Page 69 of Sinister Secrets

“It’s not a problem, Lucy. Really. We’ll have fun.”

I rub my lips together, wondering if it would be prying if I ask her what’s got her so worked up, but I never get the chance. Jeffery stumbles down the hall toward us, coloring book clenched in one hand. She gives him a kiss, tells him to be good, then she’s gone.

I’m alone with a four-year-old. Aren’t there horror movies that begin like this? He looks at me with wide eyes as the realization hits him as well. His bottom lip trembles. I need to get ahead of this. Fast. And I forgot to ask if he has any allergies, so using the chocolate bar I brought with me is out.

I drop to my knees in front of him and give him a big smile. “Hi, Jeffery. Do you remember me?”

He nods.

“Stephano’s been asking about you. He can’t wait to play again.”

His eyes grow even bigger, but the pout tilts up at the corners.

“He especially can’t wait to give you a big sloppy kiss.” The little boy giggles. Eyeing the coloring book, I ask, “Can I see what you’re coloring?”

Shyly, he holds the tattered pages out to me. I flip through them, taking my time admiring each one.

“You colored these? Really? They’re great. Do you think you could color one for me now?’

When he agrees, I get him settled in a chair at the kitchen table, then go back to fetch his crayons. Within minutes he’s happily scribbling away, feet swinging beneath him, and I’m feeling victorious. This isn’t nearly as scary as I thought.

I take the seat beside him, trying to think of how to ask the questions burning the tip of my tongue without scaring him. He pulls one of the loose pages from the book free and slides it over to me.

“For me?”

Though he doesn’t look up from his drawing, he nods.

“Thank you.” I look at the picture. It’s an outdoor scene of a frog floating on a lily pad in the middle of a pond. It’s the perfect opening. “This kind of looks like the place that you and I met, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

It’s the first word he’s said to me. I take it as a sign to proceed.

“You know, it was very brave of you when you went outside by yourself, but next time, you need to let your mommy know.”

“I tried.” He looks up from his coloring, his eyes meeting mine. “I knocked and knocked, but she didn’t answer. I was afraid the ghost had got her.”

That’s right. Some of the kids in the neighborhood had told him there was a ghost.

“Can you tell me more about the ghost, Jeffery?”

His gaze drops back to the half-colored page before him. His tiny hand tightens around a purple crayon. “They said she was angry that we were living here because it used to be her house.”

An invisible hand takes me by the throat and squeezes. A woman named Grace Billie used to live in this house—and like my grandfather, she was murdered when she wouldn’t agree to sell. Synapses fire inside my brain like a lit sparkler.

It’s not necessarily a link between the real estate scheme and Gordon’s death. It could be a coincidence, just kids being kids. But there’s one giant revelation that can be made here.

“Jeffery?” I wait until I have his attention. “Did you think that the person in your yard that night was a ghost because it was a woman?”

He nods solemnly. This is huge—but I have to tread carefully. I have to keep him talking. There are endless questions that I want to ask, questions that will help me find the person I’m looking for, but I can’t interrogate a four-year-old. I need to choose wisely and do this gently.

Had the neighborhood kids described what the ghost looked like to Jeffery? Like Lucy, the woman who once lived in this house was of Seminole ancestry, but her face was narrower, her cheekbones high and prominent… like Lucy’s sister Sally. I know Lucy told me she didn’t talk to her family anymore, but maybe she has some pictures around here somewhere that I could use to get a description of the killer out of Jeffery.

I look around the kitchen, where the boxes that were here on my last visit have since been unpacked and put away leaving the counters clean and tidy. Cabinets cover the walls, leaving no space for adornment.

My gaze drifts to the living room. Though fewer and smaller, several stacks of boxes still litter the space. Knickknacks fill the built-in shelving, among them a couple of framed photos, though I’m too far away to see what they’re of.

“Do you mind if I turn on the TV?” I ask.