She lifted the curtain to peek out at the driveway: nothing. She’d felt someone, she was sure of it. She still did. She stood still in the quiet of the house watching the dust particles light up in the day’s last light and float in front of the windows, waiting for the figure to appear again, listening for more footsteps, waiting for the door to burst open.

Nothing happened.

It was getting dark, so she went to the basement and found the breaker so that she could turn on the lights. She went outside, and walked around the property. Had she imagined the intruder after such a long drive and so much time alone? She couldn’t see anyone, but she felt like she was being watched. In the creepy, invaded quiet, she became even more acutely aware of her parents’ ashes waiting in the car. She went back outside to get them and headed back indoors. “We’re back,” Poppy said, startled by the weight, “where do you want me to put you guys?”

There was the giant fireplace mantel, but setting them there could be mistaken as an attempt to be decorative next to the old conch shell Michael found his first summer on the Cape. You can hear the waves, she told him, and he looked at her, amazed when he held the shell next to his ear. She saw the family photo, the glass broken. Michael … Who knew where he’d landed. Maybe Milwaukee. Maybe anywhere. He’d only spent two summers in the house but his presence was heavy, like the lingering feeling of the ghostly intruder.

She went into her parents’ bedroom, which was lit through the slits in the old wood shutters. She set her father’s box on his tallboy, and her mother’s box on the wide, squat mahogany dresser. No, she thought. Still not right, too far apart. She moved them to the bed they’d shared for all those years and set her father’s box on his side and her mother’s box on hers.

A wind kicked up and the entire house seemed to shudder. Poppy took that as a sign of approval from her parents. She touched her finger to her lips and pressed a kiss onto the stickers with their names. She walked quietly out of the room and shut the door, as if to give them privacy.

She walked into the sunporch and heard the mournful, unearthly squeal of the fisher-cat who’d taken up residence somewhere along the cove. The alien cry went right through her. It was the sound of trouble she knew was out there, but couldn’t see.

THIRTY

Michael