She jots something down on her notepad. “How is Rainie doing?” she asks as she writes.
“She’s a tough little cookie,” my father says with a smile.
“He’s right,” I say. “She’s so resilient. I couldn’t sleep the night after she was taken, and I kept checking on her, but she was sleeping soundly every time. I’m terrified, though, like I shouldn’t let her out of my sight.”
Sam nods as though she understands. She pulls a sheet of paper from the back of the notebook. “You need to see this,” she says, setting the paper in front of me on the island. “These are calls that your husband made to us while he was working on the house.”
I frown. “He called the police?”
“I assume he didn’t tell you?”
“Well, no. I don’t remember him saying anything.” Damn it, Jackson, I think. Why did you keep so much from me? “What did he call about?”
Sam turns the paper so she can read from it. “Stolen power tools from the work site. Stolen tile. Stolen hardwood flooring. Stolen paint.” She looks up at me. “These are all on different dates,” she says.
“That’s crazy,” I say. “He never told me things were taken.” I look at my father. “Did he say anything to you?”
“Not a word.”
“There’s more,” Sam says.
“Why didn’t they lock everything up?” I ask.
“Apparently they did,” she says. “They had a trailer they stored the material in.”
I nod. “I remember the trailer.”
“It was broken into. Repeatedly.”
“Could it have been one of the guys working with him?” my father asks.
“They were all questioned and ruled out.”
“What do you mean, ‘There’s more’？” I ask.
She looks at the paper again. “Dead animals were found in the house as it was going up,” she says. “Mostly squirrels.” She nods toward the front yard, where dead squirrels are baking in my redbud tree. “And in one instance, a cat.”
“Oh God.” I press my hand to my mouth.
She turns the paper over and I’m glad to see the back side is blank. “That’s it,” she says. “You didn’t know about any of that?”
I shake my head. “Do you think … Is it possible Jackson’s accident wasn’t an accident?”
“That was investigated,” she says. “The guy who left the screws on the steps freely admitted to it and was, according to the report, devastated.”
I look past her at my sparkly new white and gray kitchen and the glass walls of the great room beyond. “Someone doesn’t want us here.” I suddenly remember my father’s letter to Jackson. I turn to him. “Is all this connected somehow to your letter—”
“No, of course not,” he says. “I’m as in the dark as you are.”
“What letter?” Sam asks.
“I wrote Jackson a letter when he and Kayla were considering this lot,” Daddy says. “I grew up close by and I always had a bad feeling about this area.”
“Oh right,” Sam says. She looks at me. “You told me the Klan used to meet in your backyard.”
My father and I both nod.
“Well,” Sam says. “I’m sure this Shadow Ridge development has had a lot of opposition from the old-timers in the area. But I’ve talked to some of the foremen and crews on the street to see if they’ve had problems with things being stolen, et cetera, and it seems like all the issues have been with your house, Kayla. Maybe because it was the first to go up. Who knows.”
I let out a long sigh, sitting back, my arms folded across my chest. “I have a love/hate feeling about this house,” I say. “Jackson and I were so excited about it and everywhere I look, I see an idea we talked about and couldn’t wait to bring to life. I feel his presence here.” I shake my head. “But it’s brought me nothing but trouble. And other weird things happened here, too. Not just the Klan meetings.” I tell her about the girl who drowned in Little Heaven Lake and Mr. Hockley shooting his head off. “Maybe he did it right here,” I add, stomping my foot on the floor. “Right beneath where we’re sitting.”
“Honey…” My father pats my knee.
“Well, that’s … pretty horrible,” Sam says, “but it’s ancient history. You’ve got a real nice house on a real pretty piece of land with a—” She searches for a word. “—colorful history. Soon you’ll have a bunch of new neighbors to share the ghost stories with.”