Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,92

invited me—but only for the weekend! Come Sunday night, I crawl right back into the hole I crawled out of.

The woman looks like Charlotte. That is, she has Charlotte’s vibe. The loving, confident mother. Today’s hip, stylish young mom. The lady of the manor. The woman whom everyone is supposed to envy. And I do. Oh, I do. Envy breaks out in a light film of sweat on my forehead. I hate this woman already, though none of this is her fault. She’s just being who she is. She’s probably snagged the sort of rich husband who would never even buy me a drink if I hit on him in a bar.

“I’m looking for my grandparents, Edith and Frank Sloane.”

She’s obviously puzzled. But she smiles at Daisy, as if to reassure herself that we’re not home invaders about to tie her up, duct-tape her mouth, and pistol-whip her into giving us the keys to the safe.

What have we got in that bag? Candy! Again, it’s a good thing I’m nicely dressed. We’re not selling anything. Not even Girl Scout cookies, though a “homeowner” might find that charming. Nor are we Jehovah’s Witnesses, the most likely possibility when a strange woman appears on your doorstep with a child.

There’s a funny look on her face, though, as if my grandparents’ names are ringing a bell—and it’s not a bell she likes the sound of.

“I’m not sure . . . maybe they were the owners before the owner we bought it from. Before the owners before that—” She laughs, but Daisy and I don’t think it’s funny.

“They probably were!” I can play along if she wants to pretend that she lives here. Something about me must be alarming, though, because I can watch her decide that she’s not going to be helpful.

That’s going to be a problem for her, though she doesn’t know it yet. How could she?

“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong house.” She really believes what she’s saying.

But we don’t have the wrong house. This is the right house.

I’m stunned by a flash of understanding. Shocking, but probably true: She must have done something to my grandparents. She’s the home invader holding them prisoner. How could anyone do that to two sweet old people?

She doesn’t look like a criminal, but everyone knows that the worst offenders wear the most innocent disguises.

And then I know. That bad thing I always imagined happening in my grandparents’ basement . . . well, now it’s happened. And I wasn’t here to stop it. I wasn’t here to protect Granny Edith and Grandpa Frank. I was far from home, trying to enter a filthy disgusting world that doesn’t want me.

I was always terrified of my grandparents’ basement. Only now do I understand why.

I thought it was about spiders. But the truth is: I was seeing the future. I foresaw that they’d be locked up in the basement where—the thought makes my chest hurt—they might be suffering and dying right now, as I stand on the doorstep, unable to hear their dear little voices crying weakly for help.

I say, “I’m wondering . . . if we could just look at the house . . . it’s where my grandparents used to live. I have such fond memories of it . . . such a sentimental attachment . . . I so want to show my daughter . . .”

The woman isn’t stupid. Why am I asking to see the house where my grandparents used to live when a moment ago I was telling her that they still live there? Something doesn’t compute. Can she tell that Daisy is not my daughter? Does Daisy wonder: Why is Auntie Ruth lying?

The flicker of disquiet that crosses the woman’s pretty face lets me know that she’s all alone in the house. It’s a tell, like gamblers say. Okay, fine. Her face has told me something I need to know.

No, she’s sorry, she’s terribly busy. She’s not going to be here long. Her husband is going to meet her here soon.

That part about the husband isn’t true. He’s not coming out here.

Liars know when someone is lying.

She’s really scared of us. And she has reason to be. She’s in my house.

This is my house, not hers. My grandparents left it to me.

Then Daisy—my wing girl—says, “Could I please use the bathroom?”

Daisy must be desperate. Normally, I bet, she’d rather pee her pants than ask that of a stranger. I should have thought of her bathroom needs sooner, as any real