She could do a genuinely kind thing and a calculating thing with the very same gesture, so that even someone watching closely could not have told you where the sister ended and the schemer began.

The casseroles did feed me.

The albums did comfort her brother.

And every dish and every photograph also did its quiet second job, keeping her in the house, keeping her trusted, keeping her close enough to ask her questions and gather her inventory.

There was always a reason underneath the reason, and the reason on top was always, infuriatingly, real.

Chapter 5 — The Question About the House