“I thought it might be the house,” she says, looking at me expectantly, “that was creeping you out? You didn’t seem okay when we met a few days ago.”
“The house? Matt’s house?” I ask, confused.
“No, your house. Like I was surprised when I saw it was you moving in, a single woman, given everything.”
I sit up straight. “Oh my God. There is something wrong with this house, isn’t there?” I snap, every instinct now confirmed, from the day I moved in until Greg’s overheard conversation in the deli.
“You don’t know? No one told you?” she blurts, appalled.
I shake my head. “No. I overheard something but I have no idea what it is. I’ve got a feeling it’s bad, though.”
Aoife squeezes her eyes shut. “Oh, shit. I really shouldn’t have said anything, should I? I’m a fecking liability.” She rubs a hand over her tired eyes. “Crap. I dunno. Here.”
She grabs her phone and taps something in, then pushes the phone across the tabletop to me.
I look at the search bar—it doesn’t mention the house number or street. She has just typed in “Local Murder/Suicide De Beauvoir.” No wonder I didn’t find anything when I looked.
Beneath it I see an unmistakable photo of my house, but from two years ago, the front door pastel-green, the front windows hollow, black charred streaks licking up the white paint of the front wall, ashy torn curtains visible through the window voids.
The street in front of the house is littered with devotional candles, handmade cards, children’s drawings, and wilted bouquets in jam jars.
I feel a wave of revulsion rise up inside me.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, lifting the phone to read, a cold, awful realization dawning on me that something so very terrible happened in my lovely new house.
“The couple who lived here—the guy who lived here,” Aoife explains, “he killed her, then set the house on fire to make it look like that’s how she died, but it took too long to go up; the house didn’t burn in the way he thought it would. We all heard the windows pop. We went outside onto the road, and he came running out. People onthe street wanted to go in and save her, but, like, he knew she was already dead. So he went back in, and I guess he knew the game was up; the evidence wasn’t burning. He never came back out. They found them both in the kitchen. He killed himself, too.”
I stare at her, then turn back to look at my perfect kitchen.
My gaze flashes over my beautifully renovated counters, the intricately swirling marble splashbacks, the under-floor-heated, quarry-sourced slate. “Oh my God. It happened right here.”
“Yeah,” Aoife sighs, as if a huge burden were finally being lifted.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why isn’t it in the article, the exact address? Why didn’t it come up when I Googled the house?” I ask, my panic rising.
“That’s what we were all asking. They aren’t allowed to put exact addresses because messed-up people come, apparently. Evidence gets disturbed, the houses get robbed. They don’t put addresses. They don’t even put names until after hearings. Greg was on all this from day one with the implications to property values. He was sad for them, but he’s a machine.”
“Oh my God,” I mumble, all the bizarre exchanges I’ve had since I’ve arrived now slotting into place. “No one told me. They sold me the house but no one told me. And then the day I arrived, I saw Marina, Greg, and Pam arguing…”
Aoife sighs. “I guess the estate agent who sold you the house didn’t disclose; maybe the relatives asked them not to. Greg and a few others on the street wanted to know if you’d been told. They were worried you’d put the place back on the market at a low resale value and it’d have an effect on all of our houses. Some people wanted to tell you. Others didn’t want you to know, in case. You see, we all agreed not to sell until all the damaged houses were restored, after the fire, to avoid a mass exodus, you know; that’d make the area look undesirable and we’d all lose hundreds of thousands of pounds from our sale prices. Or more, in Richard’s case. But he’s clearly broken his agreement with Greg, so Greg bought up the fire-damaged houses either side of you to repair. He was counter-bidding you to inflate the sale price.”
“But why did the relatives break the agreement and sell the house early?” I ask.
“It was in trust. The solicitors acted for the next of kin overseas.We never met them, they’re in Hong Kong apparently. Greg tried to get their details but the solicitors wouldn’t disclose them. That’s why Greg wanted to buy your house. Everyone was terrified you’d find out what was wrong with it and lower your asking price or you’d find out after moving in and sell fast at a low rate.”
I shake my head, the ins and outs of it all hard to take in. Aoife misconstrues my reaction.
“I know. Someone should have just told you. The estate agent should have told you. I promise you, babes, if, like, I had known it wasyoumoving in,on your own,I’d have said something to you the day you looked around. You were bound to find out eventually. And who’d wanna have to think about all that happening here while they eat their cereal every morning?”
“I really wish you had told me before all this, Aoife,” I say, but as soon as I do I know. If I hadn’t moved into this awful house, perhaps Anna would never have been found. I look down at my phone, the blue dot still blinking. I need to go and find her. Now.
“Aoife. Matt has my cat, in his renovation house basement, I think, look.” I spin my phone around so she can see the blue dot flashing on the map.
“That’s Blue’s collar tag,” I tell her.
She studies the screen, then looks back at me. “Wow. If it wasn’t for him looking after his sister’s baby, I would have serious concerns about this fella.”
“Hang on,” I blurt, a terrifying thought suddenly forming. “Have you ever actually seen Matt’s sister?”
