A hand touched my shoulder.

Wake up.

I was cold. My throat was dry. I rolled over onto my side, trying to get warmer, and something slid off my chest and off the bed. It thumped to the floor.

I opened my eyes.

I was looking at the chair I’d found Rose sitting in a few days ago. It was empty. The room was silent except for the sound of the fan, still blowing softly. My skin was freezing, as if someone had dragged ice cubes over it. Why was I so cold?

I leaned over the edge of the bed and saw Flowers in the Attic on the floor. I’d been reading. I must have fallen asleep, the book on my chest. For how long? Why had I awoken?

There had been a hand on my shoulder. I looked around the room. There was no one here.

The sun slanted through the window—it was late afternoon. The cold seeped from my skin and sweat broke out on my back. I sat up on the bed, feeling the damp of my T-shirt where I’d sweated through it. Despite the fan, it was hot in here.

I listened for a second. There was only silence in the house. Where was everyone?

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and got up, moving to the bedroom doorway. In the main room there was only silence, broken by the ticking of the clock on the wall. The kitchen was dim and clean, untouched since lunch. The mismatched chairs in the sitting room were empty.

There was no one here, and yet it felt like someone had just been here. Like someone had only now walked out of the room, and if I touched one of the kitchen chairs or one of the chairs in the sitting room, I’d find it warm.

My thoughts were fuzzy as my brain slowly woke. Someone had touched me while I was sleeping. Someone had touched me.

There was a faint sound from behind the house, and I walked through the kitchen to the laundry room and the door to the backyard. The door was open, and through the screen I saw Rose and Eddie. There was a pile of dead branches in the middle of the yard, which Eddie had likely cut. Rose was cutting lengths of twine, and Eddie was using them to tie the branches into bundles. Both the front and the back of his T-shirt were soaked in sweat.

At the back of the yard, along the fence that separated Rose’s property from the woods beyond, was a garden—a long, dark row of turned earth. There was not a single plant growing in it, not a single weed. I remembered the cop, Kyle, telling us that Rose’s husband, Robbie, had died in the backyard while she’d dug that garden with a shovel.

I stared at that garden and a shiver went down my spine. How long had Robbie been dead now, I wondered? A year? Two? More? Why was nothing growing in July? Did Rose go out and dig it fresh every day all summer, so nothing grew in it? Had Robbie really died of a heart attack? I pictured a body lying there, where Eddie and Rose were standing now. What had happened that day?

There was a sharp knock on the house’s front door.

I jumped at the sound, biting back a surprised scream. I was completely awake now. I put my hand to my stomach, which was churning, and walked across the empty rooms to open the front door.

A uniformed cop stood there. It was Kyle, the cop I’d just been thinking about a minute ago. Kyle Petersen was his name, according to Rose. He gave me the same smirk I recognized from before.

“Mrs. Carter,” he said. “Your husband around?”

“What do you want?” I asked him.

He let his gaze move down and up my body. I was wearing my jean shorts and a cream tee that was probably wrinkled. My hair was likely mussed from sleep. Still, he didn’t scare me. I kept my chin up and didn’t move from the narrow slot I’d made when I opened the door.

“Well?” I said.

“We’re returning your car.” He gestured with his chin. Behind his shoulder, I saw Eddie’s Pontiac parked at the foot of Rose’s driveway. Sitting in the street, the motor running, was a police cruiser with Chad Chipwell, the other uniformed cop, in the driver’s seat. When he saw me looking, he gave me a small wave.

“Fine,” I said, holding out my hand. “Give me the keys.”

Kyle held the keys to the Pontiac up as if he was going to give them to me, but at the last minute he snatched them away, as if I were a toddler and we were playing a game.

“You know,” he said, “I had you pegged for killing that girl. Still would, if it wasn’t for Max.”

“Is he a friend of yours? Congratulations on being friends with a murderer.”

His eyes went dark with anger. I never did know when to keep my mouth shut. Then again, I wasn’t afraid of him. It was almost fun to watch rage in men like Kyle. They always thought it was so frightening. They had no idea how well I knew real fear.

“You really are a bitch,” he said.

“I really am,” I agreed. “Give me my keys.”

“Get out of town and don’t come back.”

“Believe me, I will. I’d love nothing more than to get out of your shitty, murdering little town. Now give me my keys.”

For a second, I thought he’d say something else. Something worse. Then Chad Chipwell tapped the horn of the cruiser, sending a cheery beep.

Kyle dropped the keys onto the porch next to his feet. Then he turned and walked back to the car.

I waited until the cruiser drove away, and then I stooped to pick up the keys. I looked at the Pontiac, parked on the street, and took a breath. There was nothing for it.

I retrieved my flip-flops and walked to the car. I turned the key in the passenger door and opened it.

It was awful.

The smell blasted out first—the metallic smell of blood, left to fester in the heat. I gasped for air and forced myself to look inside.

The police had done a thorough job. Black fingerprint dust—smeared where Kyle had touched it—was all over the wheel, as well as on the inside door handles and the glove box. Strips of fabric had been cut from the back seat, leaving the foam to spring out. More strips had been neatly cut from the fabric on the floor, and the rubber mats to put your feet on were gone. The former contents of the glove box—a map, the car manual, the ownership papers, one of my hair ties, a few quarters, an old receipt—had been placed into a large Ziploc bag on the front passenger seat. Mixed with the blood stench was the smell of some kind of chemical, or maybe alcohol. It was incredibly strong.

I blew out a breath. Just get me out of this town.

I rolled down the window on the passenger side—the roller was covered in fingerprint dust—to let the blood smell out. I slammed the door. I didn’t bother to lock it. I didn’t think anyone would steal this particular car.

Then I went back to the house to let Eddie know we needed to do some cleaning.