intended to live very well into their old age. The several hundred thousand theyâd left had made Anne soft in the head. Thatâs the only explanation she had for letting Andrew have the house. Sheâd been married to her first husband back then, and Andrew had still been living at home. Heâd always been a prissy man. Women made him uncomfortable and he never dated, so Anne had thought she was being magnanimous by letting him have a place to live out his lonely years.
Two husbands laterâtwo husbands and their two failed businesses, both of which Anne had fundedâand Anne was broke. For the past five years, sheâd been living here in her childhood home, which Andrew had turned into an inn. Sheâd always secretly felt it was a little creepy, like creating a shrine so people could visit their dead parents. Andrew gave her room and board (their two tiny bedrooms were now in the basement) and minimum wage, which she spent on beer, cigarettes and magazines. This was her life now. She accepted that. She was fifty-nine, so close to sixty she could taste it, and she had no expectations for her own happiness anymore.
She closed the door to Russell Zahlerâs room behind her. This was officially called the Andrew Ainsely Room. It was even written on a small plaque on the door. This was Andrewâs old bedroom from when they were children. It was decorated in dark purples and aubergines, which Andrew called royal colors.
Heâd named Anneâs old bedroom the Hopes and Dreams Room.
She wasnât sure, but she thought that was a dig.
She set the sheets on the queen-sized bed and looked around. Russell Zahler had left the heat turned up and the clear glass lamp by the bed on. But he hadnât hung anything in the closet, and there were no toiletries in the small attached bathroom. There was only his large leather suitcase on the luggage rack at the bottom of the bed. She walked over to it and clicked it open. There wasnât much inside. Another gray suit and a white shirt, folded; a threadbare pair of pajamas; that outlandish lord-of-the-manor robe heâd worn that night heâd walked into the kitchen and scared Anne to death because sheâd thought it was Andrew, catching her smoking again; socks and underwear; and a black toiletry bag containing a comb, toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, a bar of soap, a razor and a bottle of aspirin.
That was it.
That wasnât much of a story. She was a little disappointed.
She frowned as her fingers touched the bottom of the suitcase. It didnât feel like she had reached all the way down. She tapped at it with her fingernails. It sounded hollow. She found the corners and pulled the divider up, revealing a secret space.
Ha! she almost said out loud, satisfied as she always was when she discovered something someone didnât want found.
Inside was an old deck of tarot cards, a small white crystal on a cheap chain necklace and a thick pile of tattered office folders held together by a large rubber band.
Anne took the file folders out and slid off the rubber band. The tabs on the folders had names of people on them, each folder containing newspaper clippings and photographs and copies of public documents like land deeds and marriage certificates. She didnât recognize any of the names until she came to the tab on the folder that read: Lorelei Waverley.
That was Claire and Sydney Waverleyâs mother. Anne had been a few years younger than Lorelei. Lorelei had been odd, like all the rest of that family. But wild and sad, also. Lorelei had left town years ago and died somewhere in Tennessee, from what Anne had heard. Was that why Russell Zahler was so interested in the Waverleys? Because of Lorelei? Had he once known her? Anne looked inside the folder. There were several copies of a single old photograph. It was taken in the 1970s, judging by the pointed collars and the mustard and brown colors of the clothing. In the
Two husbands laterâtwo husbands and their two failed businesses, both of which Anne had fundedâand Anne was broke. For the past five years, sheâd been living here in her childhood home, which Andrew had turned into an inn. Sheâd always secretly felt it was a little creepy, like creating a shrine so people could visit their dead parents. Andrew gave her room and board (their two tiny bedrooms were now in the basement) and minimum wage, which she spent on beer, cigarettes and magazines. This was her life now. She accepted that. She was fifty-nine, so close to sixty she could taste it, and she had no expectations for her own happiness anymore.
She closed the door to Russell Zahlerâs room behind her. This was officially called the Andrew Ainsely Room. It was even written on a small plaque on the door. This was Andrewâs old bedroom from when they were children. It was decorated in dark purples and aubergines, which Andrew called royal colors.
Heâd named Anneâs old bedroom the Hopes and Dreams Room.
She wasnât sure, but she thought that was a dig.
She set the sheets on the queen-sized bed and looked around. Russell Zahler had left the heat turned up and the clear glass lamp by the bed on. But he hadnât hung anything in the closet, and there were no toiletries in the small attached bathroom. There was only his large leather suitcase on the luggage rack at the bottom of the bed. She walked over to it and clicked it open. There wasnât much inside. Another gray suit and a white shirt, folded; a threadbare pair of pajamas; that outlandish lord-of-the-manor robe heâd worn that night heâd walked into the kitchen and scared Anne to death because sheâd thought it was Andrew, catching her smoking again; socks and underwear; and a black toiletry bag containing a comb, toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, a bar of soap, a razor and a bottle of aspirin.
That was it.
That wasnât much of a story. She was a little disappointed.
She frowned as her fingers touched the bottom of the suitcase. It didnât feel like she had reached all the way down. She tapped at it with her fingernails. It sounded hollow. She found the corners and pulled the divider up, revealing a secret space.
Ha! she almost said out loud, satisfied as she always was when she discovered something someone didnât want found.
Inside was an old deck of tarot cards, a small white crystal on a cheap chain necklace and a thick pile of tattered office folders held together by a large rubber band.
Anne took the file folders out and slid off the rubber band. The tabs on the folders had names of people on them, each folder containing newspaper clippings and photographs and copies of public documents like land deeds and marriage certificates. She didnât recognize any of the names until she came to the tab on the folder that read: Lorelei Waverley.
That was Claire and Sydney Waverleyâs mother. Anne had been a few years younger than Lorelei. Lorelei had been odd, like all the rest of that family. But wild and sad, also. Lorelei had left town years ago and died somewhere in Tennessee, from what Anne had heard. Was that why Russell Zahler was so interested in the Waverleys? Because of Lorelei? Had he once known her? Anne looked inside the folder. There were several copies of a single old photograph. It was taken in the 1970s, judging by the pointed collars and the mustard and brown colors of the clothing. In the
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