“Oh, Alice, you know how I feel about you riding that thing.”
“Mom.”
“Fine, fine.” Mom unlocked the front door, and it creaked wide open. She walked into the foyer and flipped on the lights. Alice marched inside, not even bothering to take off her boots as she stormed through the house to the kitchen, and flung open the liquor cabinet. She asked Mom if she wanted anything. “Oh, a nice whiskey would be lovely . . . Florence?”
“That sounds amazing,” I agreed, taking off my coat.
The house was warm and it smelled like it always had—of pinewood and fresh linens. The walls were a bright gray, and the furniture was hand-me-down and restored, worn and loved. A staircase off the main hallway led up to most of the bedrooms, while the master was on the first floor, across from the living room. There were photos of all of us on the stairway wall—from elementary school through college graduation, smiling moments frozen in time. Years where we went through bad hair, and blue hair, and braces, and acne.
I looked at one of the earliest photos of us—so early, Alice was an infant. It had been taken outside of the funeral home, Mom in a sleek red dress and Dad in a terrible tweed suit, Carver in one to match. I had pitched a fit that day because I wanted to wear my rainbow unicorn house shoes instead of the white dress shoes that hurt my feet, and I’d won. There I was in a fluffy red dress and . . . unicorn slippers.
On the hallway table there were a few framed newspaper clippings. Dad getting the keys to the town. Mom being presented with a local restoration award. Carver winning a robotics competition. And—
LOCAL GIRL SOLVES MURDER WITH GHOSTS
Along with a photo of thirteen-year-old me smiling for the papers.
It made me sick to my stomach.
“Here you go,” Alice said, offering a glass of whiskey on the rocks.
I jumped at her voice, and spun to her. She rattled the ice in the glass, waiting for me to take it. Suddenly, I was very much not in the mood. “I—I think I’m going to go to the bed-and-breakfast.”
Mom poked her head out of the kitchen. “What? But it’s so late . . .”
“I’m sure they have a room.” I grabbed my coat where I hung it on the coatrack, and shrugged it back on. “I’m sorry.” I stepped back out into the brisk night with my suitcase. “I have a book due and—I’ll keep all of you up.”
“Writing can’t be that noisy,” Mom said, frowning. “And I even blew up the mattress in your old bedroom for you!”
“Bad back.”
“Since when?”
“Mom,” Alice said, downing my glass of whiskey, “let it go. There’s a hole in the blow-up mattress anyway.”
Mom gave her a surprised look. “There is?”
Alice shrugged. “Was gonna let her figure it out herself.”
“Thanks,” I replied, not sure if she was lying to cover for me or if there actually was a hole in the inflatable mattress upstairs. I wouldn’t put it past her.
I just couldn’t stay here. In this house. After the episode at the funeral home, I didn’t want to test being home. Mom already had enough to worry about with the funeral. I didn’t want her to have to worry about me, too.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” I promised. “At the Waffle House?”
Mom relented without persisting. She was good at that—at seeing when people were shutting down, and letting them. “Of course, darling. See you in the morning.”
I smiled a small thank-you, trying not to meet Alice’s hard gaze, and wheeled my suitcase down the cobblestone steps again, back toward Main Street. Mairmont was quiet at night, but walking the sidewalk alone, while all the storefronts were closed, reminded me how out of place I felt here in the town that never really accepted me. In New York, I could walk down any street and find another creature of the night walking, too. But here, everyone had their cozy houses and their cozy families, all sequestered for the night, and I was alone.