Kitty grabbed Patricia’s waist and held her steady.

“First thing I did was take Blue and Korey out to Seewee,” she said, helping Patricia place her foot on the top step. “We told them you had to visit a sick cousin upstate. They’ve been crabbing all day with Honey and we rented a stack of movies. I’ve got beds made up for them. They’re having a high old time.”

She got both Patricia’s feet onto the top step, then helped her turn around and come down the stairs. Halfway down, Patricia’s head emerged into the hallway and it smelled so clean she wanted to weep.

“How is Gracious Cay on fire?” she asked, clinging to the ladder as the room spun slowly around her. “Where’s Mrs. Greene?”

“Same answer to both questions,” Kitty said. “I think it’s the first time she’s ever broken the law. Keep moving.”

“No,” Patricia said. “You have to see this.”

She made herself climb back up the ladder.

“I’ve seen attics before,” Kitty called up after her. “Patricia! We don’t have time.”

Patricia knelt on the attic floor and faced Kitty through the hatch.

“If you don’t see this, it’s all for nothing,” she said. “You’ll all say I’m crazy again.”

“No one thinks you’re crazy,” Kitty said.

Patricia disappeared into the darkness. After a minute, she heard the stairs creaking and Kitty emerged from the trap door.

“It’s pitch-black,” Kitty said.

Patricia pulled the penlight from her pocket and used it to light Kitty’s way to the chimney where she heaved out the Samsonite bag and laid it on one side.

“I’ve seen luggage before,” Kitty said.

“Hold this.” Patricia handed her the penlight. “Point here and squeeze.”

Kitty held the light as Patricia twisted the locks open. She opened the suitcase and pulled back the black plastic. Francine’s wide-open eyes and exposed teeth didn’t scare her this time, they just made her sad. She’d been alone up here for a long time.

“Ah!” Kitty screamed in surprise and the penlight went dark. Patricia heard her dry heave once, twice, and then Kitty burped something thick and meaty. After a moment, the light came back on and played over the contents of the suitcase.

“It’s Francine,” Patricia said. “Help me get her down.”

She closed the lid and locked it again.

“We can’t move evidence,” Kitty said, and immediately Patricia felt stupid. Of course. The police needed to find Francine here.

“But you saw her, right?” Patricia asked.

“I saw her,” Kitty said. “I most definitely saw her. I’ll testify to that in court. But we have got to go.”

They put the suitcase back and Kitty helped Patricia out of the attic. But it wasn’t until they’d closed the attic, made their way through the upstairs hall, and reached the bottom of the front stairs that Patricia had a sudden sinking thought and turned. She was filthy from the attic. The carpeted stairs were white.

“Oh, no,” she moaned, and the strength went out of her legs and she sank to the floor.

“We don’t have time for this,” Kitty said. “He’s going to be back any minute.”

“Look!” Patricia said, and pointed to the carpet.

It showed the dirt clearly. They weren’t footprints, but they were close. There was one on every step, leading all the way up and, Patricia knew, right back to where the attic door opened.

“He’s going to know it was me, and that I’ve been in his attic,” she said. “He’ll get rid of the suitcase before we can get back here with the police. It’ll all be for nothing.”

“We don’t have time,” Kitty said, pulling her toward the kitchen and the back door.

Patricia imagined hearing a key in the front door, the door swinging open, and the frozen moment while they all looked at each other before James Harris rushed down the hall at them. She imagined the three empty suitcases in the attic next to the one holding Francine, waiting for their broken bodies, and she let Kitty drag her to the back door.

But what if the police wouldn’t search his attic? What if Kitty was too scared to back up her story? What if breaking into his house violated some technicality and no one could get a search warrant because of that? It happened all the time in true crime books. What if it cost Mrs. Greene her job? There had to be a better way.

Her mind flipped through one idea after another and then stopped on a pattern that looked familiar. She tested it, quickly, and it held. She knew what they had to do.

“Wait,” Patricia said, and dug in her heels.

Kitty kept pulling her arm, but Patricia twisted out of her grip and stood her ground right outside the kitchen.

“I’m not fooling,” Kitty said. “We got to go.”

“Get the broom, and the vacuum cleaner,” Patricia said, heading for the stairs. “I think they’re in the closet under the stairs. We need carpet shampoo, too. I’m going back up.”

“For what???” Kitty asked.

“If he comes back and sees that someone’s been in his attic he’s going to take that suitcase, drive it out to Francis Marion National Forest, and bury it where it will never be found,” Patricia said. “We need someone to find it in his attic and that means we have to cover our tracks. We have to clean the stairs.”

“Nuh-uh,” Kitty said, shaking her head furiously, waving her hands back and forth, shaking her bracelets. “No, sir. We are gone.”

Patricia came back down the hall until she stood in Kitty’s face.

“We both saw what was in that attic,” she said.

“Don’t make me do this,” Kitty begged. “Please, please, please.”

Patricia squeezed her eyes shut. She felt a headache try to claw its way out through her forehead.

“He murdered her,” she said. “We need to stop him. This is the only way.”

Without giving Kitty a chance to protest, she turned and went back upstairs.

“Patricia,” Kitty whined from the downstairs hall.

“The cleaning closet is under the stairs,” Patricia called over the banister.

She pulled the attic steps down again and went up. The more she did this the more it didn’t bother her when she opened the suitcase. She rustled around in the sticky plastic, occasionally feeling the back of her hand brush against something light, or her fingers grip an emaciated leg or forearm, but after a minute she found what she was looking for: Francine’s pocketbook. She worked it out of the plastic, smelling cinnamon and old leather.

She took out Francine’s wallet, removed her driver’s license, and carefully packed everything back into the suitcase.

“We’ll be back for you,” she whispered to Francine, and snapped the latches closed again.

Downstairs, she found Kitty with the broom, vacuum cleaner, and carpet shampoo. She’d also taken out a roll of paper towels and some Lysol counter spray.

“If we’re going to do this, let’s go,” Kitty said.

They swept the loose dirt off the carpet and sprayed it with foaming shampoo all the way back up the stairs, through the hall, to the trapdoor. They let the shampoo sit for five minutes, while Kitty muttered, “Come on…come on…” then vacuumed it up. Running the vacuum cleaner was the hardest part because it covered up the sound of a car pulling into the drive, the front door opening, James Harris coming into the house. She made Kitty stand by the front door as a lookout while she roared up and down the steps.

Finally, she shut off the vacuum cleaner, made sure the marks from the trapdoor’s ladder weren’t visible in the carpet pile, and lugged the vacuum back downstairs. She had just started wrapping the vacuum cleaner cord when Kitty hissed: “Car!”

They froze.

“It’s pulling in,” Kitty said, racing back to Patricia. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Headlights swept the front hall, and Patricia wrapped faster, wrists aching. They got the broom and vacuum cleaner into the hall closet and closed the door. Outside, they heard a car door slam.

They bumped into each other going through the kitchen door, making for the back door, lit by the kitchen’s under-the-cabinet lights. Footsteps clunked up the front porch steps.

“Paper towels!” Patricia said, and froze.

She looked back down the hall and saw the roll of paper towels sitting out at the end of the banisters on the newel post. They looked very, very far away. Footsteps came across the front porch. Patricia didn’t think, she just ran for them. Down the hall, hearing footsteps stop on the other side of the door, keys rattling, she grabbed the paper towels, a clinking thump as James Harris dropped his keys, Patricia running back down the hall, hearing the keys slide into the front door, replacing the towels on their holder, Kitty holding the back door open, racing through it as they both heard the front door open, then closing the back door softly behind them and going down the back steps as quietly as they could.