When the lock slid out of place with the familiar soft snicking
sound, he had no choice but to go into the house.
“We can’t go in there!” Thomas said from behind him, but
Arthur walked directly forward, not even sidling along the edge of
the wall or looking for other ways to leave the room. He glanced
back only once to see he was followed by Thomas, whose presence
felt like the itchy tightness of salt water drying on skin. Cora did
not follow. That was better.
They were not likely to be alone in the house, and if it were a
good person who had taken Mary’s body down, he would have
answered the door when Daniel had knocked. This did not worry
Arthur. He trusted wicked people far more than good people,
because wicked people acted in their own best interest, whereas
good people’s actions often made no sense at all.
The room, lit to wanton brightness by candles and lamps scat-
tered about on various tables and even
the floor, was cluttered with
mismatched furniture. Arthur traced his fingers along a writing
desk; there was no note, nothing freshly written. A packet of let-
ters, unopened, addressed to a Mary Smith. Something about the
writing tickled the back of his mind, and he tucked them into his
vest, along with a sharp letter opener.
“What are we doing in here?” Thomas asked, standing in the
middle of the room, eyes darting about as though hanging were
contagious.
Arthur walked past a low green sofa to where the simple wood
ladder leaned against the wall. He looked to the exposed beam
rafters of the ceiling, but there was no trace of the rope. The pho-
nograph sat on a table near the chair, the round black record still
in place.