“Stacey says a killer always returns to the scene of a crime.”
“It happened years ago. The killer’s long gone, or dead. So that’s not going to happen. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that. You don’t know.”
“I do know. You’re safe here. We’re all safe here. Come on, let’s call it a night. Things will be brighter in the morning.” She turns to Stacey. “And don’t waste another minute looking up details and scaring yourself and your sister.”
“But—”
“We came to New York because we all needed a change of scenery and a positive experience.”
“I thought we came because Dad’s company made him transfer here for a year.”
“Yes. Of course. But everything happens for a reason.” This move, especially.
"Come on, Mom, that’s such a cliché.”
“Clichés are clichés because they’re true,” she informs Stacey. “And we have to make the most of this opportunity. So let’s look forward, and not dwell on some terrible tragedy that happened to strangers. Okay?”
Stacey shrugs. “Sure.”
After a moment, Piper agrees.
Not convincing, but Nora will take it.
She tells the girls good night and shuffles down the hall toward the master bedroom.
Keith is probably waiting up to discuss the situation. Maybe he, too, is worried about sleeping in a room where people were murdered.
No. When she opens the door, he appears to be deep in slumber.
She flips off the light, climbs into bed, and turns onto her side, her back to her husband’s. Listening to his breathing, she can’t tell whether he’s really asleep.
They’ve both grown proficient at faking sleep—and other things.
Stacey
Stacey turns off the bathroom light and steps into the dark hall.
Her parents’ bedroom door is closed at one end. She half expects to see her sister’s open at the other, and Piper having returned to Stacey’s room, still too anxious to sleep. But her door, too, is closed.
Stacey’s is still ajar, as she left it. Yes, exactly as she left it—she counts the floorboards between the threshold and the bottom corner of the door to make sure it hasn’t moved. Then, just to be absolutely certain no one crept in while she was gone, she checks under the bed and in the closet.
Empty. Safe.
For now.
She closes the door behind her. Like the others along the hall, it has an old-fashioned china knob on a metal plate with a skeleton keyhole and no key. You’d think after what happened in this house that whoever remodeled it would have updated the bedroom doors with modern locks.
Then again, no one has lived here since the murders, so it didn’t matter until now. Maybe whoever fixed it up thought no one would be stupid enough to live in a place where a family had been slaughtered.
No one but us.
She reminds herself that the Lizzie Borden house in Fall River, Massachusetts, became a popular bed-and-breakfast inn. Plenty of people pay to spend the night in the rooms where the axe murders were committed.
That’s different, though. The killer is long dead.
And any reminder of Lizzie Borden is the opposite of soothing.
Heart pounding, Stacey goes to the window and lifts the edge of the shade to peer out.
Tonight, the flat roof of the shed next door is empty.
But Friday, she could have sworn she’d seen a shadowy figure there, watching this house through binoculars. She caught just a quick glimpse, and then he was gone.
That was before she knew about the triple homicide. She figured her eyes must be playing tricks on her. Or that her mind was—an option she found almost as unnerving as Peeping Toms.
This evening, heading out with her family, she’d noticed a man sitting on the steps of a house across the street. At a glance she assumed he was just a neighbor enjoying his newspaper on a beautiful summer evening, but then something felt kind of off.
Though she couldn’t see his face, she wondered if he was the same person she’d seen on the roof—illogical, since she had nothing more to go on than a silhouette and some weird instinct.
Now that she knows about the murders, though, it makes a terrifying kind of sense.
What if the watcher is the gunman who escaped twenty-five years ago? What if he’s plotting to murder a new family?
She’s glad she hadn’t brought that up to her sister when she barged into Stacey’s room.
Back home in California, she and Piper had coexisted without much interaction. There were no confidences, mutual friends, or shared interests. They’ve never been the kind of sisters who really even notice each other.
But here, they only have each other. And tonight, they bonded over curiosity about the crimes and dread of sleeping in this house.
Stacey tells herself that’s the reason she didn’t tell Piper about the watcher—to protect her from one more thing to worry about. Not because . . .
Well, not because if she mentions her suspicion, she might see that familiar look in Piper’s blue eyes. The same look their parents get whenever they worry that something is wrong with Stacey. With her brain.
What if they’re right about that?
One night last winter, she’d overheard them behind closed doors, mid-conversation.
“She’s a teenager. Growing pains are normal,” Dad was saying.
Stacey assumed he was talking about Piper, a freshman who’d been pestering them for more freedom now that she was dating a junior, Billy Underwood. Ever since sixth grade, Stacey had referred to him as Bully Underwood, if only in her own head. He’s outgrown the mean-spirited middle school hobby of tormenting girls like Stacey, but she hasn’t forgotten, or forgiven him, and is glad his romance with his sister was short-lived.
“Seeing a mental health professional is normal, Keith,” Mom said. “Pretty much everyone we know is seeing a shrink and is medicated.”
“You’re not. Piper’s not. I’m not.”
They were talking about Stacey.
“Yeah, well, you,” Mom said. “You won’t even take ibuprofen when you get a headache.”
“Because natural healing is—”
“I get it, Keith. But just because you don’t take medicine doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with it.”
“And Stacey’s mood swings and quirky habits and appearance don’t mean there’s something wrong with her. Maybe she doesn’t look like a Barbie doll, but she’s got other things going for her.”
“This isn’t about her looks!” Mom protested. “I think she might be unstable and I want her to see a psychiatrist because I’m concerned for our daughter’s physical and emotional well-being. I want to help her.”
“And you think her life would be easier if she could feel comfortable at school, find friends, fit in . . .”
“Well, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. And so would yours.”
“How dare you?” Mom’s voice was low with fury. “How dare you insinuate that I—”