My mother had heard him and snapped, “Stop making up ugly stories.”
I had laughed nervously. Told Noah not to go near it.
And then I forgot.
Children tell strange stories all the time.
That is what adults say when the truth is too inconvenient.
Agent Keene opened a folder.
“Your mother inherited that property from your grandfather, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know your grandfather operated a private repair business from that shed in the 1980s?”
“I knew he fixed appliances. I barely remember him.”
“Did you know he was questioned in connection with two disappearances?”
My lips parted.
“No.”
“Never charged,” Keene said. “But questioned.”
The room grew smaller.
My grandfather had died when I was nine. I remembered his hands, stained with oil. His peppermint candies. His laugh that sounded too loud in small rooms. I remembered my mother crying at his funeral without tears.
“How far back does this go?” I whispered.
