Curved and graceful, they had been shaped to resemble giant keyholes.
“Look at this house, Cleo!” Kate said. “It’s beautiful! It . . . Why are you smiling like that?”
I gestured toward the house as we walked up the path. “Do you really like it?”
“I adore it. It looks like a dollhouse. Why?”
“It was one of the first houses my brother built. He used to bring me here after school sometimes, during construction.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Is that true?”
I nodded. “Look at the owl,” I said, pointing.
We climbed the steps. A carved wooden owl perched on the railing. It was ten inches high, round and wise as it looked out onto the street. Kate
ooh
ed and
aah
ed when she realized the porch rail and the owl were one piece, carved from a single length of wood.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” She bent to take a closer look. “Your brother must have a romantic soul.”
I made a face. “I wouldn’t go that far. And please don’t ever tell him that.”
Kate laughed. She knocked on the door. When no one answered, she shrugged. “I’ll check the back.”
Kate disappeared around the side of the house. Within minutes she reappeared, unconcerned. “Nothing. I looked in the kitchen window. Everything looks fine. They must be out.”
I couldn’t help picturing Tess Cooke in her bedroom. Unable to call for help. Too far gone to realize she even needed it.
“Let’s ask the neighbors,” I said. “Just in case.”
“Sure.”
We retraced our steps down the path.
“My brother Gabriel loves to build things,” Kate said. “He would spend all day with his blocks if my mama—”
A thud, faint but unmistakable, sounded behind us. We spun on our heels.
“What was that?” My eyes darted around the immaculate yard.
“I don’t know. It sounded like . . .” Kate’s hand clamped around my arm. She pointed up at the house. “Look!”
On the second floor, a crack had appeared in one of the keyhole windows. Even as we watched, it grew, spreading across the glass like a spider’s web. I met Kate’s shocked stare, then raced back up the steps and tried the door.
“It’s locked!” I said.
Kate ran toward the side of the house. I sprinted after her. On the back porch, an assortment of blue flowerpots crowded near the door. Kate was already on her knees, lifting one pot after another.
“This door is locked too,” she said without looking up. I dropped to my knees and started pushing aside pots. One tub was bigger than the others and flowerless, but still filled with dirt. I shoved it aside and saw a brass key.
I held up the key, triumphant. “Found it!”
We scrambled to our feet. I fumbled with the lock. It finally turned. We ran through the kitchen, down the hall, and up a curved staircase. The air was scented with lemon polish and candle wax. Portraits flashed by on the walls. I caught a glimpse of dour men and women dressed in old-fashioned clothing.
At the top of the landing, four rooms branched off. Kate rushed directly to the far end of the hall. I followed, glancing through open doorways as I passed. The first room, a bath, was empty. Across from the bath, a tiny bedroom was unoccupied. Feeble sunlight streamed through the window onto a cradle and a stuffed blue chair. A nursery.
In the third room, a baseball bat stood in the corner beside a desk. The bed was unmade, the patchwork quilt kicked aside. A lone white sock languished on the wood floor. On the nightstand was an old Kodak camera and an empty glass.
“Cleo!” Kate shouted.
I rushed to the last room. A man and woman lay on the bed beneath a pile of bedcovers. The man might have been in his thirties, with damp red hair plastered against his skull. His eyes were closed. The woman was awake, her hair also red, but wild and curly. She shivered as Kate lifted her head and held a glass of water to her lips. The smell of urine, sharp and pungent, saturated the air.
I looked toward the cracked window and saw
“Look at this house, Cleo!” Kate said. “It’s beautiful! It . . . Why are you smiling like that?”
I gestured toward the house as we walked up the path. “Do you really like it?”
“I adore it. It looks like a dollhouse. Why?”
“It was one of the first houses my brother built. He used to bring me here after school sometimes, during construction.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Is that true?”
I nodded. “Look at the owl,” I said, pointing.
We climbed the steps. A carved wooden owl perched on the railing. It was ten inches high, round and wise as it looked out onto the street. Kate
ooh
ed and
aah
ed when she realized the porch rail and the owl were one piece, carved from a single length of wood.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” She bent to take a closer look. “Your brother must have a romantic soul.”
I made a face. “I wouldn’t go that far. And please don’t ever tell him that.”
Kate laughed. She knocked on the door. When no one answered, she shrugged. “I’ll check the back.”
Kate disappeared around the side of the house. Within minutes she reappeared, unconcerned. “Nothing. I looked in the kitchen window. Everything looks fine. They must be out.”
I couldn’t help picturing Tess Cooke in her bedroom. Unable to call for help. Too far gone to realize she even needed it.
“Let’s ask the neighbors,” I said. “Just in case.”
“Sure.”
We retraced our steps down the path.
“My brother Gabriel loves to build things,” Kate said. “He would spend all day with his blocks if my mama—”
A thud, faint but unmistakable, sounded behind us. We spun on our heels.
“What was that?” My eyes darted around the immaculate yard.
“I don’t know. It sounded like . . .” Kate’s hand clamped around my arm. She pointed up at the house. “Look!”
On the second floor, a crack had appeared in one of the keyhole windows. Even as we watched, it grew, spreading across the glass like a spider’s web. I met Kate’s shocked stare, then raced back up the steps and tried the door.
“It’s locked!” I said.
Kate ran toward the side of the house. I sprinted after her. On the back porch, an assortment of blue flowerpots crowded near the door. Kate was already on her knees, lifting one pot after another.
“This door is locked too,” she said without looking up. I dropped to my knees and started pushing aside pots. One tub was bigger than the others and flowerless, but still filled with dirt. I shoved it aside and saw a brass key.
I held up the key, triumphant. “Found it!”
We scrambled to our feet. I fumbled with the lock. It finally turned. We ran through the kitchen, down the hall, and up a curved staircase. The air was scented with lemon polish and candle wax. Portraits flashed by on the walls. I caught a glimpse of dour men and women dressed in old-fashioned clothing.
At the top of the landing, four rooms branched off. Kate rushed directly to the far end of the hall. I followed, glancing through open doorways as I passed. The first room, a bath, was empty. Across from the bath, a tiny bedroom was unoccupied. Feeble sunlight streamed through the window onto a cradle and a stuffed blue chair. A nursery.
In the third room, a baseball bat stood in the corner beside a desk. The bed was unmade, the patchwork quilt kicked aside. A lone white sock languished on the wood floor. On the nightstand was an old Kodak camera and an empty glass.
“Cleo!” Kate shouted.
I rushed to the last room. A man and woman lay on the bed beneath a pile of bedcovers. The man might have been in his thirties, with damp red hair plastered against his skull. His eyes were closed. The woman was awake, her hair also red, but wild and curly. She shivered as Kate lifted her head and held a glass of water to her lips. The smell of urine, sharp and pungent, saturated the air.
I looked toward the cracked window and saw
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