She flipped the light switch, but there was no power. Looks like I’ll be charging my phone in the car. Better than nothing. Using the light on her phone, she crept through the dark house to the kitchen and tested the tap. At least the water is still on. She could take a quick cold shower in the morning and arrive at the law office looking presentable.
Bless Great-Aunt Gertie, she had a whole cupboard full of emergency candles, along with books of matches from the oddest of places. Iris examined them one at a time: Minden’s Wax Doll Workshop, The Murder Room, Noise Factory (a club in Germany), and a host of other places that made Iris believe that Gertie had led a fascinating life.
She lit one candle and decided she didn’t feel up to exploring further in the dark. The house was large and creepy at this hour with narrow hallways and staircases. Rooms had generally been smaller when this house was built, and apart from adding electricity and indoor plumbing, few renovations had been made over the years. Iris found four knitted throws scattered around the living room and snuggled under them on the overstuffed sofa. Between those and the hoodie she had on, it was cozy enough, even without heat.
Possibly she ought to be nervous, alone in this big old house. But sleep claimed her immediately, and she rested better than she had in a long while, deep and dreamless. Iris awoke feeling surprisingly alert. She didn’t have an appointment, but hopefully the attorneys could work her in if she called first thing. Her cell phone had battery life to complete the call, at least.
A professional voice answered on the second ring. “Digby, Davis, and Moore, how may I help you?”
“I received a letter about my great-aunt’s estate. Gertrude Van Doren. I was hoping to speak with the person in charge.” Iris loathed talking on the phone, and she hoped she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.
“Just a moment, please.”
Calming yet bland music piped into her ear, and two minutes later, the woman returned to the line. “Can you come in at two? We have a cancellation. Otherwise, Mr. Davis won’t have time until next week.”
“Two is perfect. I’ll see you then.”
“Excellent. I’ll let Mr. Davis know.”
Quickly, Iris checked the time. She had over four hours until the meeting. Best to get the cold shower over with. In daytime, the house was even more dated, with pink and gray walls that had probably been painted in the nineties. Everything was dated cottage chic, echoing trends that died long before Great-Aunt Gertie. The bathroom was even older looking, harking back to the seventies. Or maybe the fifties? Iris wasn’t a professional decorator, but the lime-green tile and Pepto-pink tub, sink, and toilet truly were astonishing.
On the bright side, she was delighted to coax some warm water out of the shower. Apparently the heater ran on gas, not electricity. She could even use the stove if she lit the burner with a match. Wonder if there’s anything left to eat.
She dried her hair with a towel, combed out the tangles, and then put on clean clothes: jeans, wrinkled button-up blouse, concealed by a chunky cardigan. That’s probably good enough. It wasn’t like she’d had lots of reasons to meet with lawyers, just the times she’d ended up as a defendant, and those damn sure weren’t happy memories.
The house had five bedrooms, though several were quite small, and the closet space was terrible. Luckily, most of Iris’s stuff was in her mom’s basement while Mom waited for her to get her life together enough to send for it.
That…might never happen.
In the kitchen, in the light of day, it was simultaneously better and worse than she’d imagined. Everything was white with black accents and fairly clean, but the cupboards were ancient particleboard, and the counters were scarred-up butcher block. The room was tidy, and judging by the empty fridge, the attorneys must’ve sent someone to clean out the perishables. What a relief not to be dealing with rotten groceries on top of everything else.
In the cabinets, she found instant coffee and a kettle she could use to boil water. The cleaners had left all the staples that hadn’t expired—a bag of flour, sugar, some rice, powdered milk, sweetener, a few cans of soup, various spices, and a bottle of cooking oil. It was like a vacation rental in some ways, though all of Great-Aunt Gertie’s belongings were still here.
I’ll have to go through everything. Her auntie must’ve known that when she made her will—that Iris would be the one sorting her things, deciding what to keep and what to donate. I hope I don’t disappoint her. Was that even possible? To let a ghost down? Hopefully, her great-aunt wasn’t here, watching Iris assess the pantry contents.
She added spoons of instant coffee, dry milk, and sugar to her mug and poured in the hot water. While it cooled, she walked through the house. In the middle of what must’ve been the parlor a hundred years ago stood a proud display case stuffed full of ceramic angels. Iris remembered Great-Aunt Gertie telling stories about them as if they were real people who lived with her, something that had enchanted her at age seven.
Now she couldn’t decide if it was sweet or sad—that these figurines had taken the place of family. Hell, maybe it was for the best, because the ceramic angels wouldn’t tell her that she was a failure because she earned less than her sisters, she was single at twenty-seven, she had no psychic aptitude, and her ideas always fell apart.
Gertie probably hadn’t planned on dying alone, either. That made Iris feel closer to her, and she searched her memory, but she couldn’t recall what Gertie’s ability had been. On Iris’s dad’s side, they tended to feast on the positive emotions—anticipation, joy, excitement, and the like. She imagined that Gertie had nourished herself over her long life through joyous friendships, never taking enough to make anyone feel deprived.
Suddenly, her phone rang, making her jump. Mom’s picture flashed on the screen, like she’d summoned the woman with those thoughts. I need to put down a salt circle. Or maybe hang some garlic. If only Mom couldn’t enter without an invitation… Sadly, none of those remedies were effective at warding off her mother. Iris had heard that those old wives’ tales didn’t work on their blood-drinking counterparts, either, not that she’d met any of them. They were more reclusive than the fae.
“Hey, what’s up?” she said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt.
New beginning. Don’t let her get in your head.
“What time will you be here?” Mom demanded.
“Pardon me?”
“The party, don’t tell me you forgot. We’re celebrating your sister’s promotion! It’s a huge deal, Iris. Do you know how rare it is for someone Rose’s age to make partner?” Sheer incredulity oozed down the phone line.
I hate my family.
No, I…love them. I’m supposed to, right?
But I hate them.
Rose was thirty-two, five years older than Iris. She was married to a judge who might run for state senate. Privately, Iris loathed her brother-in-law, Greg Connery. He was smug and pretentious, prone to name-dropping and boasting about his connections. If that wasn’t bad enough, he also watched Iris in ways that made her deeply uncomfortable, his gaze lingering on her ass, on her cleavage, while he lectured about her life choices. The one time she’d mentioned it to Rose, her sister practically hissed like a cat and threatened to tell Mom what a jealous liar Iris was.