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He hadn’t been meant to be home when it had happened, but
back then he’d rarely been where he was supposed to be. If his
mother had known he was there, she wouldn’t have done it. She
would have done it eventually, but not then, not when he would
see and try and fail to save her. She’d loved him very much, and he
knew it.
But it hadn’t stopped her from leaving him.
Arthur knew that the woman who’d hanged herself inside this
house tonight was not his mother. He knew she had nothing to do
with him, but she was important to Cora in some strange way, and
so she was important to him, too. He needed to understand what
had happened so he could take the memory of the snap at the end
of a rope and place it into a box and bury that box with all the
other boxes buried in the dark corners of his mind.
He watched, silent and unmoving, as Thomas paced angrily.
“We were not wrong! We did not all imagine the same thing! I
don’t know if it was a trick, or . . .” Thomas paused, mouth nar-
rowing to a dark slash across his face. “If you planned this, if you
all got together and thought you’d scare us, I swear I’ll —”
“Shut up,” Arthur said, his voice low. “We all saw it.” He
reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his lock pick, then
walked toward the front of the house.
“Where are you going?” Cora asked.
“Inside.”
By the time Cora and Thomas caught up to him, Arthur
was already crouched in front of the door, working the lock.
Though they could not see it, he was angry, too, his swift, sure
fingers shaking as they worked the lock. He could taste his
rage; it was hard and metallic and no amount of swallowing rid
him of it.
