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do,” she told us, pointing a trembling finger between Rose and me. “I don’t care if I ever work for this service again! You girls are horrible! Horrible! You say your parents travel the country searching for demons. Well, I can save them the trip. Because they’ve got two of the most wicked little girls right here in their own home!”
    With that, she stormed out into the bright daylight, leaving the door open behind her. I walked to the steps and watched her climb into her mud-splattered Yugo. As the engine turned over and she rolled backward up the driveway, Rose joined me at my side. We watched as Dot narrowly missed one of the birches before reaching the road. And when she shifted again, grinding the gears in a terrible grating noise, before sputtering away down Butter Lane, my sister actually put her arm around me.
    â€œWhat if she calls the police?” I asked.
    â€œShe won’t.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI just do,” Rose told me. “And anyway, the good news is, it looks like it’s just you and me until Mom and Dad get home at the end of the week.”
    Once and for all, my sister had made her point. After that visit from Dot, never again would we have another nanny. But Rose did and didn’t get what she wanted, because from that day on, whenever our parents went on their trips, they took us, their two daughters, their two very own wicked little girls, right along with them.

 
    Chapter 5
    The Car with One Headlight

    T hose first few weeks after our parents died, I heard noises in the basement. A kind of rattling, things breaking and smashing. This was back before that bare bulb went dark. Back when its yellowy glow still oozed from the filmy casement window by the dirt, illuminating the lowest branches of the rhododendrons. I felt certain of what the noises were: down below, the things my parents had left behind were lamenting their untimely deaths—no different from what Rose and I were doing up above.
    Those were the nights and days we spent shipwrecked in the living room. Together, though not really. I lay on the worn Oriental carpet, staring at the ceiling like there was something up there, a world of constellations that might spell out an explanation instead of just a vast white space with dust in the corners. Rose took up residence on one of the wingback chairs, dragging a second so close it formed a cradle. Her legs hung over the sides, covered by a blanket our mother had knitted years before.
    â€œI don’t understand,” I said again and again. “Why would you make a deal like that with Albert Lynch?”
    When Rose answered, her voice held none of its usual bark. Instead, she sounded as dazed and faraway as me. “I made it . . .” she began then stopped, before starting again, “ . . . I made it because I had no idea what it would lead to, Sylvie. He told me he just wanted to talk to them. He told me he wanted to set things straight about what happened with Abigail that summer she came to live here. He told me—”
    I waited for her to finish. When she didn’t, we both fell silent. Time had a funny way of moving in those early days and weeks after they were gone. An hour might have passed, or maybe just a few minutes. It all felt the same. Finally, some part of my consciousness rose up to prod her. “He told you what?”
    â€œI don’t know. He just made it sound simple. Like if I got them to meet him, he’d be happy and would leave them alone. Even though I was in a fight with them, I thought it might be a good thing. You know, for them to be finally rid of the guy. So I went to the pay phone outside that bar, dropped a dime in, and made the call.”
    â€œAnd Albert gave you the money before he left?”
    She did not respond, but I remembered the way my mother once tried to teach me how to understand a person’s silence. And though I had never been good at it