Page 43 of Trust No One

“Tell her everyone is pulling for her.”

“I’ll do that.” I nodded to the front door. “Ready for the grand tour?”

“I am.”

As we climbed the front staircase, he laid a hand on the banister and gave it a shake. It wobbled several inches left and right. I wasn’t sure if saving this place was affordable or wise. My portion of the Alexandria home sale wouldn’t put a dent in a renovation like this. I’d have to sell land to make this fix happen.

In the entryway, I fiddled with the switch until the light flickered on. Brad pulled out his clipboard and scribbled notes.

“I’m not sure where to start,” I said. “Every room has an issue.”

“The basics is where I’d begin. Roof. Windows. Plumbing. Electric. Paint and wallpaper can wait until the foundation is solid.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’d like to inspect your attic. I noticed you’re missing shingles on the roof. Good to check for leaks and water damage.”

“Lots of snow the previous years.”

“Cold as hell for most of last winter. Here’s hoping this one is milder.”

We climbed the central staircase. The third step from the top creaked badly when Brad’s booted foot stepped on it. “My big feet can put anything to the test.”

“This house isn’t up for any exam.”

We moved past the second floor up a narrow set of stairs that took us to the attic door. When he opened the door and tested the light switch, the bulb didn’t turn on. He unclipped a slim flashlight from his tool belt and clicked it on.

A rustic staircase led to an enormous, unfinished space. Mom or Dad had never bothered to finish it off. They’d said the extra space was unnecessary, but I realized now, they’d struggled with finances for years.

Brad’s beam swept the space from east to west over boxes, crates, and unwanted furniture no one had bothered to toss.

Floorboards creaked.

An animal scurried to a darkened corner. The space smelled of old must and faintly charred timber.

“Smells like fire,” I said.

“Yeah.”

When Maria and I were kids, we escaped up here in the fall and spring when it wasn’t sweltering or icy cold. We’d lay out a blanket, eat lunch, and tell ghost stories—Maria was the master. She spun stories of ghosts and demons inspired by tragic Hale family deaths. An uncle who’d shot and killed himself. A cousin who’d died in a fire she’d set in one of the outbuildings. A drowning in the creek.

We’d rummaged through all the dresser drawers, trunks, and cabinets. I’d found an old pearl necklace in a drawer. Maria unearthed clothes dating back a century.

I flipped open a steamer trunk. Inside, a purple hat with beaded trim. The last time I’d seen this hat, Maria had been wearing it. She loved our grandmothers’ hats.

Brad was watching me. “Maria loves hats.”

“She sure does.”

“It was nice you gave her a place on the property.”

“I wanted to do right by her.”

Brad’s brow furrowed. He motioned me over and lifted his beam to blackened and cracked rafters.

“Looks like you did have a fire here,” he said.

“I don’t remember one. Rumor had it we had a distant cousin who liked to play with matches. Do you have any idea when? The house is almost two hundred years old.”