Chapter 3

This time, it isn't just me.

All three day laborers are staring at the screen, passing my phone between them.

One of the Mexican guys mutters in Spanish,"Esto es imposible",then switches to English.

"Lady, there's literally nothing left in here. How the hell is it still pulling juice?"

The Guatemalan kid crosses himself, barely above a whisper.

"Señorita... tal vez este lugar está maldito."

Maybe this place is cursed.

He doesn't finish the sentence. The other two are already packing up their tools. No invoice. They don't even collect the full $500. All three file out single-file.

The last one through the door makes the sign of the cross on the doorframe.

I stare at the hollow shell of the condo. Bare studs. Dangling wires. Debris everywhere.

Nothing but despair.

I grew up in America. I studied engineering at UCLA. I have never believed in the supernatural.

But right now, I can't think of another explanation.

What am I supposed to do?

Am I going to drown in six figures of debt all over again?

Ding-dong.

The Ring doorbell. This time it's Mom and Dad.

They're standing at the door holding two Whole Foods bags, all smiles. Inside: my favorite avocados and a box of Porto's guava cheese pastries.

"Emily, it's been crazy at the shop. A new employee ruined a customer's Armani suit in the wash,cost us two grand. We just now got a chance to come see you."

"So? How's the new place? Feeling settled in?"

I let out a hollow laugh. Don't answer.

They peer past me into the unit. The smiles freeze on their faces.

Dad pushes through the door. He takes in the rubble, the exposed stud frames, and goes rigid.

"We paid for turnkey! How did it end up like this? It looks worse than a fixer-upper!"

I pull out my phone, open the SCE app, and hand it to them.

The color drains from both their faces.

Dad kicks a half-broken IKEA chair across the floor.

"That goddamn realtor! I knew we shouldn't have trusted him! Emily, don't worry,Dad's going to handle this. I'll report him to the BBB myself!"

Mom doesn't say a word. She quietly pulls a roll of Bounty and some Hefty trash bags out of the grocery bag, kneels down, and starts picking up debris.

Watching her small frame bent over that wreckage, I can't hold it together anymore.

Last time, I dragged them down with me. Pushed them straight into the arms of a predatory lender to cover my debts.

I will not let that happen again.

I pick through the bedroom rubble until I find a pen and a blank sheet of printer paper.

I start writing my Last Will and Testament.

If I can't figure out the cause, the condo goes to the LA County Public Administrator after I die. Donated to Habitat for Humanity.

That way, no matter how high the bills climb, none of it touches Mom and Dad.

I'm halfway through when something catches my eye under the remains of the desk.

A length of Romex wire.

Yellow sheathing. 12-gauge.

This wire has no business being here. The condo's circuits all run from the breaker panel through the ceiling and down into the walls. There is no legitimate wiring path under a desk.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Could this be it? The source of everything?

I grab the wire and pull, trying to trace where it leads.

No matter how hard I tug, I can't reach the end.

"Emily, what are you doing?"

Mom's voice. Right behind me.

I spin around.

Her eyes are locked on the yellow wire in my hand. That warm, Whole-Foods-bag-carrying mother expression is gone. Replaced by something cold. Something I've never seen on her face before.

A knot tightens in my gut.

A terrible thought, still shapeless, begins to form.

I force a smile. Keep my voice light.

"Just tidying up the bedroom, Mom. Didn't want you doing all the cleanup by yourself."

Mom studies me for a long beat. Then she snatches the wire from my hand, shoves it back into the rubble, and grabs my arm to pull me out of the bedroom.

"You need rest, Emily. You've been running yourself ragged."

I try to circle around her, back toward the wire.

She's faster. She plants herself between me and the rubble, both hands clamping around my wrists like a pair of vice grips. Her strength is terrifying,way more than a woman her size should have.

The look on her face. The way she's blocking me.

The panic inside me swells.

Why does she keep stopping me from checking that wire?

What is she hiding?

The memories of my death crash through me again. Concrete floor. Blood in my mouth. The wet crack of bone under someone's heel.

Something in me snaps.

I wrench free of her grip, grab the yellow Romex wire, and yank with everything I have.

The next second, my pupils shrink to pinpoints.

---