Two other men stayed behind. One stepped forward into the pool of light. He wore black shoes, so shiny I could almost see myself in them, an elongated and ghostly reflection. The man nodded at me in greeting. “Evening, miss.”
“Where are they going?”
“Your friend is taking some of the boys to show them what you found in the forest,” the man said. “In the meantime, we’re going to need to get your statements. How many of you are in there?”
Isabelle was watching us, her face a pale thumbprint against the glass. “Just the two of us,” I said. “Me and my friend.”
The man started up the stairs toward the Strouds’ small porch, the steps creaking under his weight. His voice was gentle, kind enough that I relaxed. “I hope you don’t mind if we step inside. If there’s somebody out here causing trouble,” he said, “then we don’t want to leave you young ladies all alone.”
* * *
Both men were dressed like they’d just arrived home from office jobs, crisp khaki pants, button-ups. I wondered about that, the lack of uniforms. The younger man, wearing an orange shirt, looked at Isabelle, his gaze catching on the white dress. It was folded over her arm, the bloodstain hidden from view. I caught his flinch of discomfort.
“First things first,” Black Shoes said. “Why are you ladies in the Strouds’ home? Are you friends with the girls who live here?”
That present tense gave me a brief flicker of hope, summoning the Strouds back into the world for a second. “We’re just acquaintances.”
“Acquaintances,” Black Shoes said. “The Stroud girls have lived here for nearly twenty years now. I can’t say they’ve ever had visitors before. Now, your friend out there said that you ladies have been stalked. Is that right? Somebody’s after you?”
Orange Shirt had wandered into the kitchen now, moving toward the fridge. He leaned in close to examine the photograph hanging on the fridge. Vera and Delilah smiling together.
“There’s a man,” I said. “He’s been following us for the past week. We’re worried that he might have gotten to the Strouds first.”
“Why would the same person be after the Stroud girls and after you?” Black Shoes went over to the couch and sat next to Isabelle. The glow of the TV screen flashed hot blue against his throat and chest.
“We come from the Homestead,” Isabelle said. “The same as Vera and Delilah.”
Orange Shirt twisted around at this. Black Shoes nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “Both of you?” Black Shoes asked, gesturing toward me and Isabelle.
“You’ve heard of the Homestead, sir?” I asked.
“Of course I have,” he said. “You think I’m out of touch just because I’m an old man, is that it?” He laughed, and a cautious warmth spread through me. Something about him reminded me of Dr. McCarter. He had that same good-natured self-assurance, like he could fix everything. “With Vera and Delilah living right here in town, we all tried to learn more about that place. Now what’s that you’ve got there, sweetheart?”
Isabelle let him take the dress from her. He shook it open, fabric hanging in the light of the TV screen. The bloodstain was unmistakable, blossoming dark against the soft, brittle white fabric. “Is this Vera’s dress?” he asked, his voice tightening. “Delilah’s? Good lord.”
“Like I said,” I went on, “we’re concerned that somebody who’s been chasing us found the Strouds and—and hurt them.”
“Can you give us a name? Anything?”
“No,” I said, hating how flimsy it sounded. “We don’t know exactly who’s after us.”
The men exchanged worried looks. “Can you give us a physical description?” Black Shoes pressed. “That’d be a big help.”
“He’s tall,” I said, hearing how inadequate this was. “He has brown hair, I think. He drives a maroon sedan.” And I hadn’t seen him in three days now. I was miles and miles away from the last place I’d spotted him. The stranger wavered, flickered like a phantom.
“People around here know their neighbors pretty well,” Black Shoes said. “We’re a close-knit place. Anybody from out of town would’ve stood out to us right away.”
“They sure would have,” Orange Shirt agreed. He was even younger than I’d first assumed, closer to my own age.
“When’s the last time anybody talked to the Strouds?” I asked. “Maybe that could help narrow it down.”