“My name is Amanda Pierce,” I said, and hearing my own name anchored me just enough to keep my voice steady. “This farm belonged to my husband, George Pierce. He died three weeks ago. I inherited the property. Now I’d like to know who you are and why there are people living in my house.”
The younger girl made a strangled sound.
The older woman’s face lost all color.
“Your husband,” she said slowly. “Mr. George was married?”
That was the first moment the true shape of the shock began to unfold. Because the disbelief in her voice was as real as mine.
I climbed the rest of the stairs slowly, keeping my phone visible. At the top of the landing I could see they were standing in front of a closed bedroom door, almost as if guarding it.
“Yes,” I said. “Married to me. For fifteen years.”
The older woman studied my face so intently it felt as if she were reading some document she had expected to be forged.
Then something in her posture changed. The rigid defensiveness stayed, but one layer of it gave way to grim acceptance.
“My name is Helena,” she said. “I’ve been here three years. This is Clare. She’s been here eight months.”
The girl—Clare—wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.