Street parking is easier on holiday mornings. Everyone’s asleep. I’ve driven past this block countless times in the three months I’ve lived in California. I’ve only had the courage to walk in the building once, and my pins and needles made sure it was a brief visit. Marcos takes my hand as we consider the luxury apartment building hunching like a grave marker at the top of a stone staircase: 1612 Havenhurst. Ricky and Rigo’s apartment. The site where Karaoke Bill committed one of the most monstrous domestic crimes of the twentieth century. The place where Rigo’s ashes lie in a garden surrounding a spitting courtyard fountain.

“You’re home,” I whisper to Ricky’s urn inside my backpack.

Marcos doesn’t try to talk me out of it. He clasps my hand and leads me toward the haunted house, one stair at a time. The building’s open archway leads directly into the courtyard of bungalows; they haven’t gated it off to the public—yet. People still live here, and it’s not right to have them constantly ambushed by sobbing queers and allies on a grim pilgrimage to the Hannigan murder site.

Past a row of mailboxes, the massive garden fountain waits for Ricky. Large-paned California windows lie open all around us to tempt in a morning breeze. We’ll be seen if we linger, so I unzip the backpack without ceremony, uncork the ceramic lid of the urn, and return Ricky to Rigo’s bedside. It only takes a few persistent taps of the urn before he’s dusted around the greenery evenly. Luckily, building maintenance already removed many of the bouquets and “Always in Our Memory” placards people laid out after Bill’s arrest. There were hundreds this summer, but it’s since died down to a small handful.

“They’re together now,” Marcos whispers, rustling his fingers through my hair.

I nod but can’t speak. My chest hurts too badly. After my mother’s call, I can’t pretend not to know what Ricky must have felt like living here—far away from his dad, hidden and safe until the Reverend ruined everything. I can’t bring myself to look into the ground floor window that used to be the Hannigan-Valdes home. Ghosts live there. According to witnesses that night, Ricky begged like a toddler as Bill beat him. They all agreed it’s a sound they’ll never forget.

I can hear it happening. The attack. It plays loudly in my mind like some horrible echo. Except Marcos’s face keeps replacing Rigo’s.

Marcos…dead…I won’t ever see him again…

“Get me out of here,” I hiss, returning the empty urn to my bag. Marcos has been waiting to hear me say that. He hoists me to my feet, and shepherds me out of the crime scene, back to our car.