“No coffee for me, thanks. Baby no like.” She patted the bump.
“Orange juice? And how is baby?”
“Twenty-four weeks and he’s perfect; he’s growing. Dr. Vlk did ultrasounds; look at him! Isn’t he beautiful?” She showed him the grainy blur, arcs of black and white crossing through the image. “Look. There’s his face. Look at his tiny nose, it’s so cute. Those are his knees. He’s got toenails. Imagine, real live toenails.”
Harry took the pictures. “Is he sucking his thumb?”
“Adorable, right?”
Harry led Lacey to the kitchen and poured her a glass of juice. She tried not to make faces at the smell of his coffee, because she wanted more than a few oohs and aahs over her baby. She’d hoped the words would come, but she couldn’t bring herself to say, I think my house is haunted and I want you to tell me what you know. That was crazy talk.
“How are you liking the house?” Harry asked.
There’d never be a better opening. “Have people ever said anything about it? Anything weird?” Not even Ella Dane went so far as to say the house was haunted, even after what Drew did to her room. Troubled was what Ella Dane said. Psychically active. In need of intervention.
“Are you hearing noises?” Harry’s face was smooth, and his dark eyes met Lacey’s with warmth and concern. But he was a performer; he’d spent half his life onstage and the other half teaching, which was another kind of stage, individual and intimate. Harry leaned forward across the table and lowered his hands over hers. Lacey had used that exact soothing touch on children who were frantic over some disagreement with a friend. Distress flashed across his face, wrinkling the skin above his eyes, leaving his mouth unmoved. Whatever he said next would be a comforting lie.
“There were squirrels in the attic three years ago,” he said. “Maybe they’ve gotten in again.”
On the day they found the house, CarolAnna had tried to warn them. People died here, she’d said, and Harry had smoothed the words away: A long time ago. True, and also a lie. She pulled her hands out of his and said, “There’s something in the house.”
“I tested for mold,” Harry said. “The termite contract never lapsed.” He looked so honest and innocent, such a sweet old man. But he kept talking, as liars always did. “The radon test came up negative.”
“Something’s not right. Didn’t anybody see something?”
He was shaking his head. The teacher voice worked on some adults, but not this one. Something moved deep under the skin of his face—a flick of the lower eyelids, a downward pull on the corners of his mouth—then he caught himself and pulled the mouth up into a smile, even forced a laugh. “What could there be to see?” he said.
Lacey couldn’t stand it another second, sitting at his table, drinking his tea. She pushed her chair back and took her glass to the sink. “Is there something wrong?” he said behind her, and if she hadn’t seen that false face a moment ago, she would have found his tone of warm solicitude entirely convincing. She filled the glass with cold water and drank it quickly.
There were framed pictures on the kitchen windowsill, pictures filling every foot of wall space, more pictures on top of the refrigerator. He must spend hours dusting. She found herself staring at half a face, a frame hidden behind another frame. Carefully, she put the glass in the sink. Glass chimed against steel, loud in the breathless room.
“Who is this?” she asked.
It was a small boy in a tuxedo. Behind him, a black piano mirrored stage lights and swallowed the child’s black suit, leaving only his face and hands. His left hand clutched the side of the keyboard, and his blond hair fell across his forehead.
Harry reached for the picture, and Lacey held it in both hands, turning it in the sunlight. “This is my son, Ted,” he said. “When he was little.”
“He’s in Australia, right?”
“Yes, he’s a baritone, sings at Sydney most of the time, a bit of Rossini all over the world, you want the barber of Seville, Ted Rakoczy’s your man.”
He was babbling. Trying to talk his way over something. Too much explanation; truth did not need this much defense. This child was almost Drew, except the hair was darker, the eyebrows brown instead of blond. “Did you ever have any other kids?” Lacey asked, looking at the little boy’s sweet smile.
Harry moved faster than she expected, twitching the frame from her hand and putting the picture back in its place. “Why do you ask?”
It was Lacey’s turn to babble. “We can’t decide if we should try for another baby right away, or wait a few years. Some people say you should have them quick, and other people say you should space them out, what do you think?”