Page 41 of In the Bones
“Yeah right.”
“Hear me out.” Gigi swiveled to face me, the bare backs of her legs squeaking on the chair. The sleeves of her sweatshirt were too long and they flapped as she clapped her hands. “I just watched this documentary about house hiding. People who secretly live in a house that isn’t theirs?”
“That sounds insane,” I told her.
She cocked an eyebrow and twisted her lips. “I’m not so sure. I mean, it’s a little risky, but it’s also a way to live completely rent-free. When the owners go out, you help yourself to their food and toothpaste. You can’t stay for long, because eventually they’ll realize something shady’s going on. But then you leapfrog to a new house, and start all over again.”
A current of discomfort tripped across my skin. “How do people not notice there’s a stranger living with them?”
“I guess you have to be pretty quiet. In the show, people mostly hid in attics and basement crawlspaces. Anywhere the homeowners don’t tend to go. You have to be smart about it too; like don’t pick a house with security cameras or a dog. If you don’t make a mess or eat too much, though, most people have no freaking idea.”
“Well shit.” I was stunned. The whole thing sounded crazy dangerous. It was breaking and entering, wasn’t it? A criminaloffense? But Gigi said there were ways to get in without leaving evidence. A first-floor window left ajar. A bulkhead door someone forgot to latch. Knob locks could be jimmied with a credit card. In places that were more remote, people still left spare keys under flowerpots or tucked on the trim above the front door. Some owners didn’t use keys at all.
“Up here, you might not even need to deal with the homeowners. These houses,” she said, starry-eyed, “are empty all winter long. All that space, and no one around to enjoy it. They’re ripe for the picking.”
“I’ll pass. Thank fuck I live in an apartment with a roommate,” I said. “I can already see the nightmares forming, so thanks for that.”
Gigi laughed. “I’ll make it up to you tonight. We’re going, yeah?”
“Of course,” I said as the boat cleared a small peninsula and Boldt Castle rose up before us, a behemoth of stone in a moat of glistening teal. I don’t know what compelled me to pull over by the dock the previous afternoon. The act had felt bold and forbidden, and it filled me with a sense that I was living now, really living, in a way that I hadn’t for so long. The way Jenny and I used to dream that, someday, we would. As soon as I rolled to a stop, the man from the river had waved us over. After introducing himself, and watching Gigi fangirl when she recognized his name, he’d asked if we were in town for the holiday. His eyes had danced when we told him we had just one more night in Cape Vincent.
“Then make it the best night,” he’d said, opening his muscled arms as if to welcome us in. “I can help with that.”
My grin had been uncontrollable, all gums and teeth, but fuck it. I was desperate to be part of the famous stranger’s furtive world.
“We’ll be there,” we’d both said because, after all, what was the point of a weekend away if you couldn’t have a little fun?
THIRTY-FIVE
Mac
“Ithink it’s fair to assume we’re all here for the same reason,” former mayor Bruce Milton said. “To make our county a safer place for our families, for the tourists our economy relies on, and for the next generation that will grow up loving the river life. If you have ideas and expectations for the sheriff’s department, I will listen, and I will enact change. It’s time for a new perspective. A fresh new start.”
From where she sat next to Milton, Mac scanned the audience. The room at Jefferson Community College was full, but not so packed that Shana and Tim could be lost in the crowd. After several attempts to pick them out while listening to Milton’s statements and preparing a rebuttal in her head, Mac finally gave up. Her friends weren’t here. Nicole wasn’t either.
They weren’t coming.
Mac shifted in her seat. Milton’s case was strong. The man looked good, confident. He’d replaced his dated rimless glasses with contact lenses, and was tanner than anyone in the room—suspiciously so, considering it was only May. Bruce Milton gave off an air of authority that was clearly having an effect on the folks who’d turned up to listen, folks who wouldn’t fail to vote and convince their neighbors to do the same. As for Mac, she hadn’t slept properly in days or had nearly enough time to compose herself for this moment, and she feared the hairline chinks in her armor were starting to show.
When Milton talked about wanting to beef up local law enforcement, there had been actual cheers. That claim in particular felt like a personal affront. Everyone in the room, if not all of Jefferson County, knew Mac had put her own life on the line more than once for the greater community. They also knew that, under her watch, a serial murderer had claimedmultiple lives, his reign of terror causing mass trauma that had yet to heal.
When a member of the audience asked both candidates what made them stand out, Mac emphasized the breadth of her experience, first as a trooper, then as an investigator with the BCI. It was her ace in the hole. But Milton had one more card up his sleeve.
“Sheriff McIntyre’s the old guard, no doubt about that. She’s got years of work under that belt,” he told the audience, managing to make Mac sound both old and obsolete. “But the fact is, there’s been far too much crime in the area. Right this very minute there’s a serial intruder on the loose, wreaking havoc on our quiet river communities. Who knows what she’ll do next? It’s time to put an end to all this lawlessness and violence.”
Mac’s eyes felt dry and tired. When she moved her hands into her lap, she realized the armpits of her blouse were soaked through with sweat.
“Fun afternoon,” Bruce Milton said after the candidates had posed for pictures and the room had cleared out. “You’re being a real good sport about this, Maureen, given we used to be friendly.”
“That hasn’t changed,” she said, even though Milton had conveniently failed to remind the crowd that Mac had supported his mayoral campaign when he needed it most. She knew what he’d say if she expressed her frustration with the current situation.This isn’t personal. She might even have believed that, if not for what he’d said next.
“Woody Durham. That’s your brother-in-law, yes?”
Mac inclined her head. “That’s right. You know Woody?”
“Never had the pleasure,” Milton replied tightly, his own head tilted toward hers. “I heard something interesting about him, though. I gather he has some kind of resale business?”
Where was he going with this? It didn’t feel like casual conversation, not in the wake of a debate that had doubled as a bloodbath.
