Now she was elbow-deep in mildew, fighting a furnace from the 1970s and wondering why the only thanks she got for years of caretaking was a collapsing house and vague instructions not to open the attic “until she was ready.” Ready for what? Mold exposure? A family of raccoons?
She hated how she still wanted answers from him. Michael called on the fifth day. She almost didn’t answer, but his name blinking on her phone stirred something petty in her. “Elise,” he said, his voice too smooth. “I figured you might still be there.”