Home for the Haunting(46)

“Just remember you’re going toward the East Bay, and take either the Fremont train or the Pleasanton.”

“I don’t want to go to Fremont!”

“No one really wants to go to Fremont. But that’s the direction the train goes. There will be an announcement, and it also comes up on the overhead board. And then you just hop off the train at the Fruitvale station.”

“I honestly don’t see why you can’t just drive me across the bridge. It isn’t that far.”

“Think of the environment you’re leaving for your children. How are they, by the way?”

“Fine,” she said glumly, and I realized, once again, that I needed to be a better sister. We had spent the whole day together, and I still didn’t know what was going on with her and Kyle. But how could I get her to tell me?

“Listen, Cookie . . .” I checked the clock on my phone. I could squeeze in a quick chat over a cup of coffee. “Why don’t we take a few minutes and grab something to drink? You can tell me what’s going on and what you’re really doing here.”

That was enough to compel her to head for the train. She fumbled while putting the ticket in the slot of the turnstile, and a man in a BART uniform rushed over to help. Not once, in all my years of living in the Bay Area, have I seen a BART employee help anyone with the ticket machine or the turnstile, or provide any sort of information. Or anything, for that matter. I was always unclear on what they did do, exactly. Perhaps they were all mechanics or engineers who kept things humming behind the scenes, but they never put tickets into the turnstile.

Safely on the other side, Cookie turned and gave me a tragic smile, then headed down the stairs for the train platform.

Feeling mildly guilty, I assured myself Cookie would throw herself on the mercy of her fellow BART riders and make it home to Oakland without too much trauma. Just to be sure, I called Dad and told him to expect Cookie’s summons from the Fruitvale station.

“You put Cookie on BART?”

“Why is everyone so shocked by this concept? I’ve been negotiating BART since I was in middle school.”

“You’re a different person from your sister.”

Yes. I’d noticed.





Chapter Twelve




Annette had already arrived at Murder House, and was standing by a royal blue sports car.

“Nice car,” I said.

“Thanks. It was my present to myself when I turned fifty. Pretty sure it’s a middle-aged crisis, but I look so good in it I don’t mind the stereotype.”

“You’re fifty?” I had wondered. Her skin was smooth and unwrinkled, but I could never quite tell; she had an ageless look.

“Fifty-five, actually. It took a few more years to save up. Anyway, you have all your equipment for this walk-through?”

“Yep.” I pulled a sports bag out of the back seat of my Scion—which looked decidedly cheap next to her lovely waxed fantasy. “Are Hugh and Simone here already?”

“I called to make sure my presence tonight was all right with Hugh, and Simone said we should get started without them. Given her tone of voice, I’m not one hundred percent sure they’ll be showing up at all.” She shook her head. “Lord knows I wouldn’t want to step foot in a place where I’d seen such horrors.”

“I know what you mean. That part seems hard for me to conceive of as well.”

I heard the distinctive sound of wheels rolling along a wooden porch.

“Whaddaya doin’ at the Murder House?” Monty asked, coming to rest at the end of the porch nearest us.

“Must everyone insist on calling it that?” Annette snapped.

“What else would I call it?” he asked.

“How about 2906? That’s the address,” Annette responded.

“But there was a man there killed his family,” he began. “He—”

“Yes, thank you. I know the story. Why are there lights on?”

“They go on and off all the time. All over the house,” said Monty. “I even heard the heater come on from time to time and the sprinklers go off. A person might wonder why. A person might think maybe ghosts were still keeping house.”

Inspector Crawford’s carefully maintained professional attitude seemed as though it were fraying at the edges. This kind of talk was clearly out of her comfort zone, and though a part of me was still enjoying her discomfiture, the bigger part of me felt compelled to step in.

“A person might also think that maybe all those things can be set on timers,” I said. “Just a thought.”

“So you don’t believe in the ghosts? I thought you said—”

“Just because there was a murder doesn’t mean there are ghosts necessarily,” I said, cutting him off before he could mention what I’d foolishly told him, that I thought I’d seen a face in the window. In fact, I was trying to ignore what I thought I’d seen flickering in the windows, along with the quick little quiver at the front drapes and the fog on the pane as though someone were leaning too close and breathing on the glass.