Page 181 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

I think those are much better questions.

The cottage appeared between the trees just as twilight settled across the valley. I switched off the engine but didn't get out immediately. Instead, I looked toward the dark woods separating my property from Elias's.

Still no truck.

Still no movement.

Still no detective.

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel for just a second.

I made a friend today.

The words felt strangely wonderful and dangerous at the same time. I think she's exactly the sort of person Mother would've warned me about. Which probably means she'll be good for me or devastating. Sometimes those become the very same thing.

And if you're still reading...

Don't worry.

I'm keeping you too.

Seraphina

The latch of the front door clicked into the housing with a clean, heavy precision that always made the kitchen feel like a closed file. I stepped inside the dark hallway, the familiar scent of my own house rushing over me, old pine, rose polish, cold bleach, and the expensive, resinous smell of turpentine still clinging stubbornly to my cardigan after leaving Persephone's gallery.

I didn't bother with the overhead lights. Twilight was enough. It spilled through the tall windows in muted shades of violet and grey, tracing the grain of the wooden floorboards until the entire cottage looked like it had been sketched in charcoal rather than built from timber.

"You're tracking city grease onto the rug."

Gerald muttered from his place on the kitchen counter, his tiny painted nose wrinkling with theatrical disgust.

"Hollow City's marble has an entirely different composition. You're contaminating the house with metropolitan residue."

Frank, lounging against the window with all the enthusiasm of a pensioner waiting for death, barely opened one eye.

"Let her contaminate the rug."

He sighed.

"She's breathing differently."

Gerald turned dramatically toward him.

"Exactly my concern."

Frank shrugged.

"The architecture of her ribs isn't as rigid. She laughed today."

Gerald looked horrified.

"Laughter leads to attachment. Attachment leads to variables. Variables destroy routine."

"I still have my routine."

"For now."

I smiled despite myself, absently straightening the cuff of my ivory cardigan. I always bought them too large. People assume oversized clothes are about comfort. They're wrong. Loose sleeves keep the world farther away. They hide nervous hands. They soften sharp elbows. They make it more difficult for strangers to know where your body ends. Boundaries are important, even in knitwear. It still carried the faint scent of rose starch from yesterday's ironing, softened now by the resinous perfume of turpentine and linseed oil that had followed me home from Persephone's gallery. Strange how clothing remembered places long after people had decided to forget them.