Page 186 of Trust No One

The ten-mile drive west to Waynesboro—a small town that shared connections with ours—took twenty minutes. Waynesboro wasn’t as frequented by people who knew us.

We ended up in a fast-food restaurant that mirrored thousands of others like it across the country. We ordered eggs on English muffins and French toast sticks.

I laid out the mats and handed Molly a pen. We continued in silence, drawing and eating our breakfast. Our next stop was a small petting zoo. Then ice cream. More shopping. She picked a pink dress. I chose a bright blue sheath.

Molly asked several times if she could go “home,” and I promised to have it cleaned so she could.

When we arrived back at Hale House, there were no traces of Judson or the funeral home’s trucks and hearse. The cemetery was close to the house but not easily visible unless you were looking for it.

“I want to go home.” Molly dragged out the last word like a wail.

That small cottage was her last solid link to her old life. “I have to get it cleaned.”

She slammed clenched fists on her car seat. “It’s always dirty!”

I pictured the scattered debris left by the medical team in the kitchen. The blood droplets on the counter and floor. If we avoided the kitchen, we could slip into the living room and her bedroom.

“Okay. But if I tell you not to go into a room, you must listen, okay?”

The pout softened. “All right.”

I angled the car around, pulled back on the main road, and drove east until we reached the entrance for the caretaker’s cottage. I parked next to Maria’s new white minivan.

“Mommy’s home!” Molly said.

“No, honey. It’s just her car.”

Molly went silent.

The Durants’ house looked different. The yellow crime scene tape was gone, and fresh flowers filled the front porch flowerpots. Edith.

“Looks pretty,” I said.

“Mommy never had flowers,” she said. “She forgets to water them.”

I helped Molly out of the car. We walked up to the front door, and using my key, I opened it. The house smelled faintly of pine cleaner, and the carpets had been vacuumed.

Molly bounded into the living room. She plopped onto the couch and dragged a crocheted blanket to her nose. “I love this blanket.”

I walked into the kitchen. All the debris had been cleaned away and the counters wiped. The dishes were cleaned and back in the cabinet. Edith again.

Whatever her reasons, she’d helped today. “Do you want anything from your bedroom?” I asked.

Molly took my hand and pulled. “Come and see it with me.”

“Okay.”

As we passed the primary bedroom, I glanced at the queen-size bed, neatly made, all wrinkles smoothed flat. I imagined Edith stripping sheets, dusting, and vacuuming as she’d done at Hale House for years.

Neither of us should have been in this house. Judson had been clear to stay away. But Edith had sanitized it. And I’d come for Molly. Edith had been working through grief.

Molly’s bed had clean sheets and a blanket on it. The remaining pillows and stuffed animals were arranged in well-ordered rows. The dresser was wiped clean, and Molly’s little bracelets were lined up in order.

Molly plopped on the bed. “I want to sleep here tonight.”

“We can’t stay here, Molly.”

“Why not? It’s my home. And maybe the ghosts will find us here.”