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It stood there, patiently waiting for Vera to come inside, and it did not reveal a single one of its secrets no matter how long and hard Vera stared at it.
From the looks of things she was committed to doing just that.
Hope was a liability at the Crowder House.
She breathed in the redwood smell and she spread the last of her hope out on those brand-new steps and she watched it die writhing, watched it without pity, watched it until it was still and cold.
The house swallowed the sound immediately, because it was a house that knew how to stay quiet.
This was the Crowder House. The house her father built. There was nothing to be afraid of here.
The Crowder House waited, just as it always had. It waited to breathe in the outside-smell of her, waited to seal up her sounds and her movements, waited to wrap her in plaster and wood and old wiring where she belonged.
