illiam and the man from the dog races,” continued Cathy. Margaret’s headset was pressed so tightly into her ear that the new excitement in Cathy’s voice overwhelmed her, she felt like a building toppling, or rather more like a tower of blocks that Cathy’s youngest child would make, another red wooden brick placed on the top and just beginning to teeter dangerously.

“But when will the last race be held?” Margaret asked.

“Shit, it’s on Monday. We’re running out of time. You need to act fast, Marge.”

“I’m doing my best. It isn’t easy, you know.”

“I can only imagine. Godspeed.” With that Cathy disconnected the call, leaving Margaret alone with the House, the garden, the wind, and the scent of decaying fruit from the plum trees along the walkway.

As a child, she had visited the House frequently, during that summer when her mother had been away in Chapel Hill and her father god knows where. Aunt Phyla had walked her along this very pathway, singing songs and watching pigeons settle on the power lines.

But it had been quite different then. Back then she could see the rotted plums littering the pathway and kick them aside. Back then she could quickly look down and step over the cracks in the pavement. Back then she could peer up to the highest window of Edgar House and try to see the silhouette of Sylvester which was often there, or maybe just his grey cat watching a raven hop along the roof tiles.

It had been different. Back then she could see.

Now Margaret fumbled finding the latch. It was much lower than she remembered it being. But then she realized: or course. She was no longer the small girl of five standing on her toes to reach the lever. In the twenty five years since then, she had grown, two feet at least.

She could remember the garden precisely: where the porch, where the bench they had sat for endless games of gin, and where the sullen rose bushes that refused to produce more than a single rose per season, but which Aunt Phyla had trimmed religiously, or more religiously than she approached God and religion at any rate.

In autumn the garden smelled of turned mulch and wilting flowers and old logs wet with rain. Margaret made her way to the back door and tried the handle. That it didn’t turn wasn’t surprising, although still disappointing. Margaret had hoped the job would be just that much easier, but she was always known for asking for too much.

She felt her way around the garden three times, perfecting her sense of where everything was, recalling what her Aunt Phyladactyl had shown her twenty five years ago. Bending her knees and pressing them against the cool brick. Reaching into the planter, running her fingers through the coarse soil. Feeling along the ground to the stem of the rose bush, drawing back her shoulder quickly as a thorn pierced her blouse.

Burrowing with her fingers into the ground, she felt like a mole, or a hungry roto-rooter. Something probing, digging, blindly groping. But not directionless. Within moments she found what she was looking for and pulled it out, wiping the dirt off with her thumb and middle finger. A key. Even the key was just as she remembered, more jagged than any house key she had ever owned. Long and pointed.

But this was strange. The key was on a ring, cool and brassy from the soil, just as she remembered, except now there were two other keys on the ring. One was much smaller, stubby, with a circular head. The second new key was rectangular, with no teeth but with bumps and grooves along its sides, some inexplicable serpentine engraving.

At the back door, Margaret checked once again to make sure no new deadbolts had been installed, but the door was just as she recalled. She put the accustomed key in the lock, and it turned easily.

So then into the house, Margaret moved quickly to the staircase. There was no time to waste. When she was small she had loved to play in the dining room, crawling between the legs of the huge table, staring out the picture window at the road winding down the tree-crested hillside. Just the pressing of her fingers against cool glass could bring that image back to her. But right now she was on a mission.

All the way up the two flights of stairs she fingered the keys in her pocket. Despite the warmth of her body they remained cool. What did the two strange keys open?

On the landing of the third floor, Margaret’s cell phone vibrated, dash dot dash dot. Cathy’s number. Margaret pressed to accept. “Margaret,” Cathy said.

Cathy only said Margaret’s full name, instead of the silly and workmanlike “Marge,” when Cathy was very serious. Margaret thought this was a shame; she loved the way that the three syllables fell piecemeal off Cathy’s tongue. She liked to say Cathy’s full name: Catherine, it was so forceful, an epic rush of air trailing off to a wisp. Or even just, Cathy Cathy Cathy, if you said it enough it sounded mystical. An easy switch of a vowel sound and it became Cathay, exoticism embodied, distant and alluring.

“Margaret, are you listening to me?”

“What? Sorry, I just,”

“Marge, get serious. There’s no time for meandering. William could be back at any minute. I don’t want you risking your pretty head in there, you understand? Move quick, doll. Quicker.”

“I’ve gotten inside, I’m going up the stairs. It won’t be long now.”

“Okay. But the kettle’s almost boiling, you know?”

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Now came the hard part. The room was two doors to the left. Hinges whined like a hungry dog pack as Margaret opened the door. She almost tripped over something, it felt like a heavy pillow or a medicine ball. She stepped over it quickly. She felt her way along the east wall. Her heart pounded louder and louder. Had they moved the dresser? Even if she did find the dresser, would what she was looking for still be inside?

It was only a matter of seconds, but it felt like she had walked a mile when finally her palm pressed on smooth, unforgiving wood, and she praised the angels in thanks. Now, just to open the drawer and see if the bottle was still inside.

But the drawer wouldn’t open, no matter how Margaret tugged at the iron ring. Was it stuck? She pulled harder, harder, but it wouldn’t give. She ran her hand over the face of the drawer, and there she found her answer.

A keyhole.

Her chest ached, her throat felt like it had been screaming, though she was careful as ever not to make a noise. She pushed the third key, the rectangular one, into the hole. No luck, it wouldn’t fit, not even close. She readied the other, the sharp pointed one, and said a small prayer. It turned without a sound, and the drawer slid open. Margaret pushed her hand inside. The drawer was empty.

Empty? How could this be? She felt all the way back, all around the drawer. She tested the corners, to see if it had a false bottom. But no, there was nothing.

But was this the right drawer? It was the third from the bottom, just like she had remembered. But could she be wrong? She began to sort through the the other drawers, checking their contents. One held only socks, another had a stapler and a pile of rubber bands. Nothing that could be a bottle, even a disguised one.

She made it through all the drawers except the bottom with no luck. But the bottom drawer was also locked. So she tried her keys in the bottom drawer’s keyhole. The jagged key wouldn’t even fit the lock, nor would the house key, and she felt foolish for even trying. Then the rectangular key fit the lock. Her forehead broke out in sweat as she tried, gently, then more forcefully, to turn it.

Nothing. It wouldn’t turn. She tried it upside down, backwards, every way she could. The key fit inside the lock perfectly, but nothing she could do would persuade it to turn.

In frustration, Margaret pulled against the drawer’s iron ring with all her weight. It was awkward, being the bottom drawer, she had to squat, dig her heels in deep against the rough carpet, and lean back as far as she could.

After just a moment of this, the ring broke off from the drawer, sending Margaret rolling heels over head back across the room. She came to a rest against the pillow thing she had almost tripped over when entering the room, still lying prone in front of the door. Reaching around to get back to her feet, she felt along the side of the object. For a pillow, it was strangely irregular, and extremely firm. Its cover was corduroy, but there were many seams in unexpected places.

And then Margaret felt its cold lifeless hand.

She didn’t scream, but stood up immediately. She thought perhaps maybe she should scream? But now it seemed like the moment had passed, the time for screaming, so she should do something more productive. Like perhaps figuring out whose body this was lying of the floor. And trying to take a stab at figuring out what they were doing her. Perhaps this body even had the bottle. Although, the moment after she thought this, she realized that it was incredibly unlikely. Because whoever had killed this man would have taken it. But should she check anyhow? Margaret was unsure. She put her hand down against the dead man’s cheek, trying to find his pockets, then quickly drew away.

A loud bang came from downstairs. The sound of the door shutting, footsteps ringing out against the hallway’s hardwood floor. Someone was home. William, perhaps. Or perhaps it was the man who had killed him.