Chapter 3 - The Cold House on Beacon Hill
The iron gates of the Beacon Hill townhouse clicked shut behind them.
Elise sat in her motorized wheelchair—a state-of-the-art model Thomas had had delivered directly to the home within forty-eight hours of signing the initial guardianship papers—looking up at the four-story brick facade. Ivy climbed the exterior walls, trimmed to geometric perfection. Large bay windows reflected the slate-gray Boston sky.
“It’s big,” Elise observed, her hands resting on the armrests.
“Too big, probably,” Thomas admitted, unlocking the heavy oak double doors. “It was supposed to be a family home. Now it’s mostly just quiet.”
As they stepped inside, the chill of the foyer greeted them. Clare stood at the far end of the grand hallway near the sweeping staircase. She wore an oversized cashmere sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a loose, untidy knot. Her gaze shifted from Thomas to the small figure in the wheelchair.
The silence that filled the hallway was thick enough to choke on.
“Thomas,” Clare said, her voice flat, devoid of surprise or anger. “You brought her home.”
“This is Elise,” Thomas said, his chest tightening. He had spent the entire car ride rehearsing this introduction, trying to find words that would soften the impact, but none of them felt right. “Elise, this is Clare.”
Elise looked at Clare for a long moment, her eyes scanning the dark circles under Clare’s eyes, the faint smear of oil paint on her thumb. Then, with the devastating intuition that seemed to define her, Elise spoke.
“You don't want me here either,” the little girl said simply.
Clare flinched as if she had been struck. She took half a step backward, her hand gripping the banister. For a second, her mask of cold detachment cracked, and raw, jagged pain flashed across her features.
“Elise,” Thomas warned gently, stepping forward.
“It’s okay,” Elise said without a trace of self-pity. “The last lady, Mrs. Henderson, cried when she looked at my room because it had pink walls, and her little girl who died liked pink. She cried every time she brought me a sandwich. It’s exhausting when adults use you to remember someone else.”
Clare’s breath hitched. She let go of the banister and walked slowly across the hardwood floor, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous hallway. She stopped two feet away from Elise’s wheelchair and crouched down, bringing herself eye-level with the child. It was the exact position Thomas had taken in the courtyard.
“Who told you that?” Clare asked, her voice cracking slightly.
“Nobody told me. I watched her,” Elise replied, tilting her head. “You have that same look. Like you're looking through me to see someone else standing behind me.”
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Clare stared into the little girl’s dark, unblinking eyes. For the first time in over a year, a tear spilled over Clare’s lashes, tracing a slow path down her cheek. But she didn't wipe it away. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and touched the worn ear of the gray teddy bear resting in Elise’s lap.
“I'm not looking at a ghost, Elise,” Clare whispered, her voice rough with unused emotion. “I'm looking right at you.”
