Our former life, no more than a petty crime scene now.

It’s nearly morning, sprinklers awakening in nearby lawns, rolled-up copies of the Los Angeles Times thudding sullenly against doorsteps.

I climb out of the car and pace the ragged outline of the rubble, carefully reconstructing the house in my mind. The front door we won’t ever unlock again. The foyer with the statue of Venus always standing guard over us. Our bedrooms and the stairwell and the cellar where the worst of Dracula used to live.

And the parlor, our favorite room in the whole house. If I close my eyes, I can almost still hear the Victrola, lilting in the morning air. It used to be right here. That means what we need should be right here too.

I cross into the wreckage, my borrowed sandals slipping between chunks of horsehair plaster and crown molding cracked in two. Among the uneven terrain, I find it, toppled on its side. The rolltop desk that once sat in the corner.

It’s charred from the fire, the single drawer splintered and sticking, but with both hands clenched, I manage to pry it open. Inside, there’s the last of my dowry. A ruby necklace, the ash caked half an inch thick. My wedding jewels for a wedding that never came.

There’s something else in the drawer too, glinting up at me. The letter opener Mina gifted me all those years ago. I reach inside, and it sears into my skin, the silver more potent than fire against me. Wincing, I wrap it up in the hem of my dress before starting out of our house for the last time.

Bee waits at the edge of what used to be the foundation, and when I’m close enough, she reaches out and guides me from the wreckage.

“Do you think that’ll help us?” she asks, nodding at what I’m holding, the necklace and the letter opener in a jumble in my hand.

“We’ll find out,” I start to say, but a shadow, jagged and heavy, passes over us. Together, we twist toward it, my lips parting, ready to scream, convinced it’s them, caught up with us already. Then I see that familiar sour-grape face glaring back at us.

“Tyrone,” I say, almost disappointed.

He’s still wearing those same striped flannel pajamas from the other night, and I wonder for a moment if he’s been standing on his front porch the whole week, just waiting for us to return. Waiting for someone to admonish.

“I should call the police on you two.” He crosses his arms, snuffing at us like an angry Pekingese. “The way you ran, after that fire? That’s against the law.”

I roll my eyes and start back toward the car, but he catches my arm first.