The Devil Casts a Long Shadow- Chapter Eleven: It's a Cold Day in There

Returning home felt strange to Jena.

The barndominium was still her home, at least in the limited sense that she was permitted to occupy it. Yet when she stepped through the front door in the early hours of the morning, she felt like an unwelcome guest trespassing in someone else's property.

The house was empty.

Nevertheless, she had the uncomfortable sensation that she did not belong there.

Thallea was still in the hospital, and the silence should have been a relief. Instead, it seemed to emphasize how thoroughly the place had changed.

Jena walked through the living room, surveying the familiar disorder.

The house was filthy.

Everywhere she looked, Thallea had left evidence of her occupation: discarded packaging, dirty dishes, cigarette ash, stained upholstery, and mysterious smears on surfaces that had once been immaculate.

Jena had spent years caring for the house.

Thallea had needed only a few months to make it nearly unrecognizable.

She went to her bedroom and tried to lie down.

Sleep would not come.

Her mind continued racing through everything that had happened, every obligation awaiting her, and every unpleasant conversation she would eventually have to endure.

After nearly an hour, she gave up.

Perhaps a cup of coffee would help her settle.

In the kitchen, she discovered that the creamer had spoiled.

The bag of coffee grounds had been left open in the pantry, tipped sideways and nearly empty.

Every mug she reached for was chipped or cracked.

The countertops were covered in crumbs, dried spills, and patches of mold growing around food that had been abandoned long enough to become unrecognizable.

Jena stood looking at the mess.

She remembered when the kitchen had been one of her favorite rooms.

Its expensive finishes and carefully selected appliances had once made even ordinary domestic chores pleasant.

Now it resembled the neglected kitchen of a roadside boardinghouse.

She managed to brew a cup of coffee.

The first sip tasted so foul that she spat it onto the table.

For a moment, she stared at the spreading brown stain.

Then she picked up the glass coffee carafe and hurled it onto the floor.

It shattered.

The sound cracked through the silent house.

Jena stood breathing hard.

She had expected some satisfaction from destroying something.

Instead, she felt nothing but a renewed sense of exhaustion.

Now there was broken glass to clean up.

Even her anger had created another chore.

Perhaps out of habit, or perhaps because she could think of nothing else to do, Jena began cleaning.

She started in the kitchen.

Then she moved into the dining room, the living room, the bathrooms, and the hallways.

She gathered trash, stripped beds, scrubbed counters, and carried load after load of refuse outside.

By noon, she had filled so many garbage bags that the curb looked as though an entire household had been evicted.

Almost all of it belonged to Thallea.

Jena found spoiled food tucked behind furniture, cigarette butts beneath cushions, sticky wrappers in drawers, and empty bottles hidden in places where no reasonable person would have thought to look.

She worked with an intensity that bordered on punishment.

When the rubbish was finally gone, she scrubbed the walls.

Then the windows.

Then the floors.

She continued long after her arms began aching.

At some point, she stopped thinking about the work and simply moved from one task to the next.

The repetition was almost comforting.

A stain disappeared beneath her sponge.

A window became clear.

A floor regained its shine.

For the first time in months, Jena could see the results of her efforts.

Unlike Nate, Ivy-Mae, or Thallea, dirt could be made to yield.

By the time she finished the common rooms, the house had begun to resemble the place she remembered.

She washed her hands.

The skin was raw and reddened from the cleaning chemicals.

She made another cup of coffee, this time from a fresh packet she found at the back of a cabinet.

It tasted tolerable.

Jena considered going to Mrs. Flossie's to retrieve Tiki.

Thallea would remain hospitalized for at least several more days.

Perhaps it would be safe to bring the elderly bird home for a little while.

The thought cheered her.

She missed his company terribly.

But there was still one room she had not cleaned.

Jena put away the cleaning supplies and collapsed onto the designer red suede couch Nate

had ordered specially.

The piece had taken eight months to arrive.

Nate had complained bitterly about the delay, calling the manufacturer so frequently that

Jena had eventually refused to remain in the room while he spoke to them.

Now the couch smelled like an ashtray.

The odor rose from the upholstery the moment she sat down.

Jena closed her eyes.

Her arms felt like jelly.

Her back throbbed.

She had spent nearly an entire day restoring the house, and still Thallea's presence seemed impossible to eradicate.

The realization filled her with fresh anger.

It was always the same.

She cleaned up after someone.

She paid for something someone else wanted.

She endured another person's bad decisions.

Then, just when she thought the trouble had passed, she discovered that nothing had changed.

Nate had been that way.

Ivy-Mae was that way.

And Thallea seemed determined to make a career of it.

Jena had spent years trying to make other people's lives manageable, only to find that her own had become increasingly intolerable.

She could not make Nate considerate.

She could not make Ivy-Mae reasonable.

She could not make Beau recognize what Thallea was doing to him.

And she certainly could not make Thallea behave like a responsible adult.

But there was one thing she could do.

She could refuse to let Thallea live in her house any longer.

The thought came with such clarity that Jena sat upright.

Why had she tolerated the situation for so long?

Because Sue had asked?

Because Beau was frightened of being alone?

Because Thallea was pregnant?

Those explanations had seemed compelling at the time.

Now they sounded like excuses.

If Thallea had to clean up her own messes, perhaps she would finally learn something.

And if she did not, Jena decided, that would no longer be her problem.

Thallea's bedroom was locked.

It was almost always locked.

Jena had respected the arrangement until now, although she increasingly resented being excluded from a room in a house she was responsible for maintaining.

She went into the garage and retrieved a pry bar from Nate's workbench.

Returning to the bedroom, she wedged it against the lock.

The first attempt accomplished nothing.

The second splintered part of the doorframe.

Jena continued.

She struck and pried until the wood cracked and the hardware finally tore loose.

The doorknob fell to the floor.

She had spent nearly ten minutes destroying a perfectly good door.

Jena looked at the damage.

Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been horrified.

Now she merely pushed the door open.

The smell struck her first.

It was a suffocating mixture of stale cigarette smoke, rotting food, dirty clothing, and

something sour she could not identify.

Jena recoiled.

"Good Lord."

The room was worse than she had imagined.

Soiled underwear lay among heaps of clothing.

Takeout containers were piled on the floor, some still holding food that had begun decomposing.

Cigarette butts littered nearly every surface.

The bedding had been twisted into a filthy ball.

The mattress was marked with burns where Thallea had apparently extinguished cigarettes against it.

Jena took one step into the room and felt something collapse beneath her shoe.

She looked down.

Her foot had landed in a tray of rotten food.

For several seconds, she stood motionless.

Then she turned around, retrieved the oversized box of garbage bags, and began throwing things away.

She made no distinction between refuse and Thallea's belongings.

Clothes went into the bags.

Shoes.

Cosmetics.

Cheap jewelry.

Half-empty bottles.

Anything that did not belong to the room itself was treated as something to be removed.

Jena knew she was angry.

She also knew she was destroying or discarding possessions that did not belong to her.

But she had reached the point where Thallea's property seemed indistinguishable from the filth surrounding it.

She wanted the woman gone.

She wanted every trace of her gone.

And she was no longer particularly concerned about whether Beau or Sue approved.

Thallea could return to whatever miserable circumstances had produced her.

Jena was finished providing a comfortable place for her to destroy.

It took nearly an hour before Jena could see the floor.

The walls, once painted a delicate blue, had acquired a yellowish cast from cigarette smoke.

The pale carpeting was marked with brown stains of varying sizes and origins.

The mattress would need replacing.

So would portions of the carpet.

The walls required more than ordinary cleaning.

Everywhere she looked, Jena saw another expense.

Under different circumstances, she might have arranged to replace everything immediately.

But the house remained entangled in the dispute with Ivy-Mae, and Jena had neither the money nor the authority to undertake extensive renovations.

She settled for using the carpet shampooer.

As she worked, she considered her circumstances.

Turner continued paying the mortgage and major expenses through KT Construction.

That arrangement allowed her to remain in the house without exhausting what little money she earned.

But it did not make the property hers to control.

Ivy-Mae was still waiting for the opportunity to claim whatever she could.

Jena had begun to think of the house as something she was merely preserving for another woman.

The realization made her less inclined to spend her own money repairing it.

She wanted the place livable.

That was all.

She no longer cared whether it remained beautiful.

She had also reached a decision about Beau.

She could not continue sacrificing her own security to preserve his relationship.

If he wanted Thallea, he would have to take responsibility for her.

Jena had enough difficulties of her own.

By the time she finished shampooing the carpet, the room looked as respectable as it was likely to without substantial repairs.

She opened the window to let the fumes escape and the carpet dry.

Then she left the room.

For the first time in months, she felt she had taken some meaningful action on her own behalf.

It was a small victory.

She was too exhausted to enjoy it.

Jena was filthy by the time she finished.

She had spent nearly the entire day cleaning and had missed her opportunity to visit Tiki.

In any case, the house was so saturated with cleaning fumes that bringing the elderly bird home would have been unwise.

She showered and went to bed wearing her bathrobe.

The sheets were still in the washing machine.

She fell asleep almost immediately.

Then she jerked awake, convinced she had missed an important telephone call.

She reached for her phone.

There were no missed calls.

No messages.

Nothing.

Jena stared at the screen.

It occurred to her that almost nobody contacted her unless they wanted something.

The thought left her feeling strangely hollow.

She set the phone aside.

The house smelled of cheap disinfectant and damp carpeting.

It was an improvement over the stale smoke and sour odor that had previously filled the rooms, although not by much.

Jena opened the windows despite the chill outside.

The fresh air helped.

But the cold soon made the house uncomfortable.

Rather than sit indoors shivering, she decided to tackle the yard.

KT Construction had once sent workers to maintain the property regularly.

When Nate was home, someone appeared whenever the grass grew too long or a piece of equipment needed servicing.

Now Jena's requests for assistance went unanswered.

She had called and left messages.

She had followed up.

Nothing happened.

Turner's willingness to help seemed strangely selective.

He would ensure that the mortgage and taxes were paid without complaint, yet apparently could not be bothered to arrange for someone to mow the lawn.

Jena found the inconsistency irritating.

Still, she reminded herself that she was fortunate to have the major expenses covered.

Complaining too loudly might jeopardize the arrangement.

She had learned that receiving help often required tolerating the terms upon which it was offered.

Fortunately, Nate had applied his usual philosophy of extravagant purchasing to the landscaping equipment.

He had bought a top-of-the-line riding mower for their acre-sized lot.

Jena had once considered it absurdly expensive.

Now she was grateful for it.

She climbed aboard and began cutting the overgrown grass.

The work went quickly.

For a little while, she enjoyed being outdoors.

The fresh air felt wonderful after the oppressive smell inside the house.

She finished mowing and considered power-washing the patio and front walkway.

Then the sky darkened.

A low rumble of thunder rolled across the property.

Jena looked up.

The first drops of rain struck the driveway.

Within moments, the storm became violent.

Hail began falling in hard, rattling pellets.

Jena hurried into the garage.

The noise intensified until it sounded as though handfuls of gravel were being thrown against the roof.

She considered going inside.

But the smell of cleaning chemicals remained overpowering.

Instead, she climbed into the covered bed of Nate's old truck.

There was enough room to stretch out.

She lay down, listening to the storm.

The hail rattled against the camper shell.

Rain hammered the roof.

The wind rose.

Jena closed her eyes.

She had been awake and working for so long that exhaustion finally overcame her.

She dreamed of a garden.

It was beautiful.

The grass was soft beneath her feet, and flowers bloomed in brilliant colors along a winding path.

Sue walked beside her.

Jena was young again.

She felt happy.

There were no bills, no court hearings, no dying husband, and no responsibilities beyond enjoying the afternoon.

For a moment, the world seemed perfectly safe.

Then something moved among the flowers.

A large snake emerged from the garden.

It raised its head.

Jena stopped.

The creature lunged toward her.

She cried out.

When she turned, Sue was gone.

The garden disappeared.

Suddenly, Jena was an adult again, standing inside the first apartment she had shared with

Nate.

She was crying.

The room was dim and unfamiliar despite being filled with objects she recognized.

Someone knocked at the door.

Jena opened it.

Nate stood outside.

He looked as he had before his overdose.

Healthy.

Impatient.

Entirely unconcerned.

Jena stared at him.

"You're dead," she said.

Nate frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're dead."

She looked down at herself.

"That means I'm dead, too."

Nate seemed more annoyed than frightened.

He stepped inside.

"Well, then we can wait here until everyone comes."

He sat beside her as though they were expecting guests.

Jena wanted to ask who was coming.

She wanted to tell him that something was terribly wrong.

But the words would not come.

She looked toward the door.

The apartment seemed to be growing darker.

And Nate sat patiently beside her, waiting.

Jena woke with a violent start.

For a moment, she did not recognize her surroundings.

Then the sound of the storm returned.

Wind howled outside the garage.

Rain battered the roof.

She sat up in the truck bed, breathing hard.

The dream had felt horribly real.

She remembered Nate's face.

His casual acceptance of their supposed deaths.

The way he had settled down to wait for people who never arrived.

Then another thought struck her.

The windows.

She had left the windows open throughout the house.

Jena scrambled out of the truck.

She hurried inside.

Rain had blown through several openings, dampening the floors and window ledges.

She went from room to room, shutting everything she could reach.

By the time she finished, she was soaked.

She paused outside Thallea's bedroom.

The window remained open.

The curtains billowed in the wind.

Jena looked inside.

The carpet was already stained.

The walls were already ruined.

The mattress was fit for the trash.

She considered closing the window.

Then she turned away.

The room could hardly become much worse.

And she was too tired to care.

The storm continued through the night.

At some point, the electricity failed.

Jena moved through the darkened house without bothering to light candles.

She finished making the beds with the clean linens, working by the faint light that entered through the windows.

By the time she completed the task, the darkness outside had begun thinning toward dawn.

She had spent more than a day reclaiming the house.

Her body had reached its limit.

She was hungry.

The cupboards were nearly empty.

After searching the pantry, she found a package of fiber crackers and a bottle of mustard.

She ate them together without enthusiasm.

It was an absurd meal to consume in a house that had cost so much money.

Jena sat at the kitchen table, chewing slowly.

She thought of the expensive appliances surrounding her.

The imported countertops.

The custom cabinets.

The designer furniture.

Nate had spent a fortune creating a home that looked like a monument to prosperity.

Yet she was sitting in its kitchen eating crackers with mustard because she could not find anything else.

She almost laughed.

Perhaps Hell was not a place where people were deprived of everything.

Perhaps it was a place where they were surrounded by abundance that somehow never belonged to them.

When she finished eating, she returned to the garage.

This time, she brought a sleeping bag.

She climbed into the truck bed and settled beneath it.

When the stores opened, she intended to use Nate's credit card to replenish the cupboards.

For now, she would make do.

The rain continued.

Jena closed her eyes.

Morning arrived beneath a pale sky.

The electricity had returned.

The storm had passed, leaving the yard littered with branches and debris.

It had been an unusually violent late-spring storm, especially one that had continued through most of the night.

Jena woke sore but finally rested.

The house still smelled terrible.

She looked around the kitchen and found herself smiling faintly.

At least the place was clean.

Or cleaner.

And if Ivy-Mae eventually took possession of it, she would inherit the lingering consequences of Thallea's occupation.

Jena found a small, spiteful satisfaction in that possibility.

She had spent so long being expected to preserve everything for other people that the thought of handing over something imperfect felt almost rebellious.

She drove into town intending to shop at the Piggly Wiggly.

The grocery store had belonged to Emily's family for as long as Jena could remember.

As she approached, she thought again of her dream.

Nate had been dead.

She had been dead.

And they had been waiting together in an apartment that seemed to grow darker around them.

Jena tried to interpret it.

Perhaps the dream meant she had finally accepted that Nate would never recover.

Perhaps it meant she was wasting precious time remaining attached to a marriage that had already ended in every meaningful sense.

Her family was aging.

Her mother would not live forever.

Her father was already confined to a care facility.

And Jena was spending much of her life driving back and forth to Colorado to visit a husband who no longer responded to her presence.

She thought of Amber Coates.

The young woman had died in Jena's home on the night of Nate's birthday party.

Amber had been buried and almost immediately forgotten.

Nate, meanwhile, remained in an expensive medical facility, surrounded by machinery and legal disputes.

Jena sometimes wondered whether wealth had merely purchased him a longer interval between catastrophe and burial.

She disliked thinking about him that way.

But the contrast was difficult to ignore.

Amber had died without ceremony in the public imagination.

People had discussed her briefly, usually with contempt, and then moved on.

Jena wondered whether anyone still thought about her.

Had she been loved?

Did someone miss her?

Or had she simply become an unpleasant detail in the story of Nate's overdose?

The thought made Jena profoundly sad.

She hoped she would never be forgotten so completely.

Then she wondered whether she already had been.

Apart from Sue, who would remember her with any particular affection?

Nate had never seemed to value her beyond the conveniences she provided.

Ivy-Mae despised her.

Beau contacted her mostly when he needed something.

Thallea treated her like an unpaid servant.

And Turner, for all his financial assistance, scarcely knew her.

Jena felt tears gathering.

She thought of the infant who had died after Thallea's disastrous pregnancy.

Little Mickey-Moon had scarcely entered the world before leaving it.

His brief existence seemed another tragedy destined to disappear beneath the weight of everyone else's problems.

Jena pulled into a drive-through coffee shop instead of the grocery store.

She ordered breakfast and returned home.

She did not trust herself to interact with anyone without crying.

After charging her phone, Jena checked her messages.

Thallea had sent a request.

She wanted Jena to bring some of the baby's clothing to the hospital.

Jena stared at the message.

Despite everything, she felt sympathy for the surviving infant.

Tiger-Blood had entered the world under circumstances that promised him little comfort.

He had already lost his twin brother.

His mother seemed incapable of taking responsibility for herself, much less a newborn.

And Beau remained convinced that devotion alone could solve problems he refused to confront.

Jena retrieved a baby shower gift that was still wrapped.

She had purchased it before the delivery.

Then she drove to the hospital.

The maternity ward staff recognized her.

As she approached the front desk, Mrs. Bekemeire, a social worker Jena had encountered before, asked to speak with her privately.

They stepped into a quiet section of the hallway.

"Jena, I wanted to let you know that we've opened a formal investigation into the circumstances surrounding the baby's birth and the parents' ability to provide appropriate care."

Jena felt her stomach tighten.

"I see."

"We have concerns about prenatal exposure to alcohol and other substances. The baby's medical team is evaluating the extent of the complications."

Jena closed her eyes briefly.

She was not surprised.

That made the news worse.

Mrs. Bekemeire continued.

"He has significant medical needs. There are respiratory concerns, and the physicians are evaluating possible effects of prenatal alcohol exposure. It's too early to know the full extent of any long-term impairment."

Jena looked down at the gift in her hands.

"Poor little thing."

"We've also been in contact with the appropriate authorities regarding the home environment."

"Does Beau know?"

"We've been attempting to coordinate with both parents."

Jena gave a tired sigh.

Of course they had.

Beau would probably insist that Thallea meant well.

He would explain that she had a difficult childhood.

He would promise to help her.

And then he would return to driving his truck, leaving everyone else to manage the consequences.

Mrs. Bekemeire studied her.

"We understand you work with children."

"At the church childcare center."

"Would you be willing to be considered as a temporary kinship placement if the child can't safely be discharged to his parents?"

Jena stared at her.

"You mean take him home?"

"Potentially. Nothing has been decided yet. There would be an assessment, background checks, and the appropriate authorization. But we'd like to know whether you're willing to be considered."

Jena thought of the barndominium.

The cigarette smoke.

The ruined bedroom.

The filth she had spent an entire day removing.

She thought of Thallea returning home.

Then she thought of the tiny surviving infant.

He had done nothing to deserve any of this.

"Yes," Jena said reluctantly. "If that's what it takes to keep him safe."

Mrs. Bekemeire nodded.

"We'll begin the process and keep you informed."

Jena provided the requested information and signed the preliminary paperwork.

She left the wrapped baby clothes with the social worker.

For the first time in months, it seemed possible that someone with actual authority might intervene in the disaster Thallea had created.

Jena felt relief.

Then she felt guilty for it.

She was relieved that a baby might be removed from his parents.

But she was also relieved that someone else might finally make a decision she had been unable to make herself.

Before Jena left, Mrs. Bekemeire introduced her to Officer Capshaw, who was assisting with the investigation.

The officer was a practical-looking woman with an observant expression and little interest in unnecessary conversation.

She asked Jena several questions about Thallea's living arrangements.

Jena answered them.

Then Capshaw asked whether she could see the room Thallea had occupied.

Jena hesitated.

She thought of Roman.

She thought of the way he had handled the investigation into Amber Coates's death.

She remembered how quickly the matter had been settled and how little interest anyone had seemed to have in examining the circumstances too closely.

Roman would undoubtedly prefer that she consult him before speaking with the police.

Turner would probably feel the same.

But Jena was tired of being told not to ask questions.

She wanted answers for once.

And if Thallea had done something that endangered her children, Jena wanted it known.

"All right," she said.

"You can come with me."

At the barndominium, Officer Capshaw examined the common rooms before following Jena to Thallea's bedroom.

Jena pointed toward the curb.

"I'm sorry about the trash bags. I cleaned everything out before I knew there was an investigation."

Capshaw glanced outside.

"What was in them?"

"Mostly her things. Rotten food, dirty clothes, cigarette butts. Anything she'd left lying around."

"Are the bags still there?"

"Yes. The storm got to them, though. They're probably full of water."

Capshaw made a note.

"I may need to arrange for those to be collected."

"That's fine."

Jena led her into the bedroom.

The broken lock and damaged doorframe were immediately apparent.

Capshaw looked at them.

"What happened here?"

"I broke the lock."

"Why?"

"Because she kept the room locked, and I was finished letting her destroy my house."

Jena gestured toward the walls.

"This is what it looks like after I cleaned it. You should've seen it before."

Capshaw surveyed the room.

The yellowed walls.

The stained carpeting.

The damaged furniture.

The lingering odor.

Jena continued.

"I was planning to tell her she couldn't come back. My brother needs to take responsibility for her. I can't keep doing it."

Capshaw wrote something down.

"Did you know she was drinking during the pregnancy?"

Jena felt her face grow hot.

"I knew she was sneaking drinks. And smoking."

"How often?"

"I don't know. I wasn't watching her every minute."

"Did you ever report it?"

"I told Beau. I also raised concerns with her doctor."

"And what happened?"

"They said they'd talk to her."

Jena gave a bitter laugh.

"That was always the answer. Somebody would talk to her, and then I'd catch her doing it again."

Capshaw continued writing.

Jena watched the pen move across the page.

For a moment, she wondered whether she was implicating herself.

She had allowed Thallea to remain in the house.

She had known about some of her behavior.

She had continued making excuses for the situation because confronting it seemed too exhausting.

Perhaps the officer would conclude that Jena had been negligent as well.

The possibility frightened her.

But not enough to make her stop talking.

She had spent too long protecting other people from the consequences of their own decisions.

Capshaw moved toward the window.

"Is this usually open?"

"No. I shampooed the carpet yesterday and left it open to air out."

The curtains stirred in the breeze.

"Even during the storm?"

Jena sighed.

"I forgot about it. Then I decided the room couldn't get much worse."

Capshaw looked at the carpet.

"I see."

She examined the bedframe and the area around the mattress.

Jena sat at the foot of the bed, suddenly uncomfortable with having a stranger inspect the room.

Capshaw glanced toward the damaged door.

"Are you planning to repair this?"

"Eventually, I suppose."

"Why eventually?"

"Because I may not be living here much longer."

The officer looked up.

"Moving?"

"Not exactly."

Jena folded her hands.

"My husband is in a long-term care facility. He's been unresponsive for months. His mother is trying to take control of his property."

"I'm sorry."

"The court left me in charge of maintaining the place, but I can't really do much with it. Once his condition changes, there'll be more proceedings. I expect his mother will end up with the house."

Capshaw nodded.

"That sounds complicated."

"It is."

Jena looked toward the television inside the armoire.

She wondered whether the storm had damaged it.

She picked up the remote and turned it on.

The screen illuminated.

"Well, at least that still works."

Capshaw glanced over.

"Is that a smart television?"

"Yes. I think so."

"Does she use it?"

"All the time. She connects her phone to it."

Capshaw approached.

"Would you mind showing me?"

Jena handed her the remote.

Capshaw opened the settings menu.

The television displayed a list of recently connected devices.

One bore Thallea's name.

Jena frowned.

"I didn't know it kept track of that."

Capshaw examined the screen.

She navigated through the available applications and noticed a browser that had been left signed into a user profile.

A list of recent searches appeared.

Jena leaned forward.

Several entries concerned drug testing.

Others involved ways to bring on labor without attracting attention.

Jena felt the blood drain from her face.

"What on earth?"

Capshaw studied the entries.

"Do you recognize this account?"

"That's hers."

"Are you certain?"

"She uses it all the time."

The officer continued examining the visible history.

Then she paused.

Several searches concerned directions to an address Jena recognized.

Turner's home.

The same address appeared repeatedly.

One entry was dated shortly before Jena had left for Gage's birthday gathering.

Capshaw looked at her.

"Do you know who lives here?"

Jena swallowed.

"Joel Turner."

"Who is he?"

"My husband's business partner."

"Does Thallea know him?"

"She works for one of his businesses."

Capshaw looked back at the screen.

"Has she ever mentioned visiting him?"

"No."

Jena stared at the address.

She remembered Thallea's sudden enthusiasm for her job.

Her questions about Emily.

Her strange excitement whenever Turner's name came up.

And the elaborate salon appointment supposedly intended to impress Beau.

Capshaw photographed the relevant information displayed on the screen.

Then she turned to Jena.

"I'd like to preserve this information as part of the investigation. Would you be willing to let us take the television for examination?"

Jena hesitated only briefly.

"Yes."

"I'll document that you're voluntarily providing it. We may need additional authorization before examining anything beyond what's already visible."

"That's fine."

Capshaw completed the necessary paperwork.

Then she disconnected the television.

Jena helped her carry it toward the front door.

"Mrs. Bekemeire will be in touch about the baby," Capshaw said.

"Thank you."

The officer departed.

Jena watched her vehicle disappear down the driveway.

Jena returned to Thallea's bedroom.

The open window allowed the curtains to move gently in the breeze.

The room still smelled terrible.

She doubted it would ever smell entirely clean again.

She looked at the empty space where the television had stood.

Perhaps Thallea's phone was still connected to one of its applications.

Perhaps the officer would discover something useful.

Jena almost smiled.

For once, Thallea might face consequences that could not be avoided through whining, excuses, or Beau's willingness to forgive anything.

Still, Jena was not optimistic.

She had seen too many people escape responsibility for behavior that should have ruined them.

Sometimes she wondered whether cruelty was a habit people developed because the world made it so easy to continue.

Thallea had been rewarded for her selfishness so often that she seemed genuinely astonished whenever anyone refused her something.

Jena wondered what would happen when that finally changed.

She was still considering the possibility when the front door opened.

"Jena!"

Turner's voice thundered through the house.

She froze.

He rarely visited without calling.

She stepped into the hallway.

Turner was standing near the entrance, his face flushed with anger.

"How could you let a police officer into this house?"

Jena stared at him.

"What?"

"Why was she here?"

"Turner—"

"You know you're supposed to call Roman before talking to the police!"

His voice rose.

"What were you thinking?"

Jena had never seen him behave this way.

Turner was ordinarily indifferent to almost everything that did not directly concern his business.

He could overlook misconduct that would have driven other employers into a fury.

He could dismiss expensive mistakes with a shrug.

Yet now he was standing in her living room, visibly agitated because a police officer had visited.

Jena felt herself becoming defensive.

"It was about Thallea."

Turner stopped.

"What?"

"Thallea. The babies. The hospital opened an investigation."

He stared at her.

"An investigation into what?"

"Her drinking while she was pregnant. They're looking into whether Beau and Thallea are fit to care for the surviving baby."

Turner said nothing.

Jena continued.

"The officer wanted to see where Thallea had been living. I let her look around."

Some of the tension seemed to leave Turner's face.

His shoulders lowered.

"Oh."

He looked away.

"For a moment, I thought it was about the other girl."

Jena frowned.

"The other girl?"

"Amber."

He said the name quickly.

Jena thought of Amber Coates, the young woman who had died in her home.

"Oh."

Turner glanced toward the hallway.

"What did the officer look at?"

"Thallea's room."

"Anywhere else?"

"She walked through the house."

"Did she go downstairs?"

Jena hesitated.

"Not that I saw. Why?"

Turner ignored the question.

"Did she take anything?"

"The television."

He looked sharply at her.

"What television?"

"The one in Thallea's bedroom."

"Why?"

"Apparently, Thallea had been using it to look up all sorts of things."

"Such as?"

"Drug tests. Ways to induce labor. And directions to your house."

Turner became still.

For a moment, he looked at Jena without speaking.

Then he glanced at his phone.

"Did the officer say anything about that?"

"She asked whether Thallea knew you."

"And what did you tell her?"

"That she works for one of your businesses."

Turner looked toward the front door.

"Fine."

"Turner, what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"You came in here acting like I'd committed some terrible crime."

He was already moving toward the exit.

"Just call Roman before you speak to the police again."

"But—"

"I've got to go."

He opened the door.

"Take care, Jena."

Then he left, slamming it behind him.

Jena remained standing in the hallway.

The entire exchange had lasted only a few minutes.

Yet she felt as though something important had happened without her understanding what it was.

Turner had been furious.

Not merely irritated.

Furious.

And the moment she explained that the investigation concerned Thallea, he had seemed relieved.

Then the mention of his address had unsettled him again.

Jena looked toward the front door.

How had he known a police officer had been there?

The barndominium stood well away from town, at the end of a road that received little passing traffic.

There were no close neighbors except Mrs. Flossie, who would hardly have considered an ordinary police visit worth reporting to Turner.

Jena remembered joking with Nate that Turner had eyes everywhere.

At the time, it had seemed an amusing exaggeration about a wealthy man who knew everyone's business.

Now she was less certain.

She walked into the living room.

The house was clean.

The floors shone.

The furniture had been straightened.

The rubbish was gone.

Yet she felt no more comfortable than she had when she first arrived.

For all her efforts, she had not succeeded in making the place feel like home.

She had merely removed the visible filth.

The deeper unease remained.

Jena looked toward the hallway leading to the lower level of the house.

She remembered Turner's question.

Did she go downstairs?

It was an odd thing to ask.

Then again, Turner had always been peculiar about the properties associated with KT

Construction.

Perhaps he was worried about liability.

Perhaps he feared another investigation into Nate's affairs.

Perhaps Roman had warned him that any police attention could create problems for the company.

There were plenty of reasonable explanations.

Jena preferred those.

She had already spent enough of her life worrying about matters she could not control.

She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

The house was quiet.

Outside, the storm had passed.

Sunlight filtered through the windows she had spent so many hours cleaning.

Jena drank slowly.

She thought of calling Roman.

Then she remembered how little help he had offered when she needed him most.

She set down the glass.

Whatever Turner was worried about, she decided, he could manage it himself.

For once, she had no intention of cleaning up another man's mess.

The thought gave her a small sense of satisfaction.

She did not know how little it would ultimately matter.

Nor did she understand that some stains could remain hidden beneath a house long after every visible surface had been scrubbed clean.