Chapter Twenty SCARLETT

Chapter Twenty

S CARLETT

Monday, July 15, 2024

9:30 a.m.

I was running late for my appointment with the real estate agent who I’d hired to sell my mother’s home. My mother had died of a stroke six months ago. A stroke wasn’t normal in a fifty-one-year-old woman, but Mom’s doctors had theorized years of alcohol and drug abuse had taken their toll. My mother had lingered longer than anyone had expected. She’d been transferred to assisted living, where her body had been atrophying. She was trapped in her own dark room. And then she’d died suddenly in her sleep. The doctors said that she’d simply stopped breathing.

Because there was no will, the home had been put in probate, but it had finally cleared, and I was free to sell the house.

When I pulled up in front of the brick three-story home, the Realtor was waiting. She was dressed in a red linen suit, and she’d swept her black hair up into a styled ponytail. My mother loved that color of red and often talked about the fancy clothes she wore and how she used to dress up before she met my father. When Dad moved out, I was about four, and Mom was left with only me to hear her complaints about a life lost to marriage and motherhood. Oddly, in that dark basement prison, I’d missed those complaints.

I glanced at my graphic T-shirt, ripped jeans, and Converse sneakers. My mind buzzed with Mom’s guaranteed comparisons of my outfit versus the Realtor’s.

Ragamuffin. The word would’ve drawn out slowly as she’d sipped a gin gimlet, her go-to after too much coke.

“Ms. Crosby,” Elaine said.

I smiled, glancing toward the old house across the street where I’d first seen Tanner. The grass was freshly cut, the gardens weeded, and pansies filled the iron planters on the front porch.

I had decided to sell Mom’s house immediately. I’d ordered a dumpster and hired moving crews. What didn’t go to the Goodwill ended up in the trash. I’d been oddly detached as I’d tossed all the old clothes from my mother’s closet, the few family pictures, and all the decorative knickknacks. I’d ripped down the thick satin curtains my mother had adored and tossed them into the dumpster along with dozens of throw pillows and rugs. The movers and I had worked for two days, pitching everything.

My mother would’ve been horrified seeing her frippery discarded. She’d said her things were like anchors that kept her rooted to this world. Only, they’d failed her. She’d lost touch with the world when I was missing.

“The place looks great.”

Elaine smiled. “I did a bit of sprucing up. Cleaning crews went through the inside and made it sparkle. It now smells like pine cleaner and fresh air.”

Scents of vodka and cigarettes long trapped in the closed house had finally been released. “That’s great. You’re having the open house soon?”

“The listing went live yesterday, and the open house is on Saturday. I expect the property will sell quickly.”

“Wonderful.”

“I was sorry to hear about your mother. I know it must be difficult.”

“Thank you.” When I heard she’d died, I hadn’t reacted. I guessed one day I would, but so far nothing. She hadn’t missed me, and I wasn’t missing her.

The house still needed major renovations, but it was good enough for a buyer in search of a fixer-upper.

The real estate market was decent, and I hoped the house would sell before prices tumbled as all the pundits predicted. The money would cover the remaining hospital and nursing home bills. In the end, the goal was simply to break even.

“Would you like me to give you the grand tour?” Elaine said.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk through the house by myself. Kind of a last goodbye.”

“Of course, hon. I know this must be emotional.”

As I walked through the front door, footsteps echoed. I was amazed at how the light had transformed the interior. It looked larger, but there was a great deal of familiar—the molding, the arched doorways, the iron on the windows. They all reminded me of the house I’d lived in from ages ten to sixteen.

Before Tanner took me, I’d been drawn to him. As I’d sat in my room in my mother’s house, I didn’t expect, but kind of hoped, to find him watching my room. His attention in the before days had been exciting.

When I returned to the house after the eighty-eight days, I’d look out the same window. This time I’d imagine Della standing on the street corner, coaxing me outside. I don’t know how many times I rose and searched the darkness for her. When I realized she wasn’t there, I’d cry tears of relief and sadness.

Often, I’d find my mother standing in my doorway, sipping a cocktail and staring at me as if I were a stranger.

“Young girls get fooled by pretty men all the time,” my mother said.

I pulled my blanket up around my shoulders as I curled my feet in the chair by the window. “Go away. I’m tired.”

“It was a hard lesson, but you’ll never forget it. Better to learn it when you’re young.”

I burrowed deeper. “Go away.”

“Watch your tone. This is my house.”

“Fuck you.”

In the next instant, footsteps thudded across the floor and my mother grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes to lock on hers. “If you don’t like it here, you can always leave. Those three months you were gone were some of the best of my life.”

I’d left the next day.

This house had never been a place of comfort or love, and it needed to go. It was just another tie to the past, and maybe once the house was gone, I’d be one step closer to normal.

I stood at the bottom of the staircase, my hand resting on a bullnose banister. I could climb and see my old room, inspect the Realtor’s work. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to bury the past before it buried me.

“Thanks, Elaine,” I said as I stepped outside. “It looks great.”

If she was surprised by my very quick visit, her smile gave no indication. “Glad to hear it. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you.”

I strode onto the sidewalk and glanced up and down the street. I realized how little had changed. Of the dozen square little neat yards, half were well maintained, a few passable, and a couple in poor shape. They were the same yards, the same patterns. As I walked down the sidewalk, I paused and allowed myself to study the house across the street. The yard was well kept, but back in the day, it had been pristine. The white paint had been refreshed, vibrant marigolds were planted by the mailbox, and the porch furniture was wicker instead of wrought iron.

Reporters had swamped the area after my release. They’d interviewed neighbors, who were all universally shocked. Tanner had worked for many of them. They’d all described him and his work with glowing comments: Meticulous. Always on time. Reasonable prices. Great attitude.

I’d been portrayed as moody and distant. Some thought I’d been tricked by Tanner. Others assumed I’d gone willingly. “Scarlett.”

I turned at the sound of my name. Standing to my left was Mrs. Rose. She’d lived in the neighborhood when Mom and I moved in fifteen years ago. I remembered she’d brought us a plate of cookies after my return.

“Mrs. Rose.”

The lines on the woman’s face deepened. “I heard about your mother. I’m sorry.”

The polite words vibrated like buzzing flies. “Thank you.”

“We haven’t seen much of you in a long time,” Mrs. Rose said.

“Not a place I like to remember.”

“No, of course not.” To her credit, Mrs. Rose met my gaze. “How are you doing?”

“Getting along. I love my warehouse.”

“You look well.”

Looking good or at least above average was always a win. “Thank you.”

“You still doing your art?”

“I am. I run a printmaking business now.”

“Honey, that’s great.”

“I hear the cops found a body nearby.”

“Right around the block.” Mrs. Rose nodded to the east corner. “The old Robinson house. I spoke to an Officer Larsen. She seems determined to solve the murder.”

“That’s great.” I cleared my throat. “Who were the Robinsons?”

“An older couple. They hired Tanner to flip the house so they could resell it. He did great work on the renovation, from what I hear.”

“Did they ever sense the house was off after Tanner had finished with it?”

Mrs. Rose frowned. “They did. But when they thought to complain, Tanner was dead.”

“That was ten years ago. Who owns the house now?”

“A young couple. They’re nice people, but they’re a little upset.”

“I bet.”

“They’re staying in a hotel now.”

“I understand.” I shifted my stance as a sudden surge of anger cut through my center. Most days, I kept the fury on a leash, but today it growled and snapped. “Did Tanner ever do anything that you thought was off? Were there any warning signs?”

Redness brightened her skin. “He was always nice to me.”

“He was to me, too, until he wasn’t.”

“Scarlett . . .”

I could see she was on the verge of shutting down. When I opened too much, people scattered. I found a smile and made it as warm as I could. “I’m not mad at you, Mrs. Rose. I just don’t understand how he went unnoticed for so long. How I went ignored for so long.” The police hadn’t been surprised by this. One officer had commented that no one really knew their neighbors.

Mrs. Rose sighed. “We really don’t know people, do we? We think we do, but we don’t.” She shook her head. “I even met his girlfriend, who brought him lunch when he was working. She seemed to adore him. No hints of trouble. What was her name?”

“Lynn Yeats,” I said.

Whereas Tiffany didn’t know Tanner, Lynn had. She might have insight into Tanner and maybe could explain him. Maybe not. Maybe he fooled her like everyone else. But I’d never reached out to her because I thought slamming the door to the past would help me heal. But the voices of Tanner, the Other Girl, and now Lynn had grown as loud as Della’s.

“Do you know where Lynn lives?” I asked.

“Honey, why would you want to talk to her? She’s as much a victim as you.”

I’d never seen Lynn Yeats locked in the basement with me. She might have suffered at Tanner’s hands, but not like I had.

“I know,” I lied.

Tanner had taught me in that basement room that lying was a useful skill. And when I escaped, I realized it was easier to lie when any cop or doctor dug too deep into my head. I became adept at coating every answer with just enough truth until the worry vanished from their faces.

Tanner had had his date nights with Lynn thirty feet above my head. How was he able to separate his two worlds so easily? Upstairs. Downstairs. Light. Dark. Did it make him harder as he pressed into Lynn knowing he had two girls locked in his basement? He certainly was more aggressive with me when he forced Della to watch.

My smile was quick and easy. “I better get going.”

“You take care of yourself, dear.”

“I will, Mrs. Rose. Thank you.”

“Of course, honey.”

I walked past my truck and around the corner. At the end of the block, I saw the yellow crime scene tape flapping in front of a brick house. I moved slowly down the sidewalk until I stood in front.

A car door opened and closed, and I glanced over my shoulder to see a woman get out of a blue van and lift a baby from the back seat. As she moved toward her own house, she cooed to her child.

When she saw me standing there, she frowned, and when her baby squawked, she held her closer and hurried inside.

A house, I reminded myself, was bricks and wood. It wasn’t blood and bones. It wasn’t Tanner. Or Della. It deserved better memories.

I climbed the front steps and noted the police seal on the front door. When I tried the front door, I discovered it was unlocked. Did the cops think their seal would keep trouble out of the house? I twisted the knob and pushed the door open, tearing the seal.

This house was almost identical to my mother’s. Wood floors, a kitchen that dated back to the seventies, and small chopped-up rooms. Moving around the corner, I saw the fireplace had been reduced to piles of bricks, crushed mortar dusting the floor.

Following scattered yellow evidence markers, I approached the opening in the wall by the kitchen. The wall space was small, and I couldn’t imagine a body jammed in the gap. Tanner had been doing the reno work alone, so if the house smelled of decomposing body, no one knew but him. And maybe Lynn. How could she have missed the smell if she’d been in the house?

When I left, closing the door behind me, the police seal dangled, a silent witness to my invasion. I looked up and saw the young mother standing at her window watching me. A phone was pressed to her ear. I’d bet she was calling the cops.

As I moved to my truck, my phone buzzed with a text. I glanced down, relieved at the interruption. It was from Tiffany’s number. We need to talk. Someone is watching me.

Blood rushed to my ears as I stared at the words for a long moment.

Who?

I don’t know.

Text bubbles rolled and rolled, but then they stilled and vanished.

Where are you?

There was no reply.