She sets the box on the floor of the shower stall, using the bag as a tarp to catch the dirt. She kneels, panting as though from a strenuous workout, pokes the knife tip under the lid, and pries. It comes loose with some effort.
Nora takes a deep breath, lifts the lid, and peers into the box.
Stacey
Once the ice is broken, Stacey and Lennon have so much to say to each other at the café, and walking home, that they linger at the foot of her stoop debating their opposing theories about The Shining, which she’s read and Lennon is rereading.
According to him, the main character is possessed by malevolent ghosts who haunt the hotel. Stacey disputes the supernatural angle, convinced he’s descending into stark raving hallucinatory madness.
“Let’s agree to disagree,” he says. “Have you seen the movie? It’s one of the only films I’ve ever seen that does a great book justice. Gotta love batshit-crazy Jack Nicholson.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good. I liked Carrie, too.”
“Book or film?”
“Both. I actually refer to it in my college essay,” she says. “I wrote it over the summer.”
“Me, too. Which topic did you choose?”
“The one about overcoming obstacles. How about you?”
“Same.” He exhales Marlboro smoke through his nostrils. “I’ll read yours if you read mine.”
“Sure, maybe sometime.”
“What’s it about?”
Bullying, and no way is she sharing it with him.
“I just told you. Overcoming obstacles.”
“What kind of obstacles?”
“You know . . . just . . . dealing with school stuff.”
“Like being a blood-soaked prom queen and murdering all the mean kids?” At her glance, he grins. “You said you mentioned Carrie in it.”
“Oh . . . yeah, no. What’s yours about?”
“Trying to find my father.”
“Your . . . father?”
“Sperm donor. Whatever you want to call him.” He’d put on his sunglasses as they left the restaurant, even though the street is cast in late afternoon shadow. But she doesn’t have to see his eyes to know there’s a gleam in them as he adds, “You do know it takes two people to reproduce? I’d be happy to explain how it works, if—”
“No, I was just . . . curious about . . . you know. Who he was. Like, if your moms knew him.”
“Nope. He was literally a sperm donor. This is stupid, but sometimes I tell myself he might have been a musician, and now he’s famous, and we get onstage and play together.”
“Like . . . Julian Casablancas?”
He lights up. “You like the Strokes?”
“I love the Strokes. And you kind of look like him.”
“I get that a lot. But I doubt he’s my sperm donor, you know? It was probably just some broke college kid trying to make some cash, and he’s probably a total loser now.”
“Then . . . I mean, why would you want to find someone like that when you have two parents who love you?”
“You wouldn’t. You’ve got a mother and a father. But if you were being raised by two fathers, and no mother, then I bet you’d want to find her, even just to see what she was like at your age—what she looked like, how she turned out . . .”
The last thing Stacey wants to do is compare herself to her mother at that age—or now, for that matter.
“You’re right. I have no idea what it’s like for you. It must be hard.”
“Yeah. I don’t really feel like talking about it, so . . .” He drops his cigarette stub on the sidewalk and grinds it out with his shoe.
She’s always considered smoking a disgusting habit, but somehow, it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. She hadn’t been tempted when he’d offered the open pack, but maybe she should have at least tried it. Just to see what it’s like. And so that he’d think she’s cool, or sophisticated, or . . .
You’re an idiot. You know better than that. What is wrong with you?
Lennon pulls out his phone. “Give me your number.”
“Oh . . . sure.”
She rattles it off, and he enters it into his contacts.
“Cool. Maybe we can meet up in the park later or something.”
“Um . . . you mean . . .”
Does he mean, like a date? She can’t tell, without seeing his eyes, whether the smile curving his mouth is genuine or sarcastic.
“You know where it is, Stacey. I saw you there.”
“What?”
“That wasn’t you? Walking the pug?”
She’s taken Kato to that dog run every day since they moved in. “You saw me? Why didn’t you say hi?”
“It was before we met. I knew who you were, because I saw you here.” He gestures at the house. “And then there. But you were wearing earbuds. And so was I.”
She digests that, unsettled—only because she’d thought she’d seen someone watching her the other night. If not for that, she’d probably be glad he’d noticed her, right? She wouldn’t be wondering, in a tiny corner of the back of her mind, if he’s some kind of psycho stalker.
“I, um, need to get inside. My mom’s probably freaked out wondering where I am.”
“Yeah? Has she been texting you?”
“I’m sure she has.” She checks her phone. There are no texts from her mother, just one from her father asking how her first day was.
“Maybe I can come in for a while,” Lennon suggests.
“Sorry, no.”
Her answer is too quick and blunt. He flinches.
“Yeah, that’s cool. I just wanted to check out the house because—you know. The murders and everything. I always wondered if there’s a vibe here. Like, this famous drummer, Buddy Rich, used to live in our house, and that’s why Jules became a musician. Me, too.”
“Because there’s a . . . drummer vibe?”
“Pretty much. A musical vibe, anyway. Jules believes that everyone who lives in a house leaves a little piece of themselves behind. Even after they’re dead.”
“So . . .” Stacey gestures at the house behind her. “What? You were wondering if there’s a murder vibe?”
“Is there?”
“No.” Again, her answer is too quick.
“Or . . . maybe their spirits are hanging around.”
“They’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. I don’t really believe in ghosts or . . . vibes.”
“I do. I’ve been doing some reading on it. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Or not.” He shrugs, gives a wave, and turns toward home. “See you later.”
“See you later,” she echoes, wishing she could think of something better to say, and wondering whether he’s still planning to text her about the park.
Maybe not. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he was only being nice to her because he has a ghoulish interest in 104 Glover, like those people who spend the night at the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast.
That’s a first—a guy who’s only interested in you for your murder house. Way to go, Stace.
Climbing the steps, she assures herself that Lennon wasn’t watching her, or the house. But what if he’s right about vibes and ghosts?
She’s never lived anywhere with a past. She’s never lived anywhere but their California house, and it was newly built when Mom and Dad moved in before she was born. Maybe she did leave a little bit of herself behind there, though—her old self, shed like the extra pounds she’d lost along the way.
She unlocks the door and shoves it open. It stops short, and she cries out as her arm and shoulder collide with unyielding wood.