Page 33 of He Sees You
And Cain, perhaps eighteen, dark-haired even then, standing slightly apart despite the family pose.
His eyes, even in the old photo, seem to look through the camera rather than at it.
"Tragic story, that one," Mrs. Santanoni says, appearing at my elbow with her uncanny ability to materialize when gossip is possible. "The Lockwoods were pillars of the community. Took in those two children when they were young, gave them everything. The boy was never quite right after their deaths, though. Came back here to live in their old estate, all alone in the mountains. The girl did better—went off to the city, made something of herself."
"You knew them? The parents?"
"Everyoneknew them. Richard was on every board, Patricia played piano at church. Perfect family, from the outside. Though..." she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "there were whispers. There always are in small towns. About why the children were so eager to leave. About why the boy came back but never restored the house. Just built that cabin on the property and let the main house rot."
"What kind of whispers?"
Mrs. Santanoni glances around the empty store as if someone might be listening. "The Lockwood boy was troubled. Got into fights at school, though he was always defending someone else. Had a temper when it came to bullies. One time, Bobby Pike was picking on a freshman, and Cain nearly put him in the hospital. Took three teachers to pull him off. After that, Richard sent him away to some military school for his senior year."
"But he came back."
"After the parents died, yes. Inherited everything—the house, the money, the land. Could have gone anywhere, done anything. Instead, he lives up there like some kind of gothic novel character, playing violin at all hours, collecting those awful skulls."
I buy the book along with a few others, my mind spinning with all this new information.
Cain and Juliette, adopted siblings.
Dead parents.
A house left to decay while he lives in self-imposed exile on the same property.
A history of violence, but targeted.
Protective.
The drive home feels shorter, my mind occupied with puzzles.
The sedan is back in position near our house, engine running.
I wave at the officer inside, getting a startled wave back.
At least they're not being subtle about the protection detail anymore.
Inside, the house is still empty, but there's evidence Dad came home for lunch—dishes in the sink, coffee pot refreshed.
I head to my room, eager to write while the inspiration is hot.
I pull the raven feather from my pocket and lay it on my desk, and notice there's something else on the desk that wasn’t there before.
A book.
Specifically, a first edition ofRebeccaby Daphne du Maurier, my favorite novel, the one I wrote my college thesis on.
The one I've mentioned in exactly two interviews, both obscure literary journals that maybe a hundred people read.
My hands shake as I open it.
There's an inscription on the title page in elegant handwriting:
"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."Perhaps you'll dream of darker places.—A fellow admirer of necessary monsters
No signature. No explanation.
Just the impossible presence of a book that shouldn't be here, couldn't be here, unless someone came into my room while I was gone.
