rawlings was out of sight. When Ella had struck this bargain with Mr. Rawlings’s creditors, the accountant promised the boy and lady of the house wouldn’t be disturbed.
Keep everything out of sight. Don’t draw any attention from the neighbors. Only accept deliveries in the back of the house. Everything must look as though a respectable family still lives here, understand? The boy mustn’t know a thing. The less Georgina knows, the better.
She carefully unlocked the attic door. Halfway up the steps, the smell of burning sugar hit her face. The company man, Felix, poked his head out of the spare bedroom. “Ella? That you?”
“Yes, Felix. We have visitor.” She didn’t dislike Felix as much as she’d feared she might, but his presence in the house was still utterly unacceptable. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped. Mr. Rawlings had left too many debts to pay. She lifted her eyes to the rafters at the memory of him. It hung over the house like a curse.
Ella had found Walter in his office that frightful night. The smell of urine and vomit still lingered in the floorboards no matter how many times she scrubbed them. The police had ruled it a heart attack. Thank the angels, she thought, as she did most days. The insurance policy she’d found under his head made it clear that suicide would negate the contract.
None of the policemen or the coroner found the vial of belladonna he’d taken from her cupboard; she’d made sure of that. His dead eyes had followed her when she crossed the room and picked it up from the desk blotter next to his empty teacup. From the feel of the bottle, he’d consumed the whole thing. Ella had tucked the brown vial into her apron and his pistol back into its drawer before calling the police. Her hands still shook with the memory. The tremor of it would be with her the rest of her days.