Trunks and boxes laid about the perimeter of the room, underneath the windows, and I saw old church paraphernalia strewn here and there—altar cloths, candle holders, and those things that hold holy water… There was even a set of doors that looked like the ones downstairs for the confessionals.

I walked farther into the room, but I stopped, my eyes locking on the bed.

White comforter, white sheets on the pillows—everything looking clean and crisp and big enough for ten.

What the hell?

Then I dropped my gaze, seeing a scrap of paper on the comforter. I walked over and picked it up, the fresh scent of the linens making my nostrils tingle.

I read the note, the paper yellowed and nearly falling apart at the creases where it had been folded a thousand times.

It’s yours now. Use it well.

No one else knows, do not tell.

When you’re done, pass it on.

The Carfax Room hides us

from what we want gone.

I read it again, but I still didn’t get it.

“The Carfax Room?” I said to myself.

The writing was in black cursive, a little faded, and I folded it up, sticking it in my pocket.

This was silly. Someone gave me a key to a room, didn’t explain why, and I had no idea if I was the only one who had access to it.

I got some of the message. Keep the room a secret, but how did it hide me exactly? And obviously someone else knew about it, because someone gave me the key.

And if it was something I passed on to someone else, then the person who gave it to me got it from someone else too, right?

Why me?

I drifted around the room, picking through boxes that contained everything from lamps and tools to clothes, costumes, and theater makeup. I stepped slowly and then spotted something that caught my eye. Hesitating, I moved toward a trunk on the floor and pulled out a pink dress, strapless and fluffy with a tulle skirt underneath.

I smiled, loving the fifties style of it. Trim waist, little roses in the pattern, the kind of Pepto Bismol pink that was in fashion decades ago… Why was this here?

I guess it wasn’t so odd. There was also a top hat and a waffle iron in one of the crates.

Oh, the stories this room could probably tell.

I laid it back in the trunk, folding it gently and closing the lid before walking to the bed and lifting a pillow to my nose.

It smelled clean, like detergent and spring. There was a record player with some records nearby and candles on the nightstand.

There was no way I’d stay here, not knowing anything about this place or whether or not anyone else had a key, but it was kind of cool. Another nook. Another cranny.

Another story.

Taking one last look around, I left, locking the room again and leaving so as not to press my luck. For all I knew, this was Father Behr’s secret place to be the real him and that dress was his.

Clutching my bag, I jogged down the stairwell, slipped the key into my pocket, and stepped into the gallery, closing the door behind me.

I’d missed three classes, but if I hurried, I’d make the fourth.

Taking the stairs, I walked through the church and out the doors, taking the path to the street and turning right. Leaves rustled in the trees, yellows, oranges, and reds fluttering to the ground, and a drop of cool rain hit my cheek. I breathed in the autumn breeze, the key light in my pocket.

Do not tell.

Part of me thought this was a prank. Otherwise, I would’ve gotten some real instructions.

But I wanted it to be real. Having my own hideaway made me feel like I was finally part of a town I’d lived in my whole life.

Like I belonged here now.

Walking down the sidewalk, lost in my head, I barely noticed the car pulling slowly up next to me on the street.

I did a double-take, seeing the cruiser. My chest tightened.

Shit.

“It’s starting to rain,” Martin said through the open passenger side window as he drove. “Get in.”

“I’m getting back to class,” I assured him, inching down the sidewalk. “I said I would help with the decorations for Homecoming after school.”

I started to walk again.

But he called out behind me. “Emory, I want to show you something. Now.”

I stopped, hesitating.

It was no use. He’d tracked my phone. I was out of class during school hours. He came for me.

Knots coiling inside me, I stepped off the curb and opened the car door.

I slid into the front seat and shut the door, my body tense and ready.

“Music?” he asked.

But he didn’t wait for an answer. Turning on the radio, he tuned to some oldies station with the volume almost too low to hear.

Turning the car around, he headed away from school and took me up into the hills, past the mansions, St. Killian’s, and the Bell Tower. I kept my bag on my body, just needing to hold it.

Martin pulled into the cemetery, slowing as we descended the drive and wound around the path to a sea of headstones plotting the landscape on the right and left. Rain hit the windshield, and he pulled off to the side, stopping the car.

I let my eyes drift around the grounds, fisting my hands to keep them from shaking. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

All my excuses came to mind. Which tone of voice might work best? Or maybe I just needed to be quiet. Sometimes if I just let him talk, the yelling would relieve him.

He lifted his arm, and I flinched, but then I noticed he was reaching into the back seat for something.

Setting a white bag down next to me, he reached into the cup holder and pulled out a soda with the straw already in it.

“Eat,” he said. “It’s lunchtime soon.”

An ounce of relief hit me, but I knew it meant nothing. He liked to toy with me.

“Edward McClanahan,” he said, gesturing out the window ahead of us. “They’re moving his body, Em.”

I saw the small digger and that the excavation had already begun, but there were no workers with the rain right now. Just a pile of dirt and a blue tarp over the hole.

“Family wants him safe and sound inside their new tomb,” he told me. “They’re hoping the town will forget the dead girl, and in all likelihood, it probably will. Out of sight, out of mind.”

I clasped my hands in my lap, only half-listening.

“Every year, those arrogant little losers make their pilgrimage here like they’re going to fucking church,” he continued, “but next year, it won’t be Edward in the grave. I bought it today. For Grand-Mère.”

For my grandmother. Not his. He never gave a shit about her. She wasn’t his. He did what he had to do for appearances, and he bought a woman who wasn’t even dead a used grave.

A Catholic grave. Did they even allow that?

I wouldn’t. It wasn’t happening. I—

“Eat!” he barked.

I jumped, sticking my hand in the bag and pulling out the burger as I turned my head out my window and away from him.

I took a bite, chewing about a hundred times until I could swallow it.

“I got a deal on it,” he said. “Since the plot had been used, of course. Get to keep the headstone, too. It’ll be shaved down. They’ll start working on her name in the next week.”

My chin trembled, and I felt the bile rise.

“One down,” he whispered. “And one embarrassment to go.”