He wandered into the dining room, taking a sip. He counted six photos of Vera and her aunt, all of varying sizes. Some were taken in the garden out back and others at the beach. Vera aged from a toddler in a floppy yellow sun hat to a teenager who towered over the gray-haired woman beside her. Her brown eyes glinted in the most recent picture, her smile wide and her legs long and toned in a short black skirt. She was photogenic.

Max took another gulp, turning toward the dining room table. He ran his fingers along the lace doily (he didn’t realize people still bought things like this). Then he crossed the room, spying a photo of Vera and her parents. It was near the window on a big wooden desk, one of those old-fashioned kinds with a rolling door on top. He picked up the silver frame, which was surprisingly heavy. Vera looked like she was ten years old in the picture, and she was wearing a red graduation-style gown with a white shawl and a golden cross. Her confirmation, probably? Her mother wore a long-sleeved flowery dress and her hair was short and curly. Her dad had a mustache and bow tie. They looked a lot older than Max’s parents.

So, one photo of them, six of the aunt. That was telling. Vera didn’t spend much time with her parents. He wondered if that bothered her. Actually, he wondered if all of this bothered her. How old was she when she figured out what her parents did? That must have been a nightmare—being a kid and knowing, with absolute certainty, that demons, and devils, and evil, and Hell existed. And it was all inside her house. Max was scared, and he was nearly an adult. Yet Vera’s voice never wavered.

Everything he thought he knew about her was wrong. Not just about what her parents did, but about who Vera was as a person. If it weren’t for her, Max wouldn’t be able to breathe through any of this.

He set down the photo and a creak sounded on the floorboards upstairs. His eyes shot toward the ceiling. Someone was awake. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. It was probably Chloe. He should have slept in her room. He set down the can of water and moved toward the stairs.

A step groaned.

He paused, a wave of uneasiness coming over him.

Another creak.

“Chloe?” he stage-whispered, heartbeat accelerating.

A slender bare foot emerged, perfectly pointed, skin pale as milk and nails painted pink. That wasn’t Chloe. The moon shone through stained glass, sending bits of ruby, gold, and sapphire swirling onto the exposed calf.

Vera.

Max grinned all the way to his eyes.

She descended leisurely, a graceful hand lightly brushing the polished banister.

“You can’t sleep either?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. She reached the landing halfway down the staircase and pivoted toward the living room.

That was when he saw her eyes—they were closed, lashes fluttering.