Chapter 21: The Spare

The house on Tradd Street has a front door that sticks, and a hall that smells of beeswax and old paper.

I had one key to it.

I had never made a copy, and that was the first thing I told Knox.

I said it standing on the step, with the key in my hand.

"It's the only one," I said. "I've been meaning to get a spare for six years."

"Why haven't you?"

"I kept thinking I'd lose the house before I needed one."

He looked at the key, and at me, and at the door that did not open.

"Put your shoulder into it," I said. "It likes to be asked twice."

He leaned on it, and the door swung in.

The hall was dark and tall, with a staircase going up into more dark.

A row of Hargroves in oil paint hung along the wall, all of them looking unconvinced.

Knox stood in the middle of the floor with his one bag.

"It's bigger than the ferry," he said.

"There are four chimneys," I said. "None of them work."

On cue, something in the parlor chimney fell eight feet and landed in the grate.

We both held still.

A squirrel walked out of the fireplace and shook itself.

It looked at us, and left by the window I had cracked that morning.

"Was that on the schedule?" Knox said.

"It's the house," I said. "The house has its own."

I set my purse on the hall table and took out the yellow cap and the folded vest.

I laid them side by side beneath the mirror.

"I'm going to tell you something now," I said. "Don't say anything until I finish."

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