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She sets it upright.
It’s empty. No picture.
Lily huffs, then goes over to the closet door and opens it.
There are no clothes inside, but there is a crib.
“Why wouldanybodyhave a crib in here?” Her voice has gone high and more than a little freaked out. “And all those weird bedrooms? How many kids did your group say there were?”
“Four.”
She shakes her head.
The last place to check out in the house is the kitchen.
There’s no hum of electricity, so I open the fridge expecting nothing.
Instead, a gust of cold air hits me in the face. The light inside turns on.
“Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” Lily whispers.
The only thing in the fridge is a half-gallon of milk.
“Somebodydoeslive here. There’s, like, milk.”
“I don’t think they do.”
“Why not?”
I step to the side and point. Lily tucks herself into me and leans down. “What am I looking at? It’s milk.”
“The date.”
“It’s good for another—oh.”
It’s good for another week. That’s what she was about to say.
And it would have been good enough for another week, if we were here nineteen years ago.
Lily jerks upright and slams the door of the fridge. Her eyes arehuge.“Is this some kind of trick?”
“ThatI’mplaying on you?”
“Yeah!” She puts her hands on her hips. “Is this—is this some kind of haunted house bonding experience?”
“If it is,Ididn’t do it. I’ve never been here before.”
“That milk should beblack.”
“I agree.”
“There aren’t any kids here. Nobody’s put anything in that fridge for, like, twenty years.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“There’s nodust.”
“The dust is weird. Do you want to leave?”
