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After we parked, Sasha allowed herself one melancholy glance at Brant’s Subaru, getting dustier by the day as it sat in the driveway. But then she marched up the front walk, clearly intent on getting inside as quickly as possible.
I had to pause to retrieve the spare door key from its hiding place under the stone frog, but soon enough we were inside. Despite the warmth of the day, it felt almost cold as we walked into the foyer. Of course, no supernatural cause there; I saw that the thermostat near the door had been set to a chilly sixty-five degrees. My mother, probably; thanks to her ongoing hot flashes, she was always complaining that it was too warm and tended to crank the A/C wherever she went.
“It happened there, didn’t it?” Sasha asked with a significant glance toward the stairwell.
Since it seemed as though Chief Lewis must have filled her in on some of the details of Brant’s death, I didn’t see any reason to deny it. “Yes,” I said simply. “We all think he must have slipped in the dark. He was wearing flip-flops.”
That comment almost made her smile. “He always wore those, except in the dead of winter. I used to tease him about tripping over things, but….”
Her words trailed off, and she released a breath.
Hoping to ease the tense moment just a little, I said, “Do you want to go upstairs and get his stuff?”
“I guess I’d better.”
Although Sasha hesitated for just a second before she put her foot on the bottom step, after that she seemed to find her stride, because she moved quickly and confidently up the stairs. I followed, glad that she obviously was tougher than she looked.
When she got to the landing, though, she paused, waiting for me to join her. “It’s the room just across the hall,” I said, and headed over to the door, which stood open.
The quilt looked slightly rumpled, as though Brant might have sat down on the bed at some point, but it definitely hadn’t been slept in. His overnight bag rested on the wing chair in the corner, and his suitcase had been left in the closet, which was otherwise empty. Obviously, he hadn’t bothered to unpack. Why, I didn’t know, since hours had passed between the time he arrived at the house and the time he made that fateful decision to investigate the noises on the stairwell.
Without speaking, Sasha went to the chair and picked up his overnight bag, while I rolled the suitcase out of the closet.
“He didn’t unpack,” she said.
“No,” I agreed, since that much was obvious.
“I wonder why?”
Since I could only guess at his motivations, I shrugged. “Maybe he was waiting to see if there was anything worth investigating.”
“Maybe.”
She sounded dubious, though, as if she wasn’t quite sure that was the reason why he hadn’t tried to settle in a bit. For a moment, she stood in the middle of the room, both hands wrapped around the handles of the canvas bag she held. Then she said, “I think you’re right.”
I tilted my head at her. “Right about what?”
“About this house.” Her gaze traveled the room, which was just as carefully furnished as the rest of the Bigelow mansion — the walls had wallpaper striped in dark green and cream, and the quilt and curtains echoed that color scheme. A rug in muted tones of green and beige covered the polished wood floor. Bright afternoon sunlight streamed in, illuminating a few dust motes that danced like tiny fireflies.
Before I could respond, she continued.
“It feels…good. Like happy people lived here. I know I don’t have your sense for these sorts of things, but still, I think I would be able to tell if it was evil. And it’s not.”
Exactly my sense about the whole thing. Unfortunately, I didn’t know whether the house felt that way because I desperately wanted it to, or whether I’d been completely off-base about the whole demon thing, even if there hadn’t seemed to be any other halfway plausible explanation for the disruptions my mother and Tom had experienced and which I’d heard for myself.
“The demons could be gone,” I said, although that didn’t feel quite right, either. Once again, I felt as though I was missing something vital about the situation, even if I couldn’t put my finger on what it might be. “Or maybe something else is going on. But my mother and her husband both wanted to tell you how sorry they are that this happened.”
Sasha nodded, but then her purse started playing “We Are Starlight,” and she gave me an apologetic look and set down the overnight bag she was holding so she could pull out her phone. “I think it’s someone from the police station,” she said as she glanced down at the screen. Then she held the phone to her ear. “This is Sasha Young.”
A long pause, during which she appeared to be listening intently to the person on the other end of the line. About all I could do was stand there. I suppose I could have taken the suitcase and headed back downstairs, but my instincts were telling me I needed to stay with her. Whether that was because it just seemed safer to stick together, or because I really wanted to know the reason for the call, I couldn’t say for sure.
Then she said, “Thank you, Chief Lewis. I can be there in about twenty minutes,” and ended the call before slipping the phone back into her purse. She met my inquiring gaze and added, “They’re sending Brant over to the funeral home now, and they’re releasing his personal effects. I need to go by and pick them up.”
Her voice was steady enough, but I could see tears gleaming in her eyes. Gently, I asked, “Do you want me to come with you?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, though, I found myself wondering if that was such a great idea after all. I kind of doubted that Henry Lewis would be jumping for joy once he found out I was helping Sasha. If he could have coerced the city council into writing an ordinance that banned me from amateur investigations, he probably would have been all over it.
But it was too late to take back the offer, because Sasha said in tremulous tones, “Oh, would you?”
