Vera stood outside the Crowder House much too long, letting the late-spring humidity slide into her throat and choke her. That was the only reason Vera was willing to come back at all-that, and the impossible reality of her mother’s voice on the phone, rippling with sickness, asking her home. From the looks of things she was committed to doing just that.įrancis himself didn’t stand a chance of dying in that house, of course. He’d built it for Daphne to live in and to die in. He’d built it with his two strong hands, built it right in the middle of his square patch of green land, built two stories above the ground and dug one below. Back before everything else happened, before everyone knew his name. Her father, Francis Crowder, had built the house long before she was born, back when his marriage to Vera’s mother was new. It stood there, patiently waiting for Vera to come inside, and it did not reveal a single one of its secrets no matter how long and hard Vera stared at it. But the house was built to keep the wind out and the sound in. Vera stood with one foot on the lawn and one foot on the driveway, sweating, straining as if she might be able to make out the sound of Daphne dying inside.

There was only so long her mother would wait. She shielded her eyes with one flat hand, trying to dampen the too-bright day enough to make eye contact with the windows of her parents’ old bedroom. She had almost refused, had almost made up an excuse: I’m really busy at work. Vera had anticipated that coming back to her childhood home would be difficult. The Crowder House clung to the soil the way damp air clings to hot skin.

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