FOUR

      Nick left and Macy closed the door and leaned against it. The house felt cold and empty now that he was gone. How long had it been since anyone except her grandmother had worried about her, or shown any concern for her? She wasn’t used to this. She wanted to run after him, beg him to stay, but then she drew a deep breath and wandered into the living room, stopping to examine the pictures.

      There were no pictures of her father. Maybe not all that unusual, considering that Grandma Mattie Douglas hadn’t appeared to have any pictures of her mother. She moved to stand by the window, looking out. Two women, both mothers, each damaged forever by something beyond their control.

      The pictures, or rather the ones that were missing, told the story. Her grandmother Lassiter had refused to display the pictures of the man she believed had killed her daughter. Her grandmother Douglas kept only the ones of the son she believed had been wrongly convicted.

      Had the two women’s grief and anger extended to Macy? Was that why she knew nothing about her mother’s family? Never even knew she had a grandmother named Opal Lassiter? She was just beginning to understand how many lives had been damaged by what happened here.

      Now it was up to her to bring it to a close. Would she be up to the job? Did she have a choice? She’d pretty well burned all her bridges.

      The doorbell rang, startling Macy. A tall, husky, pleasant-faced woman stood there, smiling. “Macy? I’m Neva Miller. I have a housecleaning business and I cleaned for your mother and for your grandmother. And I remember you from back then. I’d like to speak with you.”

      Company was the last thing Macy wanted right now, but she didn’t like to be rude, either. She smiled, trying to appear welcoming, but how did this woman know she would be here?

      “Come on in. The living room is right through here, but I suppose you know that.”

      Neva laughed. “Yes, there’s not much about this house I don’t know. I was surprised to hear you’d moved in. I’m sure it has some difficult memories for you.”

      “I don’t remember much about living here. I was young, and from what I’ve been told, I was seriously injured at the time my mother was killed.”

      Neva wore her sandy hair cut short and straight, her face was devoid of makeup, and her jeans and long-sleeved green shirt looked loose and comfortable. Now her blue eyes squinted at Macy. “You don’t remember what happened that night?”

      “No. That’s one of the reasons I’m staying here. I’m hoping something will trigger my memory and it will all come back to me.”

      “I see.” Neva looked thoughtful. “Well, you may be right. But then again, you might be better off if you don’t remember.”

      Macy ignored that remark and glanced at her watch. There had to be a reason for this visit, so she hoped the woman would get to it. She had planned to do some more exploring before dark, and time was slipping by.

      Neva must have realized what she was thinking, because she said, “I suppose you wonder why I’m here. I was hoping I could continue taking care of the house for you the way I did for Megan and Opal. I could use the work and it’s a big house. If you tried to clean it yourself, let me tell you, it’s a never-ending job. I can set whatever schedule works for you. I’m flexible.”

      “I’m not sure how long I’ll be here, and I don’t have any long-term plans right now. You wouldn’t be interested in taking me on as a client knowing I might eventually leave, would you?”

      Neva beamed. “Of course I would. I’ll take care of you just like I took care of Megan and Opal.”

      Macy smiled. She knew what Neva meant, and this house would be a chore for her to keep up the way it should be. “All right. What would be a good day for you to come?”

      “Any day you like.”

      Macy thought for a minute. “How about Friday? Would that be convenient?”

      Neva agreed, and promised to be there Friday morning around nine o’clock. She coughed suddenly, gasping for breath. “Water.”

      Macy hurried to the kitchen to drop ice cubes into a glass. She turned on the water, letting it run until it was cold. Neva had stopped coughing, and Macy thought she heard a soft brushing sound from the other room, as if the woman was moving around. But when she carried the glass of water into the living room, Neva was sitting where Macy had left her.

      Neva drained half of the liquid before glancing up at Macy. “Thank you, dear. Got a frog in my throat. Allergies. They’re bad this time of the year.”

      Neva left soon after that and Macy locked the door behind her. She stood for a minute, overwhelmed by the heavy silence. Could she stay here? Alone? At night? Pride stiffened her spine. She’d set this course for herself. She couldn’t quit now.

      She wished she hadn’t agreed to let Neva work for her. Looking back she couldn’t find a reason for the way she felt. Maybe it was just the fear and suspicion she felt about Walnut Grove and the people who lived here. Another thought occurred to her. How had Neva learned she was here?

      Grandma Mattie’s letter she’d found in the box of papers containing information about her mother’s murder, and her father’s conviction and death in prison, had warned against going to Walnut Grove. Things she’d known nothing about. She’d been curious about her parents, asked questions, only to be brushed off by her grandmother, who made it clear she didn’t want to talk about the past. After a while Macy had stopped asking.

      After Grandma Mattie’s funeral, she’d decided to ignore the letter, determined to discover the truth and clear her father’s name. But there was one thing she could only ignore at her own peril—since she didn’t know who her family’s enemy was, she’d be a fool to trust anyone.

      Now that Neva had finally left, Macy spent her time prowling through the downstairs rooms. Not looking for anything in particular, just getting acquainted. She was standing in the kitchen when a sound startled her. She held her breath, listening. Had she heard something, or was it just her imagination?

      It came again, a distant rattle. Startled, she rushed to the window and identified the source. A garbage truck rumbled up the street. Nothing to be afraid of—nothing but the house. And yes, she was afraid of this house. Afraid of what lay hidden within these walls. The silence smothered her until she longed to get out, get away from the implied threat lurking in the echoing rooms.

      It was probably caused by the fact that she felt completely alone, with no one to talk to, no one to rely on. In the months Grandma Mattie had been sick most of her friends had drifted away.

      Even Clark, her so-called