Shane scores big points with his pancakes. Josh eats about eight of them, and with a full mouth, declares them to be “the best pancakes ever.” Shane could not possibly look happier when he says that.

“Can I grab some cleaning supplies to take out to the farmhouse?” he asks as he’s clearing away the food from the table.

“Sure…” I don’t want to tell him that I had been hoping he might change his mind.

“Thanks so much for doing this, Brooke.”

He rests a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. I squirm, since Josh is still at the table. Yes, we slept together last night, but doesn’t he understand that we have to be careful what information gets fed to our ten- year-old son?

Sure enough, Josh’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of Shane’s hand lingering on my shoulder. But he doesn’t say anything.

“So,” Shane says. “When can we get going?” “Going where?” Josh pipes up.

Shane slides back into one of the seats at the kitchen table. “Your mom and I are going to this really cool farmhouse at the other end of town. I used to live there a long time ago.”

“Oh,” Josh says. “Cool.”

“Do you want to come?” Shane asks.

I suck in a breath. I had been thinking Josh would stay behind while I drove Shane out to the farmhouse. But to my surprise, Josh bobs his head enthusiastically. “Yeah!”

“Oh, honey,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to come with us. It’s going to be really boring. We’re not even going to go inside.”

“But I want to go,” Josh pouts.

I guess this is going to be a family trip.

Shane heads outside to shovel the driveway, and I gather cleaning supplies from the house. I don’t know entirely what to bring, and I’m worried that the entire house will be filthy beyond words. There isn’t carpeting, so I don’t bother with the vacuum. I bring the mop and bucket,

lots of cleaning fluid, some rags, and two rolls of paper towels. Shane is going to have his work cut out for him.

After I’ve got all the supplies, I go to grab my car keys to throw everything into the trunk. I keep my keys on the bookcase right next to the entrance to the house, on the fourth shelf from the top, right in front of Webster’s dictionary. Except when I go to reach for them, they’re not there.

Where are my keys?

A split second later, I spot the keys on the third shelf. In the same spot where I usually put them, except one shelf higher. I snatch them up in my hand, looking at the key ring as if for a clue.

I’m sure I put the keys on the fourth shelf. I put them there every single day when I get home from the store or work or wherever. It’s automatic. I do it without even thinking about it. So while I don’t remember putting the keys on that shelf, I’m sure I must’ve done it.

Of course, when I got home yesterday, a lot was going on. I was bringing home the father of my son, a man who had been locked away in prison for the last decade. I had a lot on my mind. If there’s ever a time when I might have put the keys in the wrong spot, it was yesterday.

Still, it makes me uneasy. Last night when I woke up in the middle of the night, I was certain I heard a car engine right outside my window. And now my keys are in a different place than where I left them.

I wish I had checked my car last night. If somebody had been using my car, there would’ve been snow on it. But now it’s too late. Any snow would have melted.

The front door swings open and Shane bursts into the house, his gloves caked with snow. He rests the shovel in the corner by the door where he found it and smiles at me. “You got everything we need?”

This is silly. I must’ve just put the keys in the wrong place. I have a lot on my mind. I shouldn’t drive myself crazy over-analyzing this. And anyway, what if Shane did take the car somewhere last night? Would that really be the worst thing that ever was? Maybe he just wanted to know what it was like to be behind the wheel again after all that time. I couldn’t blame him.

“Yes,” I say. “I got it all.”

Fifteen minutes later, we have loaded up the Toyota with the cleaning supplies, and I get on the road with Shane in the passenger seat and Josh in

the back. I have this awful sick feeling as I pull onto the road, but I promised Shane I would do this. I can’t back out.

“You know how to get there?” he asks. “Yes,” I snap.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

No, I’m not okay. We are driving out to the house where I was almost murdered eleven years ago. There’s nothing about this that is okay. But I can’t exactly say all that in front of my son. “I’m fine.”

“I appreciate you doing this.” “Yep.”

Shane seems to realize that I don’t want to talk about this anymore, so he shuts up and leans back in his seat. The roads have been mostly cleared out in the morning, so even though I don’t have all-wheel drive, it’s not too bad navigating around Raker. It isn’t until I turn onto the smaller road to get to the farmhouse that it gets a little slippery. The road has been plowed, but not very well, and because it’s below freezing temperature, a lot of the remaining snow has turned into ice.

“Jesus,” Shane comments as the car skids off to the side. “Be careful, Brooke. Don’t you know how to drive in the snow?”

Not very well. I didn’t have a car back in Queens—I just took the bus where I needed to go. This Toyota is the first car I have ever owned, and this is my first winter dealing with serious snow.

“Maybe you could give me some tips sometime,” I say. “Yeah, maybe.”

I drive slowly for the rest of the mile stretch out to the farmhouse. I must be going less than ten miles an hour. After a few minutes, the house comes into sight.

It looked bad eleven years ago, and if possible, it looks even worse now. The red paint has nearly completely worn off, except for a few little patches, and the steps to the front door have almost completely crumbled away. The roof is covered with snow, and it seems to at least be holding up, but I bet there’s plenty of damage there as well. This house is a little more than a fixer-upper.

Shane is staring at his old home, his hands clutching his knees. I can’t quite read his thoughts until he bursts out, “Look! It’s my old Chevy!”

Sure enough, Shane’s old car is still parked out by the house, covered in a healthy layer of snow but still recognizable. I’m sure the car will need as much work as the house to get it in usable condition. I pull over next to the Chevy, hoping I can still get my car out after this. The Toyota is not good at backing out of snowy areas.

“That’s where I used to live, Josh,” Shane tells him. “It’s like a haunted house,” Josh comments.

Shane winks at me. “It might be.”

I wouldn’t entirely be surprised. After all, three people died here. It feels like Shane isn’t quite feeling the gravity of that. He actually seems happy to be here.

“Hey,” Shane says to Josh, “you want to see inside?” “Sure!”

I open my mouth to protest, but Shane and Josh are already climbing out of the car. I’m so angry at Shane right now, I want to scream. We had an agreement. I told him I would drop him off here and then leave. But if my son is going into the house, I obviously can’t leave. So I have no choice but to hurry after them.

I start to yell at Shane to be careful about the steps, but without having to be told, Shane helps Josh up the four stairs to the front door, making sure he doesn’t slip or fall. I follow behind, gripping the handrail to keep from sliding off the icy stairs myself. Shane digs around in his pocket for a key, which he fits into the front door. As he’s unlocking the door, I feel a sick sense of déjà vu, from back when Shane and I were dating and he brought me back to his house a few times.

“Shane…” I say.

“Let’s just take a quick look around,” he says.

He struggles a little to get the door open, between the wood being splintered and rotten, and the entire front of the house being frozen. He has to put all his weight against the door, but it finally pops open. And then, against my better judgment, we step inside.

The inside of the house is just as cold as the outside. There’s no power, but since it’s daytime, it’s not as dark as it was that night eleven years ago. There are cobwebs stuck to the ceiling, and all the furniture is coated in a thick layer of dust. The smell of frost and mildew permeates the air.

But at least it’s better than sandalwood.

“Geez.” Shane looks around. “This place has sure seen better days.”

My gaze strays to the area in front of the stairwell. That’s where it happened. That’s where Tim tried to strangle me with my own necklace.

Josh runs a finger along the sofa. He holds up his fingertip, which is now coated in black. “Look, Mom!”

“Yes, it’s dirty.”

“The sofa is a lost cause,” Shane says. “But I could clean up the floor.

And the kitchen…”

He’s looking at me hopefully. He wants my help. He needs my help. It’s going to take him the rest of his life to get this place cleaned up on his own. And now that I’m inside and I’m not actively having a panic attack, maybe this won’t be as bad as I think it’s going to be. Maybe I’ll finally get over what happened here that night.

Maybe it will help me heal.

“Okay, we can stay here a couple of hours,” I say. “And that’s it.” Shane nods eagerly. “Thanks so much, Brooke.”

“All right,” I say. “Let’s go get the cleaning supplies.”