closest bathroom is down the hall and so I walk clumsily.
From behind me I hear the faintest of whispering.
It’s like a breath, a sigh from somewhere just out of sight.
My heart beats painfully fast, though I can’t say why.
“Hello?” I say, my voice cracking.
The whispering comes again—words I can’t quite make out.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
The sound again—too faint and mumbled.
My hands shake.
And, finally, I recognize the voice.
My vision blurs with tears.
The voice . . .
It is my mother’s.
I feel the plush blue carpet from our house in Johnstown under my feet as I walk down the staircase. The front door is open, letting in the damp summer heat. Two uniformed police officers stand, arms crossed, heads bowed, talking to my father. The lights from the cruiser outside blink red then blue then red again. The officer speaks softly, but not so softly that I can’t hear.
“I’m sorry. She didn’t make it.”
And now, in Harmony House, I hear my mother again.
“Anselm,” she whispers.
But it can’t be true.
It can’t.
I follow the sound down the hallway. It seems to be coming from the room just in front of me.
I try the doorknob, but for some reason it’s locked.
I try it again.
And then something grabs me from behind.
CHAPTER 3
“What are you doing?”
It’s my father, his eyes narrowed at me.
“Dad, what the h . . . heck? You scared me.”
“Where are you going?” he asks, his jaw set.
“Nowhere,” I say. “I just—I thought I heard something in here.”
“Heard what?”
My mind goes blank, searching for an answer. The whispering has stopped now. And it obviously wasn’t my mother. It can’t have been. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
“Why’s this door locked?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
He tries the knob himself, as if he doesn’t believe me.
“Huh? Well, maybe they put some of the valuables in here. Let’s see . . .”
He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out an antique-looking skeleton key.
“This should do it,” he says.
He fits the key in the lock and turns the bolt.
The door is heavy, but I force it open. The smell from inside comes wafting out and my dad and I both recoil.
“Did something die in here?” I say stupidly.
“Yeah, maybe.”
I step through the door. A shiver runs through me. The temperature has dropped like twenty degrees just in this room—even though the windows are closed.
The dust and cobwebs are thick on the white sheets draped over the furniture. Otherwise, the room is like some kind of antiques store. Old, valuable-looking lamps and paintings stand on every surface. There are stacks of books and fine china and silver. A large Oriental rug is rolled up in the corner.
A small leather-bound book sits by itself on an antique dressing table. I stare, somehow unable to take my eyes from it.
“See? The valuables,” my dad says. “At least we don’t have to clean in here.”
He laughs, the noise sounding strangely hollow—forced.
My dad goes to the windows and checks the locks. I go to the book and pick it up quickly. It drops neatly into the pocket of my robe.
I’m not sure why I do it, exactly, except I’m curious. There seems to be something about it—I don’t know what.
“Well, come on,” he says. “I made some dinner—it’s our first night, so it’s just grilled cheese sandwiches. Tomorrow I’ll make something better.”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks, that’d be great.”
“And we’ll lock this back up.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I look at my dad in this cold, shivering room. He is trying. I can see that. He may be a backward, judgmental religious asshole—but he is my dad.
I laugh then.
“What’s funny?” he asks, smiling.
“Nothing,” I say. “Thanks for making dinner.”
He shuts the door behind us and we step back out into the hallway—away from that rotting smell and the icy cold.
Downstairs we sit in the brightly painted kitchen eating grilled cheese sandwiches and half-burnt zucchini. The simple food is good on my stomach after the pie and ice cream earlier. I drink a ginger ale and my dad drinks a bottle of Budweiser.
“I got donuts for the morning, too,” he says.
I thank him, though the thought of anything sweet right now makes my stomach turn.
“I really want this to be a fresh start for you,” he says. “I want it to be a fresh start for both of us.”
“Yeah,” I say lamely.
“I’m sorry things have been so hard.”
I sip the ginger ale—then, awkwardly, put my hand on his.
“They’ve been hard for you, too, Dad. I know that. We both miss her.”
“But it’s not