The agent didn't tell them the price until the drive home, and she said it like an apology. Sixty-one thousand. Eleven rooms, a wraparound porch. Mara signed before Daniel finished reading. That first night they slept on a mattress in the parlor. Above them, a floorboard creaked. Then again, slow and even, like someone pacing the room overhead. They were alone in the house.

Daniel went down to the basement to find a fuse box, a pipe, anything to explain the noise. Instead he found a wall of old mailboxes, dozens of them, each with a different family name. He counted thirty-one. Upstairs, the pacing kept going, steady and patient, as if it had all the time in the world to wait for him.