Marjorie’s floral cushions had disappeared from the sofa. The old magazines beside her chair were gone. Even the ceramic bowl filled with peppermints had vanished from the end table.
The framed photographs that once covered the walls had been removed.
Pale rectangles remained where they had hung.
It did not look as though someone had cleaned the house.
It looked as though someone was slowly erasing the person who lived there.
“Marjorie?” I called.
My voice echoed through the empty rooms.
For several seconds, I heard nothing.
Then a faint sound drifted from upstairs.
It was so quiet that I nearly missed it.
“Ariel?”
I ran toward the staircase.
The voice had come from Marjorie’s bedroom.
When I reached the top floor, her door was nearly closed. I wrapped my hand around the knob and pushed it open.
The scene inside stopped me cold.
Marjorie sat propped against the headboard, wearing the same thin nightgown I had seen in the garden.
