Page 177 of Trust No One

The following year, Dad was dead, and Mom’s fragile health was failing. No more cake or silly songs. At fifteen, I was washing down pills with a bottle of bourbon and pressing a blade to my skin.

And now I was an heir to woods and ruin.

As I cradled the teacup in my hand, I thought about Judson. If there was anyone I would have wanted to celebrate my birthday with other than Molly, it was him. Quiet, steady, so sure of himself. Of all of us, he’d aged the best.

Thirty-five. All grown up. Older beyond my years.

The ceiling creaked, and I thought Molly must be out of bed. I climbed the stairs, slipping my phone in my back pocket. At the top landing, the light was dim. The attic floorboards moaned.

I went toward Molly’s room. More creaks above. The door was ajar. Had I left it that way? I wasn’t sure.

I pushed open the door. Her bed was a tumble of sheets, the pillow that had been mine, empty. My chest tightened.

Panicking a little, I hesitated, then gripped the coverlet, ready to pull it back. And then I saw the tuft of dark hair peeking out from under the covers. I stilled and watched the rise and fall of her chest.

One. Two. Three.

Carefully I backed out of the room and closed the door. I glanced toward the room at the end of the hallway. It had been Mom’s for as long as I’d been alive.

I’d had the exterior latch removed and the screw divots filled with wood putty, but the faint outline remained.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

Mom’s screams cut the silence.

I cleared my throat.

I’d had this room cleaned. Closets and drawers were emptied, and we’d discarded anything that had been Mom’s. I’d wanted nothing.

Curious, I walked into the room. I traced the shadow of the old latch. It had been sturdy, unshakable. No one had ever confessed to leaving it open.

The brass knob caught before it turned. Hinges groaned. A stale scent clung to the air.

I flicked on the lights. The four-poster bed was stripped bare. Mom’s glasses, plastic water cups, and chocolate candies were gone. The nurse’s table stocked with pill bottles, IV supplies, and special protein drinks was clean.

The dresser, side table, and tufted chair by the window were covered in white sheets. If Molly wanted a ghost, she’d have found one in here.

I noticed the walk-in closet door: It was ajar. I made noise on purpose as I approached. My hand trembled when I pulled it open.

My knees nearly buckled.

Inside, a mattress was neatly made with a pink, fluffy pillow. A lamp glowed faintly on a crate. A small trunk sat at its foot.

My heart rammed my ribs.

Someone had been living in this closet. My mind leaped to Amy. She’d loved this house. And this was where she’d stayed.

I opened the trunk, half expecting bones. Instead: folded clothes. Toiletries in a plastic bag. A scrapbook.

I opened the book. And froze.

Photographs. Amy and me from high school. But also, recent ones of me—pulled from media on the city website. Others were candids taken of me in Alexandria—leaving the courthouse, exiting the gym, and unlocking my town house’s front door.

The most recent picture had been taken three and a half weeks ago. I knew the date because I’d just been released from the hospital. My arm was in a sling. Ken was at my side. I’d been on painkillers and hadn’t noticed anyone was watching.

There were hundreds of images spanning seventeen years.

How long had she been following me?