No One's Home Page 26

  And we shall plant four trees, one at each corner for each Angel that speaks.

  “What the fuck is that?” The writing was smudged and hard to read in places. “Cliff, come look at this.”

  “I have no idea, man. But there’s more of it.” Cliff pointed his cell phone at the opposite wall.

  Prepare a Stone to set at the head of the Fountain.

  In the Grove, we shall sing unto thee . . .

  “It’s like they really were up here casting spells or something. You think this is where that kid died? You know. In that ghost story?”

  “You mean if Niles isn’t completely full of shit?” Cliff laughed. “Probably just junkies or kids. Like the graffiti downstairs and the radiators.”

  “Right.” His friend surveyed the rest of the attic with the light of his phone. “Still pretty creepy . . . Well, I’m bored. I’m going back down. You coming?”

  “Yeah. In a sec.” Cliff finished the beer in his hand and shuffled into the bathroom to take a leak before heading down the steps.

  He didn’t notice the crawl space door silently swing open behind him.

  Downstairs, the kid stopped outside the bedroom where Niles had led Natalie. He stood next to the closed door and listened to the gasping breaths coming from under the door. Niles let out a muffled grunt. The boy in the hall wrinkled his nose and laughed.

  A panicked shout cut the air.

  It was followed by running feet pounding the length of the house and down the attic steps. A door slammed open in the hallway. “Run!” Cliff shouted. “Somebody’s here! Guys! We gotta go! Now!”

  Cliff blew past his friend and thundered down the front stairs.

  Somebody’s here?

  A figure appeared next to the attic door. It stood there, a hint of white against the dark shadows of the hall. It was the shape of a girl.

  The kid in the hall stumbled back and then went careening down the stairs after Cliff. “Holy shit! Holy shit! What was that?”

  In the living room, Sammy pushed the boy on top of her away and sat up, pants unbuttoned, as Cliff burst in.

  “Get up! Somebody’s here!”

  The tall kid pulled his hand out from under Sammy’s shirt. “What?”

  “I saw someone. In the attic. We gotta go. Where are the others?”

  “I thought they were with you.”

  The other boy barreled up behind Cliff, spooked sober. “I saw it, man! Jesus, I saw it. Niles can fuck straight off. I’m out. You comin’?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He just took off for the back door. The rest followed in a fumbling blur, leaving Niles and Natalie behind.

  Ava approached the stair railing as the four teenagers dashed out the side door and into the night. The sound of Niles retching pulled her toward the closed bedroom door. She opened it to find two teenagers sprawled on the mattress, twitching ever so slightly.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  She pushed into the room as the couple convulsed and seized from whatever they had smoked. Ava hovered over the pair of them a moment. Their breaths grew shallow and thin. Blood had drained from their faces. Vomit collected in the girl’s hair. The foil and glass tube had tumbled to the floor.

  The boy’s cell phone lay next to his trembling hand. Ava reached for it, and a moment later, a shrill voice came through the speaker. “911. What’s your emergency? . . . Hello? Are you there?”

  “Come right away.” Numbness buzzed through Ava’s veins. Not again. Not again. Not again. “Two kids. They’re dying. It’s an overdose.”

  “Overdose of what?”

  “I don’t know . . . some sort of powder.”

  “Stay on the line. We’re tracing your phone,” the disembodied voice announced into the mattress. “Can you give me an address?”

  “14895 Lee Road.”

  Ava ignored the rest of the questions. She wiped the phone of fingerprints and set it back down next to Niles. The boy’s pinpoint pupils lolled to the back of his skull as she hovered next to his ear.

  “What do you see?” she whispered. “Can you see them?”

  His answer was nothing more than a hitched gasp for air. A gurgle.

  When the sirens came, Ava hid in the trees at the back of the lot, watching as heavy boots shook the walls and flashlights darted across the ceilings through the shuddering windows. Out on the street, flashing red and blue lights shrouded the house and bruised the sky.

  50

  The Spielman Family

  August 10, 2018

  The walls flashed blue and green at the end of the center hall.

  Margot dragged her tired feet from the kitchen toward the convulsing lights of the television to find Myron passed out on the leather couch in the den. She glanced down at him, relieved to find him unconscious, and headed up the stairs.

  Hunter’s door was shut, but she could hear his muffled voice talking with someone. He’d returned home on foot an hour earlier and gone straight to his computer.

  Margot shut her bathroom door and pressed her forehead to the wood, forcing air in and out of her lungs through the lump in her throat. In the unforgiving glare of their white master bath, she stripped off her clothes and buried them in her wicker hamper. They reeked of cigarette smoke, spilled vodka, and someone else’s sweat. In the shower, she scrubbed her skin raw as though trying to remove an entire layer and examined a small welt on her left breast. Her head shook at it, tears pooling. It was a mistake. All of it. A terrible mistake, and now . . .

  Her lip trembling, Margot pushed her face into the scalding water, hoping to wash it all away. Why? Why? She let out the sob she hadn’t been able to muster the week before while holding the photograph of her lost daughter. She ripped the bloodied bandage off her palm and forced the wound into the water, letting the white shot of pain blind her. She dug her fingernail into the pale silver line of a scar on her left wrist as though hoping to rip it open. She crumpled to the floor of the shower and wept.

  The hot water eventually ran out. She pulled herself up and set about erasing what had happened. She scrubbed the bloodstains from the bathroom floor, the sink, her closet. A strange leather case caught her attention as she rinsed the sponge. It sat on the marble counter, between her sink and Myron’s. She dried her hands before opening it.

  A syringe. A spoon. A small baggie of powder.

  “Oh my God!” she breathed, staring at the contraband. She spun around as though expecting to find Myron standing there and then turned back to the case. Panicked, she picked it up, shoved it into one of Myron’s drawers next to his shaving cream, and slammed it shut. “Myron?” she whispered to herself.

  She surveyed the large bathroom with suspicion and began opening and closing cabinets and drawers. She turned to his closet behind her and stormed inside, shoving suits and shirts aside, checking shelves, emptying the hamper, opening drawers. In the bottom drawer, under his spare gym clothes, she found a stack of files.

  The first was a collection of his clippings and articles, showing a much younger Myron back when he’d first been named a head surgeon at Boston General. He had been a fellow at Johns Hopkins and published articles with the New England Journal of Medicine. The last clipping was from a much smaller newspaper article.

  Local Doctor Questioned in Patient Death

  Margot set aside the clippings to view the files underneath.

  Malpractice Suit—Abigail Marty

  Mortality-Morbidity Report—Abigail Marty

  Patient Record 372-XX-8444

  Margot’s gaze darted between the file labels. She knew about the pending lawsuit, but seeing the actual files was different. One was stamped “Confidential.” She flipped it open.

  Medical charts. Hospital reports. She paused at the words “Cause of Death” and read more carefully.

  Hemorrhage from surgical site and aspiration into lungs. Uneven sutures resulting in dehiscence . . . Possible surgical error, further review recommended.

  She flipped to the next page.

/>   Comments: Even more troubling than the possibility of surgical error, the board finds the diagnosis of chronic tonsillitis to be ambiguous at best, and the subsequent surgery likely unwarranted. Further investigation has shown statistically anomalous rates of tonsillectomies in this department, indicating inordinate use of surgical intervention and the possibility of unethical medical practice. Inflated profits have been a direct result of the high rate of invasive procedures. The board recommends the suspension of Dr. Myron Spielman’s practice until further investigation can be completed, effective immediately.

  Her jaw dropped as she read the words again, trying to make sense of them. “Myron,” she whispered. “What did you do?”

  Fresh tears burned her eyes as she shoved the papers back in their place. Her breath came faster as the house of cards fell in her mind. The patient death, the lawsuit, the move, the drugs, her marriage. Hunter.

  She stumbled back into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. As she dried off, a flash of pink caught her eye on the marble counter. A plaster handprint lay next to her bottles of perfume. It was the handprint of a little girl, her daughter. She spun around, certain it hadn’t been there before.

  The door to the hallway stood open.

  She ran through it and into the hall. The empty foyer gaped over the railing. She pushed open doors one after another until she reached Hunter’s room. She banged on it with her fist until she heard him call back. “Yeah?”

  “Hunter, honey? Were you in my bathroom just now?”

  The door opened just a crack. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  She looked a fright. Skin red, eyes swollen. She studied his mussed hair and startled expression for signs of guilt and found none. “Nothing. Just . . .” Did you see your father’s drugs? Were you in my closet? Have you heard an intruder? “Your father must’ve moved some things around. Can I come in?”

  He shifted his weight uncomfortably and opened the door.

  Margot sat down on the edge of his bed and glanced over at his computer desk. A newspaper article filled the glowing screen. It was about the death of a boy. “What are you reading about?”

  “Nothing.” Hunter clicked off the image. “Just more research.”

  “About the house?”

  “Yeah. Kind of.”

  “Listen, Hunter—”

  The sound of the toilet flushing in the hall bathroom next door stopped her cold.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is someone here?”

  Hunter’s jaw dropped to say something, but before he could utter a word, a girl appeared in the doorway. Blonde and petite with an unsettling feral look in her eye, the girl was wearing Hunter’s T-shirt and a pair of leggings. “Hi, Mrs. Spielman. I’m Ava.”

  “Ava?” Margot threw Hunter a glance that was a mix of confusion and relief. The name ruffled something in the back of her mind she couldn’t quite catch. “Well, hello.”

  “Uh, yeah. Mom, this is Ava.” Hunter tried to hide his alarm by glaring at the girl wearing his T-shirt. What are you doing?

  Ava ignored him and smiled at Margot from the doorway, performing her best impression of a normal girl. “We met at the library a few weeks ago. I hope it’s okay I came over. Hunter didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all.” Margot straightened her robe and stood up, suddenly aware of how terrible she looked. She shot her son another glance, checking his face. The boy seemed petrified in the presence of a girl his own age. “It’s really nice to meet you, Ava. Call me Margot. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I mean, assuming your parents know you’re here?”

  Ava nodded demurely and settled into Margot’s spot on the bed.

  “Okay. Well. I’ll let you two visit.” Margot turned to Hunter with a half smile. “Just leave the door open, okay?”

  “Uh, sure, Mom.”

  Margot turned on her heel and left the room, feeling foolish and exposed and utterly out of sorts. On her way back to her bedroom, she caught sight of the attic door. It stood open, mocking her as she passed.

  That damn door!

  She stormed back to her bedroom and shook the contents of her purse out over the bedspread until she found a small paper bag from a locksmith’s shop. Inside rattled three steel skeleton keys. She tried each one in her own bedroom door until she found one that worked. With a breath of triumph and relief, she slipped back down the hallway and locked the attic door with a satisfying click.

  The soft voices of Ava and Hunter lilted back and forth at the far end of the hall. Margot held still and listened.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It’s better this way. You’ll see. I’m so tired of sneaking around. Now we don’t have to worry so much,” the girl cooed.

  Margot blinked in disbelief and then amusement. Hunter has been sneaking around. Hunter has a girlfriend. All inklings of an intruder in the house took on a different shade in her mind. How long has it been going on?

  She looked down at the key in her hand, suddenly feeling paranoid and hysterical. Perhaps there was a reasonable explanation for her getting locked in the attic the day before. Faulty hardware. Swollen wood. But someone had moved her things. She was sure of it. Had Hunter given this girl a tour of the house? she wondered. Had the two of them rifled through her closet the way she had rifled through his bedroom? She debated grilling the two teenagers about it but couldn’t bear the thought of embarrassing her son in front of the first girl to ever set foot in his bedroom.

  Exhausted, Margot returned to her own room. Sinking down against her pillow, she glanced over at Myron’s empty side of the bed. Myron.

  “Damn it,” she whispered and got up. Back in the bathroom, she grabbed his drug case from the vanity and carried it into her closet for safekeeping.

  A floor below her, Myron shifted on the leather couch. Brow slick with sweat and face contorted, he muttered to himself, lost in a dark and fitful dream. Walter’s pistol lay on the coffee table by his side. It was loaded.

  51

  Ava lay next to Hunter on his bed, staring up at the cracks on his ceiling. The heat of her skin sent electricity down his side, but he did his best to ignore it.

  “So. Are you ever going to tell me why you’re here?” he asked timidly. He decided not to mention the article he’d found online or what he’d learned that day in his research. “What are you waiting for in this creepy old house?”

  Ava didn’t answer. Instead, she rolled off the bed and walked over to the closet. Clicking on the light, she scanned the writing that Benny had left. “I can’t believe he’s still alive.”

  “Who?”

  “Benny. I wonder what he’ll tell you.” She traced the crayon markings with her fingertip.

  DeAD GiRL.

  She bent down and picked something up out of a box and carried it back to the bed. “Is this your sister?”

  Hunter looked over at the photograph in her hand. A little boy sitting on the lap of a girl with blonde curls. “Yeah. That’s Allison.”

  “What did you do when she died?” Ava sank onto the bed next to him, studying the girl in the photograph and then Hunter’s cherub face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did you do all the things you were supposed to do?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” He propped himself up on an elbow and frowned at her. He didn’t like where this was going.

  “You know. Did you cry for everyone at the funeral? Did you tell the child psychologist all of your feelings about it? Did you go back to school right away and act like nothing was wrong? What did you do?”

  His face darkened. “I’m not sure what the hell that has to do with anything.”

  “Did you believe she was really dead? Or did you look for her . . . at school? On the playground? At the store?”

  Uncomfortable and exposed, he looked down at his bare chest, bony with ribs and dotted with a few embarrassing hairs. He’d been getti
ng ready for bed when she’d shown up unannounced and uninvited. “Fuck you, okay? I was just a little kid! What the hell is your problem?”

  “Do you still try to talk to her?” Ava looked up from the photo at him. A tear had escaped one of her pale, lifeless eyes. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to wipe it away.

  “No. I haven’t done that in years. I guess I used to, though.” He sat up. The sight of her quivering lip made him forget he was angry. It made him want to hold her. “Ava. Are you okay?”

  She looked away from him and set the photograph next to his bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said and left the room.

  52

  The Rawlings Family

  January 24, 1931

  From the sidewalk, the house stood dark and serene against the night sky. The only sign of the trouble within could be glimpsed in the moving shadows that darkened the yellow glow of the attic windows. The ominous shapes shrank and swelled violently across the ceiling. A muffled scream caught on the wind and got lost in the rustling of the bare trees, falling silently down to the blanket of snow in the yard.

  The streetlights up and down Lee Road kept burning. The final sleeping hour unwound in silence. Not a soul could be seen wandering the sidewalks in the still moments before the first streetcar of morning would appear and the milkmen and the paperboys started on their routes. The houses to either side of Rawlingswood slept soundly, windows dark. A fat raccoon crept through the backyard, sniffing around the birdbath, scratching over the stones.

  The back door burst open, sending the raccoon scuttling for cover into the trees.

  Ella Rady, ashen and wild eyed, sprinted her heavy frame across the yard. Her ragged voice shattered the still air, echoing off the trees and the backs of the houses. “Help! Help us!” Her green robe flapped. Her bare feet cut a jagged line through the snow to the neighbor’s yard.

  The back door to the house gaped open in a silent scream.

  A half-dressed man appeared in the mouth of it, staring after Ella as she vanished through the trees. “Shit!” he muttered, taking off after her.