Page 121 of Trust No One

The house was dark, bathed in shadows. What was it about the house? So much death. Loss.

I got into my car and paused. An AirTag. I got out, searched the floorboards, the glove box, and the trunk. Nothing. It had to be here somewhere.

I’d search again when I had more time. I drove to Maria and Gabe’s house. The brick one-level ranch had been their home for years. Fallen leaves lay thick on uncut grass. A planter gripped thinning geraniums.

The crime scene tape draped across the front door had been broken. Someone had breached the tape, been in the house. I took this as an invitation. Using my key, I entered, flipping on the lights.

Inside, the air was heavy.

I stood in the small, neat living room. An eerie weight lingered in the house, as if Maria and Gabe stood close by, watching.

Once, I’d heard that sudden deaths shocked and disoriented spirits. Unable to move on, they remained suspended between the living and the dead. Forced to linger, they struggled to find answers.

If that was the case, then I was surrounded by ghosts and demons. Dad, Mom, Maria, Gabe, and now Amy circled around me at this moment.

Shadows stretched across the tile as I moved into the kitchen. Yellow crime scene tents marked bits of evidence around the room. One, two, three.

A total of ten spots were important enough to be marked by a forensic technician. Discarded white medical tape and gauzes used by the paramedics lay on the white tile floor.

Blood on the counter’s edge marked where Maria’s head had hit when she fell. Splashes dotted the white cabinets.

Unwashed dishes and pots filled the sink. The pasta Maria had cooked was scattered on the floor with the shards of a broken bowl.

I imagined Maria standing at the sink. She was washing dishes when she realized something was wrong. The glass tipped over. She staggered. And then she collapsed, hit her head on the counter, and fell to the floor.

I flexed my fingers at my side.

When Maria had first called me and told me about their financial troubles, it was months after Molly’s birth. I’d suggested this house. Once the caretaker’s cottage, it was small but well kept. I’d called it a temporary stop.

She’d refused at first. But I’d pressed. When she’d said yes, tension mingled with her gratitude. She’d always felt like the outsider in the Hale family. When her parents had been alive, it wasn’t noticeable. My father hadn’t helped his sister and her family. Then my aunt and uncle died. The entire estate went to me.

Maria’s mother died eight years ago. I’d returned for the funeral. And stood in the Hale graveyard as she was laid to rest in the family cemetery. “At least I have a grave waiting for me,” Maria had quipped.

Drawing in a breath, I moved toward Molly’s room.

Molly’s pink toddler bed was covered with a yellow comforter covered in stars and moon slivers. The impression of her small body remained in the rumpled fabric, and the impression of her head dented the pillow.

I grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen and then, back in her room, collected the comforter and pillow. I shoved it all in the bag, along with all the stuffed animals I could find lying about. In her dresser drawer I gathered pajamas, socks, pants, and shirts. I picked a well-worn pair of sneakers, knowing comfort eased tensions.

As I tied up the bag, the back of my neck tingled. I turned slowly, expecting to see someone in the doorway. A cop. Edith. Maria’s ghost.

Nothing but still shadows on the doorjamb.

The heating system kicked on, and the sudden sound cut through the thick silence. Energy shot through my limbs.

The sense of prying eyes grew stronger, and I was now anxious to leave.

The trash bag was unwieldy as I moved through the living room; I brushed by a side table and knocked over a lamp. It crashed to the floor, startling me. I righted the lamp and hurried toward the front door. I switched off the light and stepped into the darkness.

I tossed the bag in the back seat and slid behind the wheel. Maria’s minivan remained parked. The car seat was in the back.

Out of my car, I tried the van’s door. Unlocked.

I removed the seat, dusted off cracker crumbs, and set it in my back seat. Reattaching the seat was the challenge. I hooked the belt, but the seat remained loose. I attempted to rethread it, but I couldn’t get it to lock. I left it unhooked, to be fixed later.

I looked back at the house. The kitchen light blazed in the window.

Instead of returning, I let it burn. I’d be back soon enough to clean the house out. And for now, it would serve as a marker for Molly.