It was old enough to belong to the hill now, as much a part of the landscape as the ragged rocks poking through sparse grass.

The blue pickup drew to a halt near a set of stairs that rose to meet the porch. Margot couldn’t bring herself to drive that close. Instead, she pulled her car off the path several dozen paces away.

Thin weeds grazed her ankles as she stepped out. Funneled by the wind that cut through patchy trees spaced about the house, the rain flicked across her face, catching in her lashes. Margot hesitated at her car’s side, one hand still holding on to the handle, as though half-prepared to step back into her car and let the house shrink in her rearview mirror.

Kant waited at the base of the stairs, his weight resting on his right leg. His expression was unreadable. Margot had the uncomfortable feeling that he was gauging her reaction. That he wouldn’t try to stop her if she turned around and left.

No. You wanted to know about your family. You wanted it so badly that you cried yourself to sleep in that motel last night. It’s too late for cold feet.

She stepped away from her car. The wind pulled at her coat and snagged strands of hair across her face. Kant dipped his head slightly, as though accepting her decision, and turned to climb the stairs.

There wasn’t enough sunlight to define the shadows, but Margot still felt it when the estate’s layered shade fell over her.

Grass crackled under her shoes. Margot couldn’t stop herself from watching the cold, dead windows as she approached. No lights were on inside the home, and it left the glass with a vacant, dark sheen.

The steps leading up to the porch were worn down, a discolored, scuffed dip showing where countless footfalls had eroded the thick boards. They groaned as Margot put her weight on them. To her left, a porch swing shifted in the wind, its metal hinges creaking. There was a scent in the air that she couldn’t fully place. Dry age. Dusty soil. The sickly undercurrent of old potpourri. She ran her tongue across her teeth and tasted it there, building like a residue.

The juddering wind softened as she stepped onto the porch. The air felt a degree or two cooler. The porch swing creaked again, the dark shape shifting restlessly in her peripheral vision.

Kant waited at the door. She met his eyes, and he turned the handle, pushing it open for her.

The gap looking into her home was a queasy kind of dark. Very little light made it inside to highlight the edges of walls and distant furniture. For half a second, Margot pictured it forming the edge of a figure waiting down the dim hallway, but then she blinked and all she saw was a shimmer of dust caught in the air.