“We’re cool,” Travis said, a touch sulkily.
Emma raised an eyebrow. He scuffed the floor with his toe. What had she expected? Kids with mohawks and nose rings, bullies out of a high school movie? “You hang out here a lot?” she asked. They both wanted to bolt out of there, she could tell, but she was still blocking the door.
“Sometimes,” Travis acknowledged with a bob of his head.
“There are parties here, that sort of thing?”
Abraham shook his head. “Used to be, I think? But with the roof caved in and everything, I don’t think so. When we found it, it was pretty fucked-up.” They were still nervous, but starting to settle down. Convinced Emma wouldn’t unhinge her jaw and devour them whole, maybe. She turned back to look at the living room. Feet shuffled behind her. One of them cleared his throat, but neither spoke.
“Kids used to come here,” she said. “When I was your age, they were out here all the time.”
“Yeah, we heard about that,” Travis said, almost eagerly. “We heard there were, like, Satanic rituals and shit.”
“There are occult symbols on the wall. There’re pentagrams and that’s called a leviathan cross?” Abraham said, pointing. “I looked it up. But, like, that stuff’s not real. Just people messing around, right?”
“Probably,” she agreed.
“We heard you came out here a lot. That you were one of the ones that…” Travis gestured at the wall. Emma snorted.
“I was too antisocial to be part of a cult,” she assured him. She walked back into the living room, sticking close to the wall to read the graffiti. There were names—people who had been there, people they wanted to cuss out. Questionable reports of lewd activity.
The fireplace was filled with trash. Crumpled cans, shattered glass bottles. That was where they’d found the bloody clothing. Just a few centimeters of cotton fabric that had escaped the flames, no more than a few drops of blood on them. Enough to match the DNA to Irene Palmer. Not enough to identify who the clothes might have belonged to.
“We heard…” Travis started, then grunted. She looked over her shoulder. Abraham had elbowed him in the ribs, judging by how Travis was rubbing his side.
“You want to know if I’m a psycho? A killer?” she asked, idly quoting the words scrawled on the dining room wall.
“Yeah. I guess,” Travis said. Abraham looked stricken. “I mean, obviously you didn’t, like … sacrifice them to Satan. But there’s the theory that you did it because they didn’t approve of your boyfriend. Or, like, a thrill kill? Or you were doing a bunch of drugs and…” He seemed to realize at last what he was saying and swallowed. His eyes were shining with excitement.
This was … different. She blinked slowly. “Would you be disappointed if I told you I didn’t do it?”
“No,” Abraham said immediately. Travis’s shoulders climbed toward his ears. Emma just shook her head, turned away.
There were more words, more names carved in the doorframe that led into the kitchen. Her fingers moved over the grooves. KC+TM. That weird S everyone inexplicably became obsessed with drawing in middle school. A flower.
She paused, fingers under the simple carving. She knew this flower. She’d seen it doodled in margins, in fogged-up windows. A daisy.
It had to be a coincidence. It wasn’t that distinctive. And yet there it was. Juliette had left those little flowers like a signature everywhere she went. Scattered behind her, symmetrical and sweet. Juliette Palmer, with her perfect hair and perfect grades and perfect manners, would never have been in a place like this.
But Juliette hadn’t been home that night, either, had she?
Emma’s fingernail scratched across the lowest curve of the bottom petal. Emma had left first that night. But Juliette hadn’t been home when she returned. Had walked in the front door with bare feet, wet hair, wearing clothes that weren’t hers.
“Where did you go, Juliette?” Emma whispered.
“What did you say?” Travis asked.
Emma turned. Narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t come near my house again,” she said. She stalked past them. Both boys jumped out of the way. As she walked she took her phone out of her shorts pocket and pulled up a rarely accessed phone number.
I need to talk to you about Juliette, she wrote, and sent the text to Gabriel.
17
EMMA
Now
Lorelei Mahoney’s house was a petite three-bedroom, exquisitely maintained by her husband for decades before his death and by Gabriel since. Lorelei’s prize roses were still blooming out front as Emma pulled up, but there was something changed about the quality of the garden, and Emma knew immediately that it wasn’t Lorelei herself tending to the flowers.
The old woman sat on her porch, wearing thick glasses and shaking her head at her phone as she scrolled. She was a petite woman, with her grandson’s long face, her skin sun-weathered and creased with dozens of fine wrinkles.
Emma got out of the car, suddenly sixteen again. Then, coming to this place had been entering a sanctuary. She would open the door without knocking and make her way to the studio at the back of the house. Sometimes Lorelei would be there; sometimes Emma would work alone for hours before she was interrupted. The first time she’d met Gabriel had been one of those days, the whole of her focus absorbed by the canvas in front of her so that when Gabriel made a sound behind her, she had no idea how long he had been there.
“You’re good,” he’d said. That was all. Then he’d wandered off into the depths of the house. By the time Lorelei introduced them officially, Emma was already in love.
There’d been far less reason then for Lorelei to dislike her, of course. She looked up now, and her face pulled into a deep frown. Emma stuck her hands in her pockets as she made her way up the walk.
“Emma. I was wondering when I might be seeing you,” Lorelei said.
“Hello, Mrs. Mahoney,” Emma replied, formal, and Lorelei didn’t correct her. Emma stayed on the walk, not wanting to give the impression she felt entitled to intrude on Lorelei’s domain.
“Are you looking for Gabriel?” Lorelei asked.
“I am,” Emma said. Lorelei hmm-ed. Emma cleared her throat. “I know you’re not my biggest fan, after what happened.”
“You’re saying that like you want absolution,” Lorelei said. “You’re not going to get it from me. I’m not going to tell you you’re a horrible person, either, if that’s what you’re looking for. You share some blame for what happened, but hardly all of it.”
“I never intended anything to happen to Gabriel. I didn’t think—”
“That much was clear,” Lorelei said. She pursed her lips, then gestured over her shoulder. “He’s inside, if you want to talk to him.” Emma nodded gratefully and scaled the porch. Lorelei turned back to her phone.
Gabriel was in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. He looked up when Emma entered, but he didn’t look surprised, exactly. More like resigned. “I told you I didn’t want to talk to you again,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Emma said. Seeing him was like a fist around her heart. She had missed him, even while she’d convinced herself she didn’t.
He shut the dishwasher and wiped his hands on a dish towel, leaning back against the counter. “What do you want?”
“I just have a couple of questions. Then I swear, I will leave you alone and never bother you again,” she said.
“All right.” He crossed his arms. “What do you want to know, Emma Palmer?”
“You used to go out to the Saracen house,” she said.
“Now and then. Not really my scene, though,” he said. “You said this was about Juliette.”
She nodded. “Did you ever see her there?” He hesitated. “It’s important,” she pressed.