Page 51 of Ghostridden
I blinked. “Yeah, I guess I did.” But since Avi was here first—and still was—it seemed presumptuous not to recognize his ownership. Besides, hadn’t we just decided we were in this together?
“I don’t mean to rush you, Maz,” Saul said, “but I promised my husband I’d return soon enough for us to make it to the theater on time.” He smiled, his lean cheeks pinking. “It’s our anniversary.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.” I backed up, drawing Ricky with me, and gestured to the library. “Behold the incident.”
Saul stared at the room, his eyebrows lifting. “Oh, my.”
“Yeah. Avi met me at the mudroom door to tell me about this.”
“He’s not responsible for it?” Saul asked.
“He says not, and I believe him. He’s really upset. I sent him upstairs to the attic to calm down.”
Saul frowned. “Why would the attic calm him down?”
“We moved—that is, Ricky and the Transitions guys moved—some of the things he wanted up there so he can have a more comfortable, private space.”
Saul cocked his head. “How do you know what he wanted?”
“He told me.”
“He… told you. When?” Saul almost sounded hurt, as though I’d had a party and not invited him.
“Last night, after you all left.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Although it’s odd. It’s as though he doesn’t have much object permanence. He can’t remember everything that ought to be here, but he recognizes important things when he sees them.”
“In other words,” Saul said, “when we were touring the house after Avi detected the intruder, if somethingweremissing, he wouldn’t have known.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” I glanced around the room, realizing that there had been remarkably few personal items in the house. Paintings, yes. Throw pillows, baskets, kitchenware, sheets, towels, blankets. Furniture. But no photographs. No tchotchkes or memorabilia. Nothing that would identify the people who had lived here as anything other than a couple who knew how to remodel and decorate. I turned to Ricky. “When you were here before, working for Avi and Oren, did they have personal items around? Pictures, knickknacks, mementos, anything like that?”
Ricky frowned. “Yeah. Mostly Avi’s stuff, since Oren was holding off shipping his things until after the remodel was done.”
“You see any around here?”
He pivoted slowly in place, scanning the shelves. “Now that you mention it, no.”
“Where do you suppose it all went? Did someone come in after Avi’s death to box things up?”
Saul shook his head. “No. Oren was adamant that everything remain as it was. As their attorney, I locked up everything myself.”
I spotted what looked like an upside-down picture frame under a fan of papers in the corner and edged over to it. I picked it up and turned it over. It was a picture of two men, one of them clearly Avi, standing on the sidewalk under the maple tree, the house in the background. He was smiling at the camera, joy practically radiating off of him. The other man was a little older, his dark hair silvering at the temples. He was smiling too, but not at the camera. Instead, he was gazing down at Avi with such a tender expression that tears prickled in my eyes.
“That’s Avi and Oren, the day they added Oren to the deed and changed both their wills in the other’s favor,” Saul said. “I took that picture myself and sent it to both of them.”
Oren. He looked… lovely. My throat closed and I blinked rapidly, a hollow in my chest. I’d never had a chance to know him, neverwouldget that chance. He’d never known me, and yet he’d left me this house and all his worldly possessions.
And also apparently Avi, his unworldly… Well, not possession, no. Hisperson. The center of his life.
I made a silent vow to myself right then that whatever happened, I’d be the best steward of the house, of Oren’s legacy, that I could be, and that included looking out for Avi. I set the picture in an empty spot at eye level on the nearest shelf.
“You know,” Ricky said, “whoever ransacked these boxes was looking for something. I suspect that the wreck they made in here was because they were in a hurry, not because they were angry.”
My eyes widened. “Shit! The pantry!”
I charged down the hall, the slap of my Converse changing tone as I pounded past the hardwood in the family room to the kitchen tiles. The pantry door was still closed. I reached out and grabbed the doorknob, murmuring, “Please, please, please,” as I opened it slowly. I blew out a relieved breath, because the boxes inside were untouched.
