“Your room looks nothing like you,” Cal says, looking around as I pack underwear and bras, pictures and old journals. There’s an entire shoebox full of old poems under my dresser, pieces titled with macabre names like Suicidal Letters from a Stalker. There’s one about a girl named Penny who gets her leg cut off. I stare at the work for a moment and then shove it all into the bag.

I really don’t want to be here when Pam comes home. I’m not afraid of that bitch, but I also don’t want a confrontation in a dark, quiet house. What if I can’t control myself around her?

What if Cal can’t?

“Please,” Kali’s ghost says, staring at me with blood draining down the side of her face. She’s riddled with bullet holes from Aaron’s gun, but that doesn’t stop her from taunting me, even more so from beyond the grave than she did when she was alive. “You couldn’t kill me. You could never hurt your mom. You’re too soft and weak.”

I ignore her, moving out of the room and then pausing in front of the door that used to belong to Pen, the one that Pamela wouldn’t let her install a deadbolt on. When I open it, I see exercise equipment that belongs to the Thing.

“This was her room,” Cal says. It’s not a question; it’s a fact. He already knows. “Where are her things?”

“You mean the stuff that Pamela didn’t sell?” I quip, feeling my stomach bottom out. My sister was wiped from existence before the ink was dry on her death certificate. “In the attic.” Before we head up there though, using the hatch in the ceiling of the upstairs landing, I go into Pam’s room.

I steal her best jewelry, the stuff she’s so proud of pinching from Nordstrom or Neiman Marcus, from the rich women she hangs out with in Oak River Heights or Oak Park. I take it all, even though it means nothing to me.

It will, however, destroy her when she finds out it’s missing.

Callum helps me, making a systematic sweep of the room like the career criminal he so very clearly is. Doesn’t matter to me though. Just like he had no shame in his eyes when he talked about sitting outside my window, I feel none at taking things that don’t belong to me. Corporate thievery happens every day and people let it go because it’s legal, and it’s much harder to see. This isn’t any more or less honorable than raising the price on a lifesaving medical device like an Epi pen to rake in extra cash.

Actually, I lied: this has heaps more honor in it.

“Let’s clean her out,” I decide after Cal dumps an armload of valuables into another bag. We hit the downstairs next, and I’m surprised when Cal fiddles around with a wooden shelf installed on the wall near the front door. It opens up to reveal two pistols and plenty of ammo. “Holy shit,” I breathe as Cal takes that, too, filling his bag to the brim.

Finally, we’re standing at the top of the stairs and looking into the dark rectangle above my head where the last of my sister’s earthly possessions await.

I don’t want to go up there, but I know that I’m going to.

Taking a deep breath, I curl my hand around the first rung and force my shaking body up the ladder and into the dark. There isn’t enough room to stand, not even really enough to sit. Everything that’s stored up here is stacked around the edges of the opening, surrounded by insulation and mousetraps with tiny skeletons in them.

There’s just one box of Pen’s stuff in here, just one single box. Last time I checked, there were fifteen. Where are the others? Where are all of my sister’s fucking things? The last box is wedged against the wall, almost lost in shadows. Someone came up here to clear my sister’s things, but they missed this one, lost behind an open box with bits of plastic Christmas tree sticking out. There’s a pile of electronics still in the boxes, clearly stolen and ready for resale.

I grab Penelope’s box and pass it down to Callum. It says Old Homework and Assignments on the side of it, but I know it’s hers because I recognize the handwriting. She hid some of her most important things in this box, tucked onto the top shelf of her closet. She wrote that on the side to dissuade my mother and the step-monster from going through it.

Cal takes the box and I hop down, my hands curling and uncurling with violent thoughts.

“Her things are gone,” I tell him, wondering when the attic was cleared out. Last time I checked on her stuff, about six months ago, it was all there. Did this happen after I moved out? Before? When the Thing was still alive?

There’s a sound from outside, but not from the front yard. It’s coming from the back, like footsteps on the rotten old porch that takes up what little crumb of a backyard this place has. Cal and I exchange a look and he slips over to the window in Penelope’s old room, looking out.

The frown that takes over his mouth scares me a little.

“Cops,” he tells me, glancing back in my direction. “Sara Young, to be specific.”

“Shit,” I breathe, feeling my heartrate pick up. This is unexpected. “How do we get out?” I ask, looking at Pen’s box and the two bags of crap we’ve packed. It’s going to be hard to sneak this shit out without anyone seeing. I was planning on walking out the front door …

Callum watches me with an infinite well of dark, placid patience. It’s like, he could sit there forever, just to hear what I have to say.

“Let’s go out the front,” I say when I hear a loud knock at the door. It’s harsh, unforgiving; it demands to be let in. “I have every reason to be here, and it isn’t like Pamela can report her stolen things as, well, stolen.” I shrug and Cal smiles.

“That was going to be my suggestion as well,” he says, moving away from the wall and coming to stand beside me. The air between us feels charged, like the molecules are dripping with desperation. I lift my hand up and Cal does the same, pressing his palm to mine, letting our fingertips touch. “We should hide this bag”—he points at the one full of jewelry and other stolen items—“in the attic for now.”

He moves away suddenly, before I can fully appreciate the moment, and scales the ladder with the heavy bag like it’s nothing. Then he drops down, closes it all up, and thumps down the stairs loud enough to alert every officer to our presence. An intentional move, and a good one. Don’t want to spook the cops and end up shot.

I follow after him, so that by the time he opens the door to the third pounding knock, I’m standing beside him and looking out at Sara Young.

She’s standing there with Detective Constantine and a bunch of uniformed officers.

“Bernadette,” she says, the faintest hint of bewilderment in her voice. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d moved out?” She exchanges a look with Constantine, or at least, she tries to. He won’t look at her. He’s too busy frowning down at me.

“She has moved out,” Cal says, leaning forward and obscuring me a bit by putting his forearm up against the left side of the doorjamb, his body propped against the right. “We’re here to get her stuff.”

“So, which one of the boyfriends are you?” Constantine asks, glancing down at his phone like he’s got a list on it that he needs to consult. “Because you’re certainly not Victor Channing, the husband.” He looks back up with an expression that says he’s more than happy to bait Cal into doing something stupid.