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Authors: Rachel Howzell Hall
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of empties in the trash can. I noticed walls dented by doorknobs, fists, and skulls; crimson-colored splatters on ceilings and floorboards; teeth stuck in carpet.
With the Chatman house, I saw nothing personal like that. Just groups of big men swinging axes, wielding chain saws, shouting “
Whoa whoa whoa
” over the crackle of radios. Mops, water vacuums, and chamois cluttered the lawns and sidewalks. The business end of death.
“I wanna go back into the main house for a moment,” I told Luke and Pepe. “To make sure there ain’t a packed suitcase for Mr. Chatman.” Then, I pointed to Colin. “Then, we’ll check out the back house.”
The electricity to the property was still shut off, so we clicked on our flashlights to navigate through the darkness. But we didn’t find a suitcase—not in the foyer, den, or home office.
No suitcase in the laundry room, either. “Looks full,” Colin said, peering through the window of the swanky dryer. “Maybe he was washing the clothes he planned to pack.”
“Maybe.”
He opened the dryer door, then pulled out pink shirts, white shirts, jeans, and girls’ swimsuits, a few bath and hand towels, and soccer socks—all of it covered in glitter. “Nothin’ but girl. What the hell’s bells is all
this
?” He brushed glitter from his clothes, but the flecks only multiplied.
“Looks like a stripper threw up all over you,” I said, grinning.
“Is that a
thing
now? Putting glitter on clothes?”
I nodded. “But you wash it first, to get off the excess. The rest gets caught in the lint filter. See?” I lifted the filter from its slot.
Clean.
“That’s strange,” I said with a frown. “Usually…”
Colin rubbed his left eye. “Think some of that shit flew in my—”
“Where’s the lint from this load?” I wondered. “There should be some of the usual gray stuff along with glitter from Chloe’s shirts.”
“Does it matter?” Colin blinked to be sure that the glitter had left his eye.
Uncertain if it mattered or not, I stared at the filter. “Just find it strange.” I plucked the digital camera from my pocket and snapped pictures of the clothes, the clean filter, and the machine itself.
Flashlights in hand, Colin and I crept out of the service porch door, stepping over boards, debris, and leaves, all soggy from drizzle and fire-hose water. Our beams of light led us to the Chatmans’ Away Place. And except for a plywood sheet covering the busted bay window, the converted garage had escaped disaster.
Colin clucked his tongue. “Crazy how some things survive.”
I tossed a cone of light up and down the structure. “Take this.” I handed him the Mag so that I could snap pictures.
A moment later, flashes of light from the camera popped in the darkness. I took one more picture, then tilted my face to the misty rain, closing my eyes as my skin tingled and tightened.
Colin wiggled the doorknob.
Unlocked.
The darkness hid the room’s detail. But it felt close and damp. If the air, the Persian rug, and the sofa didn’t dry out soon, mold would come and that would be that—another claim form for Christopher Chatman to submit. The walls were light-colored, and three dark wood beams traversed the ceiling.
“Mice in here?” I whispered.
“Fire probably scared ’em away.” Colin chuckled. “You scared of critters?”
“Nope. Scared of vermin.”
We wandered around the room in silence.
Something scurried and scratched behind a piece of furniture.
I went rigid and stopped in my step. “Vermin?”
“Big ones, too,” Colin kidded.
I swung the light: a bookcase stocked with books, a desk strewn with papers, and a glass mug filled with tea, the tea bag resting on a coaster. A book of stamps sat near that glass of tea. A planning calendar had been opened to January.
“She was sitting here yesterday,” I said. “Started doing something—writing a letter, planning that getaway—and the doorbell rang or the kids called her to the
With the Chatman house, I saw nothing personal like that. Just groups of big men swinging axes, wielding chain saws, shouting “
Whoa whoa whoa
” over the crackle of radios. Mops, water vacuums, and chamois cluttered the lawns and sidewalks. The business end of death.
“I wanna go back into the main house for a moment,” I told Luke and Pepe. “To make sure there ain’t a packed suitcase for Mr. Chatman.” Then, I pointed to Colin. “Then, we’ll check out the back house.”
The electricity to the property was still shut off, so we clicked on our flashlights to navigate through the darkness. But we didn’t find a suitcase—not in the foyer, den, or home office.
No suitcase in the laundry room, either. “Looks full,” Colin said, peering through the window of the swanky dryer. “Maybe he was washing the clothes he planned to pack.”
“Maybe.”
He opened the dryer door, then pulled out pink shirts, white shirts, jeans, and girls’ swimsuits, a few bath and hand towels, and soccer socks—all of it covered in glitter. “Nothin’ but girl. What the hell’s bells is all
this
?” He brushed glitter from his clothes, but the flecks only multiplied.
“Looks like a stripper threw up all over you,” I said, grinning.
“Is that a
thing
now? Putting glitter on clothes?”
I nodded. “But you wash it first, to get off the excess. The rest gets caught in the lint filter. See?” I lifted the filter from its slot.
Clean.
“That’s strange,” I said with a frown. “Usually…”
Colin rubbed his left eye. “Think some of that shit flew in my—”
“Where’s the lint from this load?” I wondered. “There should be some of the usual gray stuff along with glitter from Chloe’s shirts.”
“Does it matter?” Colin blinked to be sure that the glitter had left his eye.
Uncertain if it mattered or not, I stared at the filter. “Just find it strange.” I plucked the digital camera from my pocket and snapped pictures of the clothes, the clean filter, and the machine itself.
Flashlights in hand, Colin and I crept out of the service porch door, stepping over boards, debris, and leaves, all soggy from drizzle and fire-hose water. Our beams of light led us to the Chatmans’ Away Place. And except for a plywood sheet covering the busted bay window, the converted garage had escaped disaster.
Colin clucked his tongue. “Crazy how some things survive.”
I tossed a cone of light up and down the structure. “Take this.” I handed him the Mag so that I could snap pictures.
A moment later, flashes of light from the camera popped in the darkness. I took one more picture, then tilted my face to the misty rain, closing my eyes as my skin tingled and tightened.
Colin wiggled the doorknob.
Unlocked.
The darkness hid the room’s detail. But it felt close and damp. If the air, the Persian rug, and the sofa didn’t dry out soon, mold would come and that would be that—another claim form for Christopher Chatman to submit. The walls were light-colored, and three dark wood beams traversed the ceiling.
“Mice in here?” I whispered.
“Fire probably scared ’em away.” Colin chuckled. “You scared of critters?”
“Nope. Scared of vermin.”
We wandered around the room in silence.
Something scurried and scratched behind a piece of furniture.
I went rigid and stopped in my step. “Vermin?”
“Big ones, too,” Colin kidded.
I swung the light: a bookcase stocked with books, a desk strewn with papers, and a glass mug filled with tea, the tea bag resting on a coaster. A book of stamps sat near that glass of tea. A planning calendar had been opened to January.
“She was sitting here yesterday,” I said. “Started doing something—writing a letter, planning that getaway—and the doorbell rang or the kids called her to the
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