The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,83

my half of the heart necklace. But the chain looks different, in a messy pile whereas I had it coiled. I step back, fingers quivering.

Holding the railing tight, I run back downstairs. In the family room I stand with hands on hips and look. Really look. The coffee table is angled, revealing a divot in the rug below. Same with the sofa, the throw we keep draped over an arm unfolded over the cushion. In the breakfast nook, the table’s been pushed back nearly a foot. The napkin holder in the center is no longer parallel to the window but perpendicular. In the dining room, the chairs are pulled out from the table, and the glass bowl in the center sits off to the left now. In the formal living room, the front corners of the end tables are angled toward the sofa. Several books in the bookcase are turned spines in. Every change is slight, easy to miss. If it had been only one thing, I probably would’ve. But this is calculated. Not noticing is impossible.

I push my hair off my forehead. Toe the floor.

Someone’s been here. In the house. And they wanted me to know. No, not they. She. She wanted me to know. I scrunch my toes, curl my fingers. She was in my house. Sweat pools between my breasts. I pat my pockets, but my phone isn’t there and I can’t remember where I left my bag. I scrub my face, smearing the last traces of the day’s makeup. I need to call the police. I need to file a report and—

I can’t. A report will lead to an investigation. And then? Maybe eventually to Becca. To the truth. I’m trapped and she knows it. My knees lock. So what the hell am I going to do? A voice of reason slips in. Straighten up before Ryan gets home. Put everything back. Do that first, then take it from there.

Like a spider on fire, I scurry through the living room. End tables. Coffee table. Books. It doesn’t take long. In the dining room I stub my big toe on a chair leg and stork-stand until the throbbing ceases, attempting to blink away tears. They’re still falling even after I check the kitchen—in the cabinet, the canned goods were turned so the labels faced the back—and the nook. By the time I head for the stairs, they’ve progressed into hitching sobs I can’t stop.

Halfway up, I stumble, yelping as I bang a shin against the tread. I crouch with my back against the wall and pour my fear and rage into my palms. I can’t do this. I can’t do any of it anymore. It’s all too much.

How the hell did she get in? We have solid dead bolts. We keep the doors locked. There was no broken glass. Sometimes we forget to lock the door leading into the house from the garage, but we’ve never had a problem before. It would take a Herculean effort for someone to physically raise the exterior garage doors. And Lauren is small. So how did she get in?

I don’t know how long I sit there, but when the sobs reduce to quiet sniffles and my skin is sodden and snot-sticky, I trek the rest of the way upstairs to wash my face. A stranger peers back from the mirror. Eyes purpled with fatigue. Hollows beneath the cheekbones. Skin ruddy with anxiety. She isn’t me. She isn’t anyone I know. I rest my hand atop the reflection, one eye visible through the gaps in my fingers.

Red Lady, Red Lady.

Don’t look in her eyes!

Arms at my sides, I stomp into Ryan’s office. My childhood wraith isn’t the issue here. His pens have been removed from the mug in the corner, strewn like pickup sticks atop design sketches. My office has fared worse: my papers have been rearranged higgledy-piggledy, so I gather them into a neatish pile for later. Even the bathrooms—shower curtains opened, towels puddled on the floors, toothbrushes left in the sinks—were touched. Instead of replacing the brushes, I toss them out.

Once again I stand in the middle of the family room, searching. If I miss something small, Ryan won’t notice. Hell, he might not miss something large, but I will. I go from room to room again, fingertipping every piece of furniture. Once I’m sure I’ve fixed it all, I run upstairs and strip the bed. Throw the sheets in the washer with extra detergent. Then I scour all the