Page 113 of Home Before Dark

“It’s not stealing if no one wants it,” Hannah says.

“Just because that house sat empty didn’t mean those things were yours to take.”

Hannah gives an agree-to-disagree shrug. “I can give you back the stuff that hasn’t sold. But most of what I took from that house is long gone. And good luck trying to get it back.”

She drifts away from the open door, giving me the choice to enter or not. It’s obvious she doesn’t care. I opt to follow her, past the living room—the TV now blaring a cooking show—and into the kitchen.

“You never answered my question,” I say. “How long has it been going on?”

“A couple years.” Hannah sits at the kitchen table and reaches for her pack of Marlboro Lights. “Since my mom got sick.”

That also answers my second question—why. And I get it. Elsa Ditmer was sick, they needed money, and Baneberry Hall was just sitting empty. A house-shaped treasure trove at the top of the hill.

“And how many times did you sneak in since I’ve been there?”

I know now it was her who kept entering Baneberry Hall and not some random ghoul from town. She’s the shadowy figure I saw outside the night I arrived. And the one I saw fleeing the house the night after that. The ringing bells and the chandelier and the record player—all of it was Hannah.

She lights a cigarette. Smoke curls from her parted lips. “Enough that I’m surprised you didn’t catch me earlier.”

“Why’d you do it?” I say. “I don’t care about most of the junk in that house. If you wanted it, all you needed to do was ask. You certainly didn’t need to distract me with ringing bells and a record player.”

“It wasn’t a distraction,” Hannah says. “It was more of an attempt to get you to leave. That house has been a gold mine. I didn’t want to risk losing it.”

“So all of this was just someScooby-Dootrick to scare me away?”

“I figured I’d give it a shot.” Hannah exhales a stream of smoke, pleased with herself. “And I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.”

“I assume that’s why you also told me what my father wrote about that sleepover was true.”

“Some of it was,” Hannah says. “You really did think someone was in that wardrobe and started freaking out. And you did punch me. Although I was being a little bitch that night and probably had it coming. So, yeah, your father made up a lot of it, but the result was the same—we left early, and my mother was so pissed that she forbade us from going to your house again.”

“You didn’t need to lie about that,” I say. “Nor did you need to do all that haunted-house shit. The record player and that stupid teddy bear.”

Hannah stubs out her cigarette. “What bear?”

“You know what bear,” I say. “Buster.”

“I haven’t seen Buster since the night Petra vanished.”

I stare at her, looking for signs she’s lying. But Hannah’s face is now like a mask, hiding all emotion.

“I think it’s best if you give me your keys,” I say. “To the gate and to the house itself.”

“If you insist,” Hannah says.

She leaves the kitchen and disappears upstairs, her footfalls heavy on the steps. Moments later, a shadow slides across the kitchen wall, darkening the Formica countertop. I spin around to see Elsa Ditmer in the doorway, wearing the same nightgown she had on the night I returned to Baneberry Hall. The crucifix around her neck glints in the kitchen light.

“You’re not Petra,” she says, shuffling toward me.

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m Maggie Holt.”

“Maggie.” Elsa’s upon me now, her hands cold on my cheeks as she stares into my eyes. “Don’t stay in that house. You’re going to die there.”

Hannah enters the kitchen, a key ring in her hand. Her face drops when she sees her mother.

“Mama, you should be resting,” she says, gently pulling Elsa away from me.

“I want to see Petra.”

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