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this house almost as much as she loved me. There are others who disagree, of course, because she deserted us both when I was a young boy. But there’s more to that story, though I have failed to discover what it is. Maybe fate put you in my life to bring the truth to the surface so that she might finally find peace after all these years.
    I know this doesn’t sit easily on your shoulders, and must feel like more of a burden now than a gift. But one must be patient, dear, for all good things will be revealed to she who waits.
    God bless you, Melanie. All of my final hopes rest with you.
    Nevin Vanderhorst
     
I looked up from the letter, aware again of the sound of the rope swing. I stood and slowly walked down the steps to where I could peer around the overgrown hibiscus and into the garden.
    The woman was there again, pushing the swing, except this time the swing wasn’t empty. Holding tightly to the rope arms sat a small boy, his mouth open in laughter, the sound like soft air brushing against my cheeks.
    A hot, prickling sensation on the back of my neck made me tilt my head upward toward an upstairs window. I could detect a dark shadow behind the uneven glass, with penetrating eyes staring down at me. I could barely breathe, the malevolence of the presence in the window seeming to suck the oxygen out of the air.
    Backing away, I turned toward the gate and let myself out. I kept my head down as the sky opened up and rain began to darken the sidewalk in front of me.

CHAPTER 3
    I stayed up all night downloading music into the iPod I’d received for Christmas and that was still in the box seven months later. The gift was from Sophie Wallen, latent hippie wannabe and professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston and, inexplicably, my best friend. We’d met when a colleague suggested I consult with Sophie regarding the restoration project of a client’s home I was trying to sell in the historic Harleston Village neighborhood. At the time, she wouldn’t even speak with me until she’d been allowed to read my tarot cards and forced me to sit in the lotus yoga position on the floor of her office while she meditated and I kept stealing glances at my watch.
    Afterward, she took me to Ruth’s Bakery and bought me the biggest piece of chocolate torte in the bakery case while she told me that I was borderline obsessive-compulsive, way too repressed as a result of my military upbringing with my father, and apparently I wasn’t getting enough sex because I was as uptight as a department store mannequin. But, she’d said, she thought we could work together. We’ve been close ever since.
    Sophie said I needed to relax more and thought that listening to music would help, which is why she bought me a lime green iPod. I’m sure she’d suspect, but not ask, that once I’d taken the time to load music onto it I would spend most of a night playing with different ways to organize the 351 songs on the playlist.
    With bleary eyes, I examined the list of songs again, sighing with dismay as I spied several that I had somehow included with the rest of the ABBA, Tom Petty, Duran Duran, and the Cars: “Our House,” “House of the Rising Sun,” “It’s My House,” “Burning Down the House,” and even “Up on the Housetop.”
    Closing down the computer and unplugging the iPod, I stuck it back in its box and threw it in a hall table drawer. I shuffled into the kitchen and squinted at the clock on the coffeemaker for a long time before I could figure out what it said. Six thirty. I’d wait until seven o’clock to call, allowing for Sophie’s tendency to sleep late.
    At six fifty-nine I hit the speed dial on my phone.
    After eight rings, Sophie picked it up. “Mrmphm.”
    “Hi, Soph. It’s Melanie. I need you to come look at a house with me.”
    “Mrmphm.”
    “Can you meet me in an hour?”
    There was a short pause. “What in the hell are you doing calling me at seven o’clock on a Sunday