Page 22 of We Live Here Now

29

Emily

The first thing I do when I get back to the house is write up what I can in the notebook, summarizing the events of last night and my visit to Fortuna, and then look at the first two words I wrote on the back page:Find it. The words from the Ouija board that everyone thought I’d spelled as a joke.

I found it, but I didn’t use it. I put it back.

That’s what Fortuna Carmichael said. It’s too much of a coincidence. There’s something hidden in Larkin Lodge, and I don’t know what it is but I have to look. I cook some quick noodles and then start in the freezing boot rooms at the end of the kitchen corridor. The search is quick. I test the flagstones for any that might come free to reveal a hiding place underneath—they don’t—and then check in the few cupboards. Nothing.

I move methodically through the downstairs of the house, the radio with me for company. I’m not really listening to the music as I lift rugs, check behind doors, and look in unused cupboards and under the sink, but the familiar drive-time show reminds me of London and normality and life in the buzz of the city, making me feel less alone. Every so often, I turn it down and listen, but the house stays silent.

I leave the study for now as it was empty until I put the books in there and so I’ve seen the shelves bare, and instead start checking each stair on the way to the first landing, but there are no loose floorboards or secret drawers. What am I looking for?

I found it, but I didn’t use it.

Is it the weapon used to murder whoever is haunting the house?A knife? Will its discovery finally allow the spirit to be at peace? Or somehow prove who the killer is or was? If the house was haunted back when Fortuna Carmichael was here, then no doubt the murderer is probably dead too by now. Maybe Fortuna stumbled across a weapon and then left it where it was in case someone thought she’d killed someone with it?

I’m sweating by the time I’ve finished in our bedroom and the bathroom, the lights all on now that it’s dark outside, but I’ve found no evidence of anything unusual hidden away or any secret hiding places, and I’m not really surprised. If there’s something hidden in this house, I know in my gut it’s going to be on the top floor.

I stare up the stairs but can’t bring myself to move. I don’t want to go back up there, especially not in the dark. Should I wait until morning? Or maybe when Freddie’s back I can find some excuse for both of us to go up there—measure for curtains or something—and do a search then. I can’t go up there alone. I can’t.

I’m still hesitating on the stairs when the door knocker sounds downstairs, and I’m flooded with relief. Whatever is hidden up there can wait another day.

It’s freezing outside and now that it’s dark the night mist has spilled over the barrier wall and flooded the narrow lane, barely any visible road left at all.

“You drove here in this?” I hold the door open for Sally and she comes inside.

“I’m used to it. Everyone is around here. I know all the lanes and bends and passing points. It’s not as if we get many strangers, not off the main roads anyway. We’re all careful. More likely to hit a badger or deer than another car.” She smiles at me. “Welcome to rural living.”

“It’s going to take some getting used to.”

She hands me a bottle of wine and takes off her coat, hanging it on the banister. “Hope you don’t mind me just showing up. Joe’s painting, and I was bored. And then I thought of you up here and… well, hereI am.” She looks around at the hallway. “Strange to be back here. So different now. The wallpaper definitely wasn’t ours.”

“It won’t be staying. I prefer bright, light colors.”

“Houses are funny like that, aren’t they? Made new by new owners. All the history wiped away. Sometimes I wonder how much the buildings remember though. In the bricks, you know what I mean? Something must soak in. All those lives.” She smiles as if she means it half-heartedly, but I find it hard to smile back. There’s something in the bricks of this house for sure.

I follow her into the sitting room, watching as she takes it all in, fingers trailing on the banister as she goes by, and then get us both a glass of wine before joining her again. I’m tired but happy not to be alone.

“Does Joe often work into the night?”

“When he’s in the zone, yes. I’d say I pity those poor girls, but they love it.” She leans back, relaxing. “I’ll be glad when these paintings are done. He’s been working too hard. I mean, I absolutely respect his artistic process, but I long to have him back.” We’re comfy at either end of the sofa, me awkward with my bad leg stretched out on the coffee table, and Sally like a languid cat, settled in against the cushions.

“Isn’t it weird? For you?”

She frowns, puzzled. “How do you mean?”

“The girls. Are they always nudes? Don’t you worry? I mean, if the process is that intense, that he might, well, you know…”

“Oh god, no, it doesn’t bother me at all.” She sits up straighter, amused by me. “Joe loves women. That’s part of who he is. And it’s art, isn’t it? Our connection is so much deeper than that, so why would I worry about a few beautiful young things with crushes on him?”

I laugh. “Because they’re beautiful young things with crushes on him?” I remember how entwined the girls were with each other and how they’d kissed. It was male fantasy 101. Had they been performative for him, or was it pleasure for themselves? Either way, Iwouldn’t want Freddie watching. “I’m not sure I’d be so cool about it, is all I’m saying. I wish I could be, but I don’t think I could.”

“People get so heated about sex. But it’s only love that really matters.”

“I guess so.” Her viewpoint doesn’t make me feel any less guilt about my own stupid transgression though. “I hope it works as much for you as for him.”

“Of course, he’s all about freedom, polyamory even, but I’ve never wanted another man. You’ve seen Joe, right? Why would I?” She looks over at a wedding photo on the mantelpiece. “And where’s your husband? Freddie, isn’t it? Shouldn’t he be here looking after you?”

---