and Rain walked over to the side of the house, Rain faster in her jeans and sneakers than Gillian was in her heels. She always dressed as if she was about to go on camera. Rain, on the other hand, would be in her pajamas everywhere she went if it were socially acceptable.
“This is where the second part of our story begins,” Rain said, standing at a paint-splattered door with a rickety knob and a small glass-paned window covered with grime. She had the portable digital recorder in her hand.
“In the early hours of October 2, an unknown assailant broke into the house at 238 Pine Drive and killed Steve Markham.”
Rain felt her heart race, wondering if this was how the killer got in. They pushed inside to a musty garage, moved past a parked silver Mercedes-Benz, some stacks of boxes, a humming furnace.
“When he was acquitted of the murder of his wife, we thought that was the conclusion of the story,” said Gillian. This is how they did it: investigated together, took pictures, wrote notes, made snippet recordings. Later, Rain would weave together the full piece, write it, Gillian doing the reporting.
“I guess someone wanted to revise the ending,” said Rain.
They found the interior door unlocked, pushed it open and stepped into a small laundry room. There was a strong odor in the house—mold, garbage, something else—a chemical edge, something that tickled the inside of Rain’s nose.
She already had her camera out, stuck the recorder in her pocket, started snapping pictures.
A small house, tastefully decorated with budget items from Target—that kind of pretty, faux-distressed, almost modern look that was so in style. Laney Markham was a nice girl, and her house reflected that—a worn teddy bear on the couch, photographs of her family, a pretty collection of shells and candles on the dining room table, pretty dishes all in a row. They were always careful to keep her top of mind in their reporting, never wanting her life to be overshadowed by how she died, or by the man who killed her.
Gillian took the camera from her. Rain scribbled notes. Their work together was silent and quick. They wouldn’t need pictures for the broadcast—if there was one—but it would help Rain when she was writing.
“In here.” Rain walked into the living room. “Henry said he was killed in here.”
There should be some electricity on the air, shouldn’t there? Some energy that set their skin to tingling. But it was just a quiet living room, some furniture clearly removed. The only evidence that someone had died was a thin spray of blood on the carpet that had been taped off in black, a chunky geometric outline around an organic splatter, like a macabre modern art installation.
“What are we doing here?” asked Gillian. She looked pale suddenly. It wasn’t like her to get squeamish. They’d seen so much. The horrors people do. They knew it too well.
“We’re documenting,” said Rain. “Like we always do.”
“For what?”
“For the rest of the story.”
“Are you back?” asked Gillian, letting the camera dangle from the strap around her neck. “You know Andrew wants you to come back.”
Andrew Thompson, executive producer of National News Radio Morning Edition, a bespectacled salt-and-pepper hottie who was equal parts ambition and brilliance. Rain had loved working with him, even though he was a major pain in the ass—an exacting editor, a ruthless fact-checker, a steely perfectionist.
He’d tried to talk her out of quitting, dropped the occasional email asking how was the life of the stay-at-home mom. Her job was waiting for her; she knew that.
“I want you to come back,” Gillian said.
Before Rain could answer, Gillian’s phone pinged. She glanced at it, then back to Rain, frowning.
“Someone’s coming. We have to go.”
Rain glanced out the window; a black sedan was pulling up behind the news van. Gillian headed for the door, but Rain grabbed the camera and took one more look around—a quick loop through the bedrooms, the kitchen. She snapped more photos.
What was she looking for?
They’d start the feature here, in the house, the day after. They’d work their way back. She could already feel it—the pace, the tendrils that reached into the past, the big questions at its center. She took a photo of the blood splatter.
She was about to follow Gillian when she saw it, a red glitter out of the corner of her eye by the window, under the curtain.
“Let’s go,” said Gillian from the laundry room. “We’re going to get arrested—again.”
They couldn’t get arrested, not with Lily here. Greg would kill her.
She pulled back the curtain. There in the mesh of the carpet was a bright red crystal heart about the size of a quarter. The blood started rushing in her ears, the room tilting a little. No. It wasn’t possible.
“Rain!”
She grabbed it and shoved it in her pocket, chasing after Gillian.
“What were you looking at?” asked Gillian as they exited into the yard. “You’re white. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just thought—Nothing.”
“Hey.” Gillian stopped her, her bright blue eyes turning on Rain like interrogation lamps. “What’s going on?”
“I’m—not sure.”
The fine lines around Gillian’s eyes deepened, her brow furrowing with worry.
“Rain, what aren’t you telling me?”
But then another ping on her phone had Gillian pulling her toward the street. The sedan, which had been moving slowly up the street, sped up and disappeared from view.
“Sorry,” said Josh as they approached. “False alarm, I guess.”
“That’s okay,” said Gillian. “Not much to see after all.”
There were things that no one knew about her. Not Gillian, not Greg. Not even her father. In fact, there was only one person who knew her completely. That secret self, that stranger inside, hid the crystal heart in her palm, clenched her fist around it so tightly it started to hurt.
“Didn’t your mom teach you to be nice?”
“My mom told me not to talk to strange men in the woods,” she said.
She wasn’t scared yet. But Tess was; she took hold of Rain’s arm. But really, she was still Lara then, Laraine Winter. Laraine was a name her father made up, part Lawrence, part Lorraine, his parents. He’d insist always to people, continuously annoyed by their failure to do so, that it be pronounced LAH-raine. Not LOR-raine, which is how people always said it. He was annoyed when she started calling herself Lara.
