I pass the kitchen and head for the stairs.
The basement door looms ahead, open by the police, and, by the looks of it, this is where the heart of the party is happening. At least half a dozen officers have been through already. I can see the muddy ghost of boot prints on the stairs, the drag marks from evidence containers. Someone scratched a long gouge into the wood, likely hauling something too heavy or too awful to carry.
There are some voices coming from downstairs, full of professional detachment. But I know that sound. That is not the voice of someone processing evidence. That’s the voice of someone trying not to vomit while describing it.
“…still cataloging the last shelf,” someone says. “At least fifteen jars that don’t match anything we’ve logged. Might be teeth. Might be bones. I don’t fucking know, man.”
Another voice answers, sharper. “Everything gets tested. If it came out of this house, it’s priority. She labeled this one ‘Ella – October.’ Kid’s name? Month she took her?”
A silence falls. Heavy.
Then:
“A fucking psycho.”
At least we agree on that, Officer. But if they’re down there cataloging the last shelf, then where the hell am I supposed to find something sentimental? Because I’m not leaving here with a cat photo. I need something she cherished. Something she obsessed over. Dreamed about.
It has to be connected to the murders. Because people like Laura Collins don’t have hobbies. They have rituals. She didn’t daydream about peonies and just happen to poison kids in her spare time. Murder was the point. The obsession. Thelove,as sick it may be.
So, I’ve got three options:
Option one: head into the basement and hope I don’t glitch into visibility while trying to steal a souvenir from nightmare central.
Option two: search the house, see if Granny Death had something precious stashed upstairs.
Option three: figure out where the rest of the evidence was sent and risk tracking it down later.
I go with option two. Because I’m not a freak.
So I turn away from the basement.
Not today, Satan. Or rather, not today, Laura.
My energy’s barely holding. One wrong move and I’ll flicker into full view right next to a cop holding a jar of baby teeth. And IknowI’d lose it if I went down there.
So instead, I move like smoke through the hallway, checking doors as I pass.
A bathroom: mint tile, spotless porcelain, and a hand towel embroidered with kittens.
A guest room: unused, with neatly folded sheets and the faint scent of cedar.
Then, her room.
The master bedroom door stands slightly ajar.
Soft, golden light filters through half-drawn curtains, casting long, faded shadows across the cream carpet. The whole room is pale lilac and polite decay. I step inside, slow and careful. I can’t be heard, but still… it feels like trespassing.
Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like just a specter anymore. Or maybe it’s because she could materialize any second as a goddamn wraith, and the moment my foot touches her—this time pink—plush carpet, she’ll get supernatural ass-tingles and know I’m here.
Either way, I’m pretty sure there’s something in this room we can use.
I head toward the vanity.
It’s old. Real wood, antique mirror, a scattering of perfume bottles and delicate little trinkets. A silver hairbrush. A stack of letters tied with twine…
And then I see it.
A jewelry box.
