Page 36 of In Her Memory

Emma finished her apple, core and all, too hungry to waste any part of it. The crackers followed quickly, leaving her still hungry but at least not lightheaded anymore. She brushed crumbs from her hands and stretched out on the mattress.

“I‘m so tired of running,” she whispered, staring up at the water-stained ceiling.

“Rest now,” Loyalynne said, her voice softening slightly. “Tomorrow will be another long day.”

Emma closed her eyes, her body surrendering to exhaustion even as her mind continued to race with questions. The darkness behind her eyelids deepened, pulling her toward sleep.

Then she heard it – the voice that had been haunting her since she first fled, coming to her in moments of wakefulness and dreams. A man’s voice, gentle yet urgent.

“Piper, where are you? Your sister needs you. I need you. Please come home.”

The voice seemed to fill the room, though Emma knew it existed only in her mind. It carried such longing, such genuine concern, that something inside her chest ached in response. Her lips parted, nearly forming words – “I’m here“ or “Who are you?” or even just “Help me.”

But before she could make a sound, Loyalynne was beside her, porcelain hand cold against Emma’s forehead.

“It’s a phantom,” Loyalynne hissed. “Don’t answer. It’s trying to find you, to lure you back.”

Emma squeezed her eyes shut tighter, tears leaking from the corners. “But he sounds so real, so worried.”

“That’s how they deceive you,” Loyalynne whispered. “With false concern, with manufactured love.”

Emma curled onto her side, making herself as small as possible on the stained mattress.

“That’s right,” Loyalynne soothed. “Ignore the voice. It will fade.”

And eventually it did. The voice receded like a tide pulling back from shore, leaving Emma in the silence of the abandoned house. Her exhaustion finally overcame her troubled thoughts, and she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the darkness as Boyd Calloway’s sedan ate the miles between Kansas City and Trentville. Each passing mile tightened the knot of anger in his chest — anger at the circumstances, at the unfortunate timing, but most of all at the sense of betrayal. He’d bought and renamed the old Shannon mansion to rectify past evils, to recreate it as a symbol of his own status. Why was that being threatened now?

Boyd had stewed about that early morning phone call all day at work, and he’d left Kansas City as soon he could get away from the office. Nolan Greer’s voice had been almost detached: “There’s been an incident, Mr. Calloway. One of the tenants, Mrs. Marsh. Found her in her laundry room. Paramedics say it looks like she slipped, hit her head.”

“Dead?” Boyd had asked fearfully.

“Yes, sir. Sheriff’s department is here now.”

Even now, hours later, the news still hadn’t fully registered. Donna Marsh — widowed, particular about the water pressure, always asking about upgrades to the security system — dead on her laundry room floor. An accident, surely. It had to be an accident.

But apparently the sheriff’s department thought otherwise. Why else would they have wanted to seal off that laundry room? Why else would they start questioning the other residents?

Calloway House couldn’t afford a murder investigation. Not with all the trouble they’d already had — the electrical issues, the plumbing problems, the complaints from tenants. Boyd felt the familiar twinge in his chest at the thought and took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. So, Boyd had acted quickly that morning, drafting a letter to be signed by Mayor Simmons, hiring a local Trentville PI to investigate the situation and hopefully to throw a wrench in the police investigation.

The next troublesome call had come from Ethan Pierce at the Gateway Herald. That damn reporter had a nose for trouble and the moral compass of a scavenger. Boyd had tried to deflect, to minimize, to reframe, but Pierce had already caught the scent of something more than an ordinary accident.

“I’m just looking for your comment, Mr. Calloway,” Pierce had said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “Given the history of the mansion and the, shall we say, persistent rumors about its renovation...”

“Mrs. Marsh’s death was a tragic accident,” Boyd had replied sternly. “Anything beyond that is irresponsible speculation.”

But Boyd knew perfectly well that Pierce wasn’t buying it. Tomorrow’s headline was already taking shape in his mind: “Death at Haunted Mansion: Curse Claims First Victim.” The Gateway Herald would sell out by noon.

A semi roared past in the opposite direction, its headlights momentarily flooding the car’s interior with harsh light. Boyd blinked against it, feeling the beginning of a headache forming.

And then had come the final blow — the call from Sheriff Graves herself.

“Mr. Calloway,” she’d said, her voice all business. “I wanted to speak with you directly about the situation at your property.”

“Of course, Sheriff. It’s a terrible tragedy. If there’s anything I can do to help— “