Holding the screen door open with her elbow, she wasn’t surprised when the front door resisted her first attempt to unlock it. The pin and tumbler were stiff with disuse, and once she was able to jiggle it loose, she still had to use her shoulder against the weathered wood and give a slight shove.
The additional force brought Hadley with it, and she waved a hand to clear the cascade of dust motes that spiraled through the air. The stale air hit her lungs, triggering spasms in her throat. Once she cleared her airway, she gave her eyes time to adjust.
The house had been sealed like a tomb, preserving everything exactly as it had been since the day she’d left town. Literally. It was clear to her that the house had been abandoned long before her mother’s death.
Moving deeper into the living room, Hadley did her best to separate herself from the moment. Given that she’d hired a company to close up the house, the furniture was covered with heavy white sheets, the trash removed, and the refrigerator cleaned out. She still paid for all the utilities.
Family photos still hung on the walls, painting false narratives of joy and love. The patch of drywall in the corner that bore an indentation was proof of that. It was one of many scars that her father’s anger had left on the house.
The memory surfaced with unexpected clarity.
She'd been six, Mason fourteen. Their father had come home late, already halfway through a twelve-pack he’d meant to share with their mother. When Mason had suggested they might want to eat something instead of drinking their dinner, the beer bottle had left their father's hand with stunning velocity, missing Mason's head by inches before hitting the wall bottom-first, creating the perfect circular dent that remained to this day.
Hadley involuntarily brushed her fingers over the depression. Mason had stood his ground that night, placing himself between her and their parents. It was the first time he’d been forced to be her protector.
The wallpaper around the dent had yellowed differently from the rest of the wall, creating a jaundiced halo around the impact site. Her father had promised to patch it the next day, not that he’d ever gotten around to it. He'd died of a heart attack a year later, taking his violent temper and broken promises with him.
Mindful of the cobwebs in the archway, Hadley continued into the kitchen, which was a perfect preservation of 2005. A Betty Crocker calendar hung on the wall, forever open to October, the days leading up to Emily Esten's disappearance marked with mundane appointments in her mother's flowing script. The ancient refrigerator hummed with surprising persistence.
Her gaze settled on the stove, and another memory surfaced, this one warmer. Mason was sixteen, standing with a spatula in hand on a random night when their mother worked the late shift at the diner. He'd somehow mastered the art of pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, the ears perfectly round and evenly browned.
"Close your eyes, Nugget," Mason said, using the nickname he’d given her due to her phase of only eating chicken nuggets. She’d grown out of it by then, but the name had stuck. "I've got a surprise."
She'd squeeze her eyes shut tight, hands clasped beneath her chin in anticipation. The plate would land on the table with a gentle clink.
"Three, two, one... open!"
And there would be Mickey, complete with chocolate chip eyes and a strawberry-sliced smile. Sometimes, when their mother had been gone for particularly long stretches, he'd make a whole Disney parade of pancakes—Mickey, Minnie, Donald—each one more elaborate than the last.
"You know what Mickey always says," Mason would tell her as she drowned the pancakes in syrup, even though it was a lie. "Keep smiling, kid. It makes people wonder what you're up to."
The memory was so vivid that for a moment, Hadley could swear the sweet aroma of pancake batter hung in the air. She pressed her fingertips to her sternum, trying to ease the pain.
Mason had been more parent than brother in those years, filling the gaps left by their mother's long work hours and their father's death. He'd helped her with homework, bandaged scraped knees, and chased away the monsters under her bed. The boy who had crafted Mickey Mouse pancakes and the man who had allegedly killed Emily Esten existed in her mind as entirely separate entities, irreconcilable versions of the same person.
Hadley retraced the path to the bottom of the thin staircase. She cautiously ascended the steps, mindful of the dusty railing. The narrow hallway suggested the limited size of the three bedrooms, and she could vouch for their tight spaces.
She paused outside her childhood bedroom. It was nothing but a shrine to the eighteen-year-old who couldn’t wait to escape. Before she became the woman who, despite everything, still couldn't bring herself to sell this mausoleum of memories. She didn’t bother to enter, but instead, continued to Mason’s room.
Their mother hadn’t allowed Hadley to ever open the door, though it stood open now, revealing a space that had remained untouched for twenty years. The company had also draped cloths over the beds and dressers, but posters of Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers were practically glued to the walls.
She moved deeper into the room, her boots leaving clear impressions in the dust covering the hardwood floor. She came to stand in front of a bulletin board covered with photographs. One was of Mason with his high school football team, another of him and his group of friends, and the picture that was front and center was with Emily.
It must have been taken at the lake. The large, shimmering body of water was visible in the background. Mason's arm was draped around Emily's shoulders. Mason wasn't looking at the camera. Instead, he was smiling at Emily with complete reverence.
Emily, for her part, had her head tilted toward Mason, her face lifted to his with a carefree smile. Her hand rested on Mason's chest, fingers splayed possessively over his heart. They weren’t just a couple. They were two people utterly content in each other's presence.
How could two individuals who stared at each other with such adoration end up in a deadly confrontation mere weeks later?
Twenty years of certainty began to crumble around her like the dust disturbed by her presence. If she were honest with herself, every nightmare since then had chipped away at her conviction.
Now that she was back, it was impossible to push aside her doubts. What if she had gotten it wrong? What if, in the confusion and fear of that night, her ten-year-old mind had misinterpreted what she'd seen? What she’d heard?
What if her brother was innocent?
9
Unknown
