DIAMONDS IN THE TRENCHES

22 | lunar power

IF IT WAS SUMMER, why did I freeze in place when I walked through the door? If I was supposed to be the epitome of strength and determination—at least for my team's sake—why had the floor started spinning? The resemblance of that place, of that sight, of that crime scene with my mother's murder and all the days that had followed it was at least horrifying to me.

Everything was the same. The victim's house turning into a cemetery—dark, silent and full of tears—the same way my apartment had turned into a monument of that moment in time when things had been innocent. The truth that life went on despite the loss you had suffered and the way it became a lie the moment you walked in. No, life did not move on in that house. The wild fantasy that despite everything, the dead were still here, watching us through the picture frames that now adorned every coffee table, wall and drawer; through the Polaroids scattered in every purse and backpack.

I stumbled back.

Mrs. Claire opened the door with a quick nod that seemed to say we were to follow her inside. She quickly disappeared down the corridor. But I stayed there, on the threshold, taking in the silence. No whimpers, no sounds, no conversations. Even the windows were boarded up, as if the country house was at war with the sun.

"Is everything good?" Abel asked.

No, nothing was good, I wanted to say, then add that nothing would ever be good again. But these were just thoughts, the outcome of two tenebrous minutes. They would not stain like blood, nor turn permanent. I knew that they would not, like I knew that the tears gathering in my eyes were expected and controllable. I had spent enough time in this world to know that people were alchemists, able to turn rust into gold. Yet in this moment the sadness felt unfettered.

I turned around, not wishing for the woman to see me like that. Abel had not closed the door behind him. We could still run away, leave it all behind and start over . . .

"Hey," Abel said, his stare concerned.

I did not answer.

"Hey," he repeated and placed his hands on both my shoulders. "I'll go in alone. You can wait for me in the car. It won't take me long, I promise."

The words were a shock—a pleasant one—creeping upon my feelings like healing water.

"What is taking you so long?" Mrs. Claire's voice broke that shield of protection.

It was not the sound of her displeasure that made me quiver. It was the guilt it provoked that had me feeling even more unsettled. What is taking you so long? That was what I had also said to Abel a few minutes ago, when he had been the one hesitating to step into the house for whatever reason. I did not know if my words had made his soul cringe and shake. If they had, he had not shown. But I had regretted saying them either way.

I turned to Mrs. Claire. She was standing before me like a goddess of death, black hair and eyes creating a morbid combination with her also black dress.

"Apologies," I said and strode ahead.

Abel did the same, and soon enough we were in the guest room, staring at Stephen.  He was thin and wimpy, his dark hair filthy and messy, as if the woman had not let him take a shower. Maybe she truly had not because his shirt was dotted with dirt and crusted blood. There were marks on his wrists too.

The room was small. It did not even have a window, and despite not being that late in the afternoon, the lights were on. Sitting at the foot of the bed, Stephen's eyes were riveted on the wooden floor. I felt bad for him. I had never existed in the same room with him for more than a few minutes, but I had talked enough times with Maria to know that he was good; to know that what they had was real. Back then, I had even felt a tinge of jealousy about how she had found her person through that job; how she had been the lucky one that had not had her life wrecked by Pioneers. Well . . .