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  “Yeah.” Hunter stiffened. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

  “What happened to your sister?”

  “Huh?” The unexpected question made him shrink.

  “Your sister. What happened?”

  “She, uh . . . she died. Lymphoma.” He blinked back a swell of tears he hadn’t even known were there. “She was eleven.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ava went silent a moment. “That’s why your mother is so sad. And your dad.”

  “I guess. Yeah.” A shiver ran through him. She’d been watching them for weeks, snooping in corners, listening to their every word. It was her, he realized. She had broken into his mother’s laptop that day. The shape of her sat in a puddle of white silk. Mom’s nightgown. Margot’s face the day she’d ransacked his room flashed in the back of his mind.

  “Did Myron really kill that girl? Abigail?” Another cloud of cigarette smoke blew toward him. “The one in Boston?”

  Stunned, he sat there a beat before answering. “He didn’t kill anyone. A patient died of complications. It’s really sad, but it happens.”

  “He’s being sued for malpractice, you know. Is that why they moved you all the way to Ohio?”

  “I don’t know.” Hunter felt his agitation building, but he needed to keep her talking. “My dad got this new job. People move all the time.”

  “You know something’s wrong with him, right? He’s hiding something.” She let that hang in the air a moment and then said, “Your mom is too. What’s her story? Besides your sister, I mean.”

  “Fuck you, okay?” he barked, furious now. “Why are you still here? Clyde Martin died of a heart attack. Maureen went to a hospital.”

  “You mean she went to a nuthouse.”

  The wound in her voice softened him just a little. “Yeah. Is she still there?”

  “I dunno.” Her voice had dropped to almost a whisper. “I don’t care.”

  “Why are you here?”

  She ignored the question. “It wasn’t a heart attack, you know.”

  “Who? Mr. Martin?”

  “This place killed him.”

  Hunter’s anger fell into confusion. “What?”

  “This house is bad for men, for boys. They all die here. Almost every single one. And the women go mad. Did you know that?”

  Hunter’s mouth went dry. He took another sip of wine before trusting his voice. “I, uh . . . well, Walter Rawlings died here.”

  “Yeah. Both of them.”

  “And Clyde. And Niles Gorman.”

  “Benjamin Klussman disappeared. Did you find anything about him yet?”

  “Benny?”

  “He disappeared the day after a girl named Katie Green died. Strange, huh?”

  DeAD GiRL. BAD BeNNy.

  Hunter thought on this a moment. “Did Benny do it?”

  “You’ve seen the writing in the closet, right? The girl was murdered right outside this house. He disappeared the day she was found.”

  Hunter struggled to string his thoughts together through the buzzing wine and the intoxicating smell of her next to him. “How do you know so much about all of this?”

  “I told you. I’ve lived here for years.” She paused a moment and considered him from the shadow beneath the wine rack. “Did you know the Shakers used to speak to the dead?”

  “The Shakers?”

  “This whole place was a religious commune or cult or whatever. They believed it was heaven on earth. ‘The Valley of God’s Pleasure.’ They’d dance outside in the moonlight until they had visions.”

  “That’s pretty weird.”

  The ember of her cigarette glowed in the dark. She traced the air with it, making circles. “They believed if you sang and danced inside a ring of trees, you could hear the dead speak.”

  Pilgrim women twitched through his head. He shook them away. “That sounds like a bunch of bullshit.”

  “No. It’s true. You read about it yourself at the library. I saw you there.” The cigarette tip pointed at him.

  “You followed me?” He took a breath. “Why? Why do you care about any of this? Why are you here? Why are you stalking us?”

  Ava went quiet a minute and finally said, “What if they were right?”

  “Right about what?”

  “About speaking to the dead.”

  Hunter held his breath a moment. She’s insane. “Do, um . . . do you speak to them?”

  The shadow of her didn’t answer.

  “What did you mean earlier? When you said you were waiting? Waiting for what?”

  The uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. A deafening sadness that left Hunter utterly disarmed, heartbroken, and then angry. He shifted awkwardly, wondering whether to call the police. Trespassing. Larceny. Assault?

  “Did you . . . cut Roger? In my mom’s bathroom? There was blood. And a razor.” He felt the floor again for the razor as he said it. It wasn’t there. “He had a bandage on his hand last time I saw him outside the library.”

  “He cut himself when he tried to grab it from me. He’ll be fine.” She let out another breathy laugh. “I think I scared him.”

  Hunter imagined Roger turning at the sight of a strange girl watching him in the mirror, grabbing at the blade, and slicing his skin. It could’ve happened like that, he decided, not wanting to envision the alternative. “He wouldn’t tell me what happened.”

  “You do know he robbed you, right?”

  “Yeah. He’s an asshole.” Hunter furrowed his brow. Didn’t you rob me too? “Does anybody know you’re here but me?”

  “No.”

  “This is messed up, Ava. You shouldn’t be here, okay? You need to go. You need help.”

  “Help from who? They won’t believe me.” She angrily stubbed the lit end of the cigarette out on the floor. He watched her do it, realizing that he would be blamed for the burn mark and the lingering smell of smoke in the air. “They never do.”

  “What won’t they believe?”

  The silence that came in the wake of his question filled his ears and lungs. Resentment gathered around her. She finally said, “Listen. I need your help.” A small hand dropped onto his thigh, scattering his thoughts.

  “Help? With what?”

  Her breath came closer, sweet with wine, falling on his cheek as though she might kiss him. His pulse quickened.

  “Can you keep a secret?” she asked.

  The heat of her body next to him set every nerve on edge. He breathed in the sweet, smoky smell of her and made a wish. “Maybe.”

  “You can’t tell anyone you’ve seen me.”

  Hunter pulled away to consider it. “For how long?”

  “Until you leave. Your family needs to leave this house. It doesn’t belong to you.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t belong to us?”

  She ignored the question. “You have to convince them to leave, Hunter. Before it’s too late. Tell them you want to go back home to Boston.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sure they’ll just pack right up. What the fuck makes you think they’ll listen to me? I’ve been saying that for weeks. I never wanted to come here.” He felt furious and helpless and bewildered all at once. Before it’s too late?

  She stood up, taking the warmth of her body with her. The white silk lit in the doorway. Then a shimmer of long hair. A slim silhouette. “Come home tomorrow. They’re worried about you.”

  “Wait.” In all this time, his parents hadn’t noticed this strange girl living in the house. They just blamed him for the missing food, the lights being left on, the missing clothes. All along it was her. “If you’re gonna stay here, could you maybe . . . stop doing things to get me in trouble?”

  “When have you ever been in trouble?” she asked with a bitterness that shamed him. “Get some sleep. They’ll be up soon.”

  Too stunned and confused by their conversation to move, he listened to her light footsteps on the basement stairs. The faint threads of a song drifted down the steps behind her.

&nb
sp; An angel whispered in my ear.

  The dead, they know, they know you, dear.

  Their moonlight sees just like the sun

  Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run . . .

  41

  The Rawlings Family

  January 24, 1931

  Georgina’s ashen face emerged from the stairwell.

  Two strangers were smoking cigarettes in her attic. They sat in the rectangle of light outside the bathroom door on cast-off chairs. The strange woman wore only a slip, and the man sat in an undershirt and shorts. Not the specter of her husband. Not the restless dead the old Shaker woman had warned her about. Just strangers.

  The sight of them knocked her breath out and nearly sent her tumbling down the steps. She clutched at her neck to find it bare. She was herself wearing nothing but a nightgown.

  The hot smell of sweat and smoke chased any thought of ghosts from her mind. There was nothing otherworldly about either of the two people sitting there. Was there? She squinted at them and then at the door to the maid’s old bedroom. Ella, she thought to herself. Ella with the keys. Ella let them in. All the knocks she’d heard at the back door and all the footsteps at night took on a new color in Georgina’s mind. Ella had kept it all from her, she realized, and now Ella was sound asleep one floor down.

  “Who are you?” Georgina whispered.

  “Evenin’, ma’am,” the sweaty man finally said with a tip of an imagined cap. “Apologies for the noise. We was just talkin’.”

  The woman beside him didn’t speak. She just smirked at the ghoulish lady of the house and puffed on her cigarette.

  “What are you doing here?” Georgina demanded, her feet hovering on the steps, ready to run. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Felix. Ange has me watchin’ over things. You know, Big Ange?” the surly man asked with a broken grin. He looked more likely to rob the house than watch over anything. “I believe he was a friend of your husband’s?”

  Georgina’s shock and indignation wilted noticeably as she stood there trying to remember. The accountant had referenced “certain creditors” when they’d talked three months earlier, sitting in the parlor. This was after the notice from the bank had come, explaining in cryptic terms that the insurance money had run out. The letter had sat on Walter’s desk for weeks with the other unopened bills and invitations. Georgina had refused to read it.

  Walter always handled that sort of thing, she’d explained helplessly when the stern-faced accountant showed up at her door.

  Walter isn’t here now. Is he?

  “Forgive me, but I did not know Walter’s friends very well. Or his business partners,” she said, her voice thin and brittle. Georgina climbed the last two steps on unsteady legs. The warm yellow light beckoned her closer. The water boiling behind the storage-room door bubbled at her ears. She puzzled at the sound and then Ella’s room full of crates and boxes she didn’t recognize. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tendin’ the still.” The man motioned to the closed door.

  “The ‘still’?” she repeated.

  He stood up in nothing but his unmentionables and opened the door to reveal a complex network of pipes and kettles. A makeshift smokestack had been cut through the far wall. “Ain’t exactly legal, but no one’s gonna bother it in a nice house like this. Are they?”

  Georgina stared at the Frankenstein apparatus churning and steaming. Sacks of sugar were stacked on the floor along with a collection of mason jars filled with homemade liquor. “How long have you been up here?”

  Felix took in the full view of the high-society lady in nothing but a thin shift of a nightgown and then forced himself to avert his eyes. “A couple of weeks, I guess. ’Cept this one came along two days ago.”

  The strange woman flashed a guarded smile at Georgina. Her legs were bare and crossed like a harlot’s. The thin shoulder strap of her slip drooped down to her elbow. Georgina immediately assessed her station in life. Not even proper enough to be a maid. “You were a friend of Walter’s as well?”

  “I might’ve met ’im once or twice.” The harlot’s lips curled into a slow smile. After a cool appraisal of the older woman standing stiff and thin as an ironing board before her, she added, “Don’t take much wonderin’ why now, does it?”

  Color flushed into Georgina’s cheeks for reasons she couldn’t quite identify outright. It wouldn’t do at all to ask more pointed questions. She could barely form them in her own mind, much less say them out loud. The thought of Walter and this woman together in any context left her speechless. “Well, that’s . . . he is not here. Anymore. So I cannot imagine what you are doing here.”

  Georgina didn’t hear little Walter creep up the stairs behind her, peeking over the edge of the floor.

  “The boss thought it’d be best if I laid low for a bit.” The woman shot her male counterpart a look and puffed on her cigarette until the red coal had burned down to her fingertips, then tossed it into a rusted can. She stood up and pulled her drooping slip strap back onto her shoulder. “Where’s the gypsy?”

  “The what?” Georgina took a step back. Little Walter ducked into the shadow.

  “The old gypsy. The one that locks us up here day and night. Where is she?” Carmen arched a penciled eyebrow.

  Felix shifted uncomfortably on his stool. Their argument still lingered in the smoke, hanging thick in the air above them. I don’t care what Ange says. He ain’t here, is he? What’s to stop us from just takin’ that cash over there and catchin’ out on a train, huh? Let the gypsy deal with him.

  Carmen’s wrist was still red where Felix had grabbed it. Where exactly we gonna go? Who you think you’re coppin’ from? Big Ange’s got eyes in every town, and I ain’t about to get fixed for some little tart.

  She’d slapped him then.

  Emboldened, the harlot took a step toward her hostess. “The gypsy sleepin’? How about the little one? He asleep too?”

  Georgina lost all color along with her breath. Little Walter.

  The horrible woman produced a straight razor from her garter belt and snapped it open. “Whattaya say we let ’em sleep, doll? You stay nice and quiet, and they won’t be disturbed one bit. Got it?”

  The half-naked man took a step toward her. “Take it easy, Carmen.”

  “Shut up, Felix,” she said without even looking at him. She’d figured him for a fool the first moment she saw him sitting there slack jawed, watching the still bubble. No imagination, she’d said with a roll of her eyes. “This is between me and Missus Walter here. Ain’t it.”

  Georgina’s wild stare darted from the open razor to the brazen grin on the woman’s face. She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Give us the key to the door, hon.” Carmen held out her hand.

  Georgina looked dumbly down at the brass key in her hand. She’d forgotten it was there at all. With a plea in her eye, she handed it over. Not Walter. My sweet baby Walter. The phantom sound of a baby cried deep inside the house. No one heard it but Georgina.

  Key in hand, Carmen nodded at her. “Good. Now you tell Big Ange I had to leave. Okay?” With that, she grabbed her bag off the floor and sauntered into Ella’s old room. Felix and Georgina watched dumbstruck while she loaded her bag up with cash from the apple crates until it was near bursting.

  “Hey. Hey!” Felix barked. “What the hell are we supposed to tell Big Ange about the dough you’re takin’, huh?”

  Georgina turned to him, hopeful that he would know what to do, but it became clear from the sway in his step and the slur in his voice that he’d been sampling the mason jars heavily all night. His foot knocked an empty one over as he staggered toward the harlot, red faced.

  Carmen chuckled at him. “What do I care what you tell ’im? Tell ’im you got too drunk to stop me. Tell ’im you were asleep. Tell ’im whatever you gotta tell ’im. I ain’t stayin’ here no more.”

  “You know damn well I can’t do that.” He raised a heavy fist at her, but she easily ducked to the side, wher
e Georgina stood petrified and gaping.

  With rough hands, Carmen grabbed the smaller woman by the neck and pressed the blade against her throat. “And you know damn well what will happen if you don’t butt out, Felix. Whattaya think Big Ange will miss more? A few thousand or this little safe house? Huh?”

  The cold steel against her neck sent Georgina’s mind plunging into shock. Locked out, she watched the room as though from outside the attic window. None of it was possible. The harlot in her home, the drunk henchman stumbling around as he tried to contemplate his options. Her detached gaze drifted to the boxes of cash just sitting there in her attic. Enough to pay back all of her husband’s debts and then some, she thought, all there right under her roof.

  “Just take what you want,” she heard herself whisper. All feeling left her limbs as her bones dissolved inside her. Is this how it feels to die? she wondered. To stare up at the world from beneath the ground? Her mind slipped further down the hole.

  “Whoa. Take it easy, girlie. Think. Okay? Think.” Sweat had broken out over Felix’s forehead. His options were grim. His gun lay in his trousers in the next room. She’d been so clever, so very clever, removing him from them. “This ain’t gonna work out for you. Not like this.”

  Carmen pressed the razor deeper against the poor woman’s neck. The sharpened blade broke the surface of Georgina’s skin in a shrieking line of pain and a thin trickle of cold blood. “Thanks for the thought, Felix. Now you do what I say or kiss our lady here good night.”

  “No!” a small voice shouted. Walter bolted out of the stairwell, his little fists flying. “Stop! You leave her alone!”

  “Wal-ter,” Georgina choked, nearly swooning at the sight of him. Her voice failing, her body falling. Carmen dropped her to the floor and grabbed Walter by the arm.

  He swung and kicked and shouted, “Ella!”

  “Ain’t you a feisty thing?” Carmen wrestled him closer with one hand gripping the razor. Small cuts slashed his flailing hands.

  Georgina watched the horrifying scene unfold before her in broken time, her nose pressed to the glass of the moment, unable to move or even speak. Not my baby. No. NO!

  “Listen, lady, I’m gettin’ outta here.” The thrashing limbs of the little boy bucked wildly as she talked. “Now, I want you to tell me wh—”