In the Shadows

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.