pull myself halfway through. I stay there for a few seconds, panting, then crawl the rest of the way inside.
I land in a crouch, flexing my sore palms. Take that, Dad, I think as I rise. Arm strength comes in handy sometimes.
I have no idea what part of the house I’m in. I slip off my sneakers and leave them beside the window, then pad across the hardwood floor until I get to the doorway. I move silently down the hall, pausing after every step, until I come to a staircase. I stand there a long time, straining my ears for any signal that someone’s near the top, but there’s nothing.
I navigate the stairs carefully, stepping lightly until I’m on the upstairs landing. I don’t know what part of the house I’m in, but it’s so quiet that I become a little bolder and move more quickly. Maybe I got lucky, and nobody’s home.
I climb a second set of stairs, steeper and narrower, and pause at the door at the top. I place my hand on the knob and turn slowly, as far as I can. Then I push. It swings open with only the tiniest creaking noise, and I peer into a wide hallway. There are doors on either side, and my heart starts pounding when I realize that I might’ve found a back stairway to the bedroom area. Which is where I need to be, because the only way I can be sure that I’m grabbing something of Gran’s is to take it from her room.
I approach the first door noiselessly and open it quickly, stepping inside. Right away, I know this isn’t anyone’s current bedroom; it has a deserted, musty feeling to it. Not to mention outdated curtains and bed linens that look like they haven’t been changed in years. There’s a red blanket at the foot of the bed that reads MARTINDALE PREP in bold white letters, and two lacrosse sticks propped in one corner.
Wait. Could this be my dad’s old room? I creep in a little farther and spy a framed photo on the wall beside the window. It’s the same picture of my father and Gran that I saw in Sweetfern: the two of them holding that ugly painting and beaming for the camera. I zero in on my grandmother’s hand, dominated by that prominent birthmark.
“Lovely picture, isn’t it?”
I spin to see Gran—or whoever she is—standing in the doorway. At first, all I take in is that for once she’s not dressed to the nines or wearing gloves. Then I noticed the small, pearl-handled pistol in one of her hands. It’s so pretty, it almost doesn’t look—
“Oh, it’s real. And it’s loaded,” she says, stepping into the room. “Two elderly women living alone can’t be too careful.” The look she gives me is almost sympathetic. “Did you honestly think we’re not alerted when the gate opens?”
I lick my lips, which have gone suddenly dry. “So…what? You let me come in?”
“I opened the window for you.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I berate myself. “Well, you caught me,” I say, affecting a guilty laugh. It comes out like more of a wheeze. “I wanted to see this place one more time. Try to find my father’s room. And I did, so…I’ll just leave now.”
“No, you won’t.” My heart sinks as she takes another step forward. “I wondered yesterday, if you got a good look at my hand. I take it you did?” I’m too frozen to even nod. “And now here you are. Adam’s daughter. It would be quite a poetic tragedy if I mistook you for a burglar and shot you in his old room, wouldn’t it?”
“I told people.” I blurt out the lie as convincingly as I can. “I told everyone what I saw. Uncle Archer and Milly and Jonah and…everyone.”
Gran, or Mildred, or—I don’t even know what to call her anymore—tilts her head to one side. “And yet, you’re here all alone.”
My blood runs cold. I got one text off to Uncle Archer, and there’s not much chance that he’ll know what I meant. “What did you do to my grandmother?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“Nothing,” she says, with such quick certainty that I actually believe her. “Your grandmother died of natural causes twenty-four years ago. I found her here. She liked to spend time in Adam’s room while he was gone.” Her eyes flash. “He was always her favorite, even though he was the least attentive child.”