Home for the Haunting(68)

At times I missed that little boy so much, I wondered how a biological parent must feel, having birthed this baby from her loins. His becoming a man was also a sure sign that I was aging, too. One thing about having a kid around: You can’t deny the passage of time.

At long last Caleb put down his controllers and gave me his attention. Unfortunately, that attention wasn’t focused where I wanted it to be.

“Are you planning on making that Murder House into a bed-and-breakfast or something?”

“No, not at all. Besides, I can’t imagine anyone would want to stay in a house with such a history.”

“Wanna bet? You can make a lot of money on stuff like that,” said Caleb with a tone that suggested world-weariness. At seventeen. “The Goths and other freaks, they’re totally into it. But other people, too. They could totally open a bed-and-breakfast in that place, and people would pay to spend the night there with the recreations of the murder scenes.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, appalled.

“You ever heard of that Lizzie Borden chick?”

“Um . . .” I paused, wondering whether I should launch into a sermon about why we don’t go around talking about every woman as a chick. But then I overcame it. And joined in. “Right, the Lizzie Borden chick. What about her?”

“They totally made her house into an inn. People, like, stay there. And sit right on the couch where she chopped up her father.”

“Eh . . .” Ghosts were one thing, murder quite another. I don’t care how long ago it took place; the Lizzie Borden story was still horrifying. I vacillated between appreciating that Caleb knew the story—it was part of basic U.S. history, after all—and worrying about how much violence he was exposed to through popular culture. “I thought it wasn’t clear that Lizzie Borden even did it. Wasn’t she found not guilty?”

He shrugged, his attention already veering back to the holding pattern on the screen in front of him. If I wanted to know the whole story about Lizzie Borden, I thought to myself, I could look it up. That was, after all, what the internet was for. I should use my time with Caleb for the important stuff, before I lost his attention completely.

“Okay, so you’re saying that people want to stay in houses where murders were committed? Would that be a real moneymaker?”

“I don’t know why you’re acting so surprised. That last bed-and-breakfast you were working on had ghosts in it, and that was sort of like the point, right?”

“Yes, but those ghosts weren’t murdered.”

“Somebody was murdered.” He twisted his head toward me and held my eyes for a moment. “A woman was killed while you were there. In fact, for someone so, like, weirded out by Lizzie Borden, it seems like you’re around murder a lot. Like maybe you should watch your back a little.”

Caleb never spoke like this. Could this be why he’d been acting so oddly toward me lately?

“Caleb, are you worried about me?”

He shrugged and turned back to his game.

“I’m not in any danger, you know,” I said, clipping a few stray hairs. And then I thought how inane my words sounded, considering the situations I’d found myself in. “I’ll be careful, kiddo, okay? I promise. I’m working with the police this time, so it’s really not like before. I’ve got backup.”

“Ungh,” he grunted.

“And about talking to the girl, Raven . . . I just thought maybe you could ask her if she’d seen anything, noticed anything odd in the house, anything like that. She’s coming to do some cleanup on Monty’s house tomorrow. Would you be willing to join us after school? I could pick you up.”

“’Kay,” he said.

And then he hit his controller, and something on-screen blew up in a burst of blood and fire.

• • •



I went upstairs to change out of my dirty clothes and take a quick shower.

When I started back down I could smell the homey scents of pot roast and caramelized onions, one of my dad’s signature dishes. There was the clatter of dishware, and friendly chatter, and laughter. It reminded me of how much I had: people who cared about me, a warm, safe house, a loyal dog, and plenty of food. I gave myself a little talking-to about my recent treatment of Cookie. She was family. This was nice.

But then I heard a man’s voice—not Dad, or Stan, or even Caleb.

Graham. What was he doing here? All my warm and fuzzy thoughts fled, and I fought panic. My hair was wet, and though I was clean, I was, once again, not looking my best.

Graham was recounting a funny story about people who call themselves “tree dwellers” and live in the top of an unthinkably tall redwood tree. Caleb kept asking questions about how they handled the bathroom situation. Stan was cracking jokes, and Dad was joining in while he cooked. Cookie was being generally adorable, of course.