Lillian did something that she had never done in all the years she had owned the bookstore—she called Rosie and told her she’d be late. Now as she sat in her car looking at the old house where she had grown up she couldn’t help wondering if this was a mistake.

The entire place looked worn and run-down, from the peeling paint on the other buildings to the rusted old cars deserted in the yard like some graveyard for unwanted vehicles. There were a few she didn’t recognize, added since her last visit, alongside the old panel station wagon, the one that had been first to be exiled after their mother’s death. Somehow it had seemed inappropriate for either of them to use it without her permission.

Lillian stared out her own car window, her hands still on the steering wheel as she tried to decide whether to stay or leave. How in the world did her brother, Wally, live out here? Why did it not bother him to do so? That was something she had never understood. All those years growing up here and wanting, needing to escape. She couldn’t imagine staying here, living here and not remembering, not being haunted by those memories. But Wally didn’t seem to mind.

She tried to hold on to the courage, the determination she had started the morning with. She tried to imagine herself as one of the sleuths in the many mysteries she so enjoyed. She tried to go back to last night when she was putting pieces of the puzzle together and coming up with theories and ideas that even Henry admitted were exactly what the FBI profiler had come up with. And if all else failed, she needed to at least put to rest her nagging suspicion that Wally had anything to do with those bodies they were finding stuffed into barrels. If anything, maybe he was covering something up for Vargus. Yes, that would make sense. That was something Wally would do.

By the time she stepped up to the front door, she was having second thoughts. Yet, she reached under the nearby flowerpot for the spare keys. She wasn’t sure why he bothered to lock the door. What could he possibly have that anyone would want? But that was Wally. Always suspicious of others. Always paranoid that someone was out to hurt him.

The house smelled musty, almost as if it had been closed up and unused except for the pungent smell of burnt food, quickly contradicting her initial impression. He had piles everywhere. Piles of newspapers and magazines and videotapes. But the kitchen looked spotless. No dirty dishes in the sink. No crusted pots and pans on the stove. No trash in the corner. She couldn’t believe it.

She should check the refrigerator. She braced herself and opened the refrigerator’s freezer, ready to wince. Henry had mentioned missing body parts but hadn’t elaborated. She wasn’t sure what she might find. But there was nothing unusual. Some frozen pizzas and hamburger patties. What did she expect? What in the world was wrong with her?

She shook her head and glanced into the laundry room off the side of the kitchen. This looked more familiar, piles of dirty clothes on the floor in no order of separation, such as whites from darks or delicates from heavy duty. She turned back to the kitchen when she noticed a white T-shirt crumpled and tossed into the corner on top a black trash bag.

This was silly, she told herself. She needed to get to the bookstore. She was getting carried away, lost in her imagination as usual. But she went to the corner and picked up the T-shirt, gasping as she unfolded it. It was caked and crusted and reddish-brown. And Lillian was convinced that it was blood. Her hands were shaking as her mind tried to reason it away.

Wally got nosebleeds as a child all the time. He probably still got them. He was always complaining about some ache or pain. The man was not healthy. Of course, he probably still got nosebleeds.

“Lillian?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice at the door, dropping the T-shirt and turning to find him scowling at her.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” she lied, immediately recognizing what an awful liar she was. For someone who lived inside her imagination, she should be better at coming up with stories.

“You never come out here.”

“I guess I was feeling nostalgic. Maybe a little lonely for the old place.” The lies only got worse. Even she wouldn’t believe them. “Can I be honest with you, Wally?”

“That would be a good idea.”

“I was looking for…I wanted to see if I could find…that old blue vase Mom had.”

“What?”

“Yes, that blue ceramic one. Do you remember it?” Now, this was good. She could see that she had him trying to remember. “It was the one Aunt Hannah gave her.”

“I don’t know why you want that now.” But the suspicion was gone from his voice. “I think it’s up in the attic. I’ll go see if I can find it.”

He was a good guy. A good brother despite everything their mother had put them through. He couldn’t possibly have done any of the things Lillian had imagined in her overzealous imagination. It simply wasn’t possible. But as she heard him on the stairs, Lillian plucked the bloodied T-shirt up from out of the corner and stuffed it into her handbag.