Page 49 of Trust No One

“I don’t believe it.” But the picture was painted now. Even if I erased it, the faint outline would always remain.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Maria said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. But I hate the whispers. Family has each other’s back.”

“Right.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“I need to talk to Judson.”

But I never got the chance. Ken asked Judson for a ride into town. Judson agreed. Amy went with them. No kiss. No touch. Just a glance, and they were gone before I could think what to say.

After Maria and Gabe left, I opened another fresh beer and wandered toward the cemetery. The mound of dirt was still fresh. The large marker already had Mom’s name on it—just needed her date of death.

One day, I’d be here, too.

An owl hooted, shaking me from my memories. I knelt on the grass by my parents’ graves. “Here we are again. Our dysfunctional family back together.”

Now that I was almost thirty-five, the Hale legacy weighed heavier than ever.

“I think about you both. Not every day, but sometimes.” A wind rustled through the trees. “Ever wonder how we’d be now? Maybe a few beers, and we’d be laughing.”

Maybe not.

Fingers traced the cold, smooth headstone. I rose and brushed grass from my jeans.

My gaze followed the cut path back to the house.

The first floor was dark. Upstairs, that random light blinked on again. I waited for it to go out.

It didn’t.

I walked to the back door, paused, and listened for any sound inside. The silence deepened. I opened the door.

The upstairs light trickled down the back staircase. I flipped on the kitchen switch. Nothing. I moved it up and down several times before bulbs flicked on.

I stood at the base of the back staircase. “Hello?”

The light upstairs went out.

Darkness swallowed the silence.

Chapter Nineteen

Raine

Monday, October 19, 2026, 6:30 a.m.

I woke to the house’s death rattle—clanking pipes, rattling windows, and creaking stairs around me.

Houses are living creatures. If cared for, they can last for centuries. If ignored or neglected, they decay within years. Hale House wasn’t dead yet—but she was dying. She was stronger than modern homes, but if I didn’t commit to her, she’d collapse in my lifetime.

Several times, I swore someone was walking up and down the main staircase. Glancing around the unfamiliar spare room, I stood. My old bedroom was packed with too many memories, so I’d selected this one. But the strangeness—the rose wallpaper, Sheraton bedroom set, and window overlooking the back of the property—was unsettling.

The stairs creaked. Step after step climbed each riser.

When I was a little girl, my mother assured me there were no ghosts in Hale House. No specters climbed the stairs every night. I’d clung to her words each time I sat up in my bed and counted the invisible footsteps.

But as Mom was dying, the rasping stairs had turned menacing. They had troubled her deeply. I’d had to assure her that old houses made noises.