Prologue

2017

Earth

A newspaper clipping hung, yellowed and filmed with a layer of dust, from a thumbtack on the far side of the wallpapered attic.

The West Haven Herald

June 19, 2001

TRAGIC ACCIDENT CLAIMS LIFE OF YOUNG COUPLE AND INFANT

Mark Romano,

Current Events Columnist

A tragic motor-vehicle accident took the lives of two West Haven, Florida residents and their infant daughter in the early hours of Monday morning, as they were heading home from a game-night hosted by a friend.

The driver, Edward Mallard, lost control of his vehicle in the rain while turning the blind curve heading east on North Alachua Bend. He struck a pole, instantly killing both the driver and his wife, Saraya Alvari Mallard, who was the front passenger in the vehicle. The vehicle then caught fire, trapping another passenger, the Mallards’ infant daughter Annalise, in her car seat in the rear of the vehicle. Their seven-year-old daughter, Lily Mallard, was thrown from the backseat of the vehicle on impact. It is suspected that she was not wearing a seatbelt at the time of the crash.

The accident was not discovered until some time later, when another motorist passed the flaming vehicle and called emergency services. The car had been consumed by flames by the time help arrived, and they declared both adults and the infant dead at the scene.

The sole survivor of the accident, seven-year-old Lily Mallard, was found unconscious in the brush several feet from the road and was life-flighted to West Haven Pediatric Hospital, where she is currently in critical condition.

The family’s only living relative, estranged grandfather Luther Alvari, arrived at the hospital less than an hour later. Sources report that Alvari identified the bodies of his daughter and son-in-law, but the infant’s body was burned beyond recognition. However, officials are confident the deceased infant is Annalise Mallard, and expect DNA results soon to confirm.

A source at the police department says evidence does not indicate intoxicants, a secondary vehicle, or any mechanical failures; this is simply a tragic instance of a motorist losing control—and a chilling reminder for West Haven drivers to take extra care on wet roads, especially during the severe thunderstorms typical for this time of year.

The Department of Children and Families refused an interview, but sources close to the family say Luther Alvari has been estranged from his daughter for several years, and that since the parents had no will or legal arrangements for custody in the event of their passing, Lily Mallard is in temporary custody of the state during her hospital stay and recovery. The rift between Luther and his daughter reportedly emerged from a disagreement over Luther’s wife, Vanessa’s, medical treatment. Vanessa passed away from cancer over a year ago, and those close to the family say the tension only increased in the wake of her death. Despite the estrangement, our sources indicate Luther plans to file for full custody of his surviving granddaughter, and has not left the hospital since arriving Monday morning.

The attic was empty now, cleared out by the realtor, who had finally gained permission from the bank to sell the long-abandoned house. The dusty desk had been removed, and the stack of weathered books and assorted other belongings sat in a box in the corner, ready to be combined with belongings from other recently acquired houses, and sorted for either disposal or an estate sale. The realtor was relieved to finally have movement on this property. The owner of this house had been gone for years now, suspected dead, and if he wasn’t, it behooved him to pretend to be—he was a wanted fugitive in a murder case nearly a decade old, a cold case that a detective, oddly enough, had come asking the realtor about just this morning.

The case was about a little girl, 9-years-old, found dead in the attic—this attic, the realtor realized with a shiver. By the time they found her body, it appeared she had been dead for months and there was no sign of the grandfather assigned as her guardian, though neighbors reported having seen the grandfather around the neighborhood weeks earlier, long after the supposed time of death. Officials suspected he had been living in the house with his granddaughter’s corpse, before eventually fleeing.

The realtor suppressed another shudder and reached for the yellowed newspaper clipping. Strange, that a man who intended to murder his granddaughter would leave a clipping about her tragic car accident up on the wall for so long. And sad, that a girl who survived so much would be killed by the one person left in her life to protect her.

The realtor’s eyes fell on the photograph of the grandfather and the little girl, printed separately at the bottom of the article. The girl, seven at the time, all light-haired pigtails, large eyes, innocent smile... and the man, old, eyes intense, intelligent—but caring. He was not smiling, but his eyes seemed kind. His face bore the lines of age and something deeper, heavy creases beaten into it from the strain of life.

The realtor looked at his face, wondering. Did he have something to do with the car accident, too? A cold chill shot down her spine. He didn’t look like a killer... there was something friendly in his face, despite the weight in his eyes. But appearances could deceive; she knew this from dealing in real estate, from sizing up shining beauties with termite-bitten frames and sinkhole-cracks, hidden by careful repairs. The houses always revealed the truth, though, if you knew where to look. Same with people, probably, she thought.

This house had good bones. It was solid; trustworthy. She couldn’t be so sure about its former owner.

The realtor folded the clipping so she could no longer see the faces, then kneeled and slipped it into the box with the books. A framed photograph tipped to one side of the box, a portrait of the man and his wife when they were younger, before he had grandchildren to murder, or perhaps even children at all. The wife was pretty, with dark hair swept up into a bun and bright, intelligent eyes. The man was younger, but his eyes were every bit as intense as they were in the newspaper. Here, though, he was smiling and actually looked happy. His face was smooth, both clean-shaven and free of wrinkles. He was wearing a clean, white shirt that looked pressed and starched, and his arm was around his wife’s shoulders, her flowered dress leaning into him as she matched his smile. His pale skin was noticeably lighter than his wife’s, even in the black-and-white photograph, though hers was not very dark, either. Perhaps the man just didn’t go outside much. A thick shock of dark hair topped his head, neatly combed to one side. What’s your story? the realtor wondered. Why did you do it?... Or did you?

She sighed and stood. She wasn’t here to wonder about the man’s life, she reminded herself. She was a realtor, not a detective. She was here to prepare the house, to get it ready to sell—which would be a challenge. Who would want a house that once had a little girl’s corpse in the attic?

There was a knock on the front door.

Surprised, the realtor rose. She wasn’t expecting anyone today; the bank had said the house was hers to stage for showings, and she was here today only to double-check that the last of the attic furniture had been hauled away—she planned to stage the attic as a warm, open space that could be a playroom—and the cleaning company wasn’t coming until tomorrow. The house wasn’t even listed for sale yet; she and her broker had only just decided on a price, an ambitious one, she thought, given the house’s history—but it had good bones. It would be a gem once it was renovated. She believed she could make the right family see its potential... though the dead girl story was definitely a hurdle.

The knock sounded again, just two raps, confident.

Perhaps it’s a curious neighbor... or a salesperson. She hated salespeople, despite being one. She saw herself as different; she never pushed, she just helped houses find new families.

She brushed dust from her hands off onto her black pants, thankful she had no clients coming today to see the gray smudges, and headed downstairs.

Another knock sounded as she neared the bottom landing, two solid raps again, determined.

She walked to the door and pulled it open.

A tall, dark-haired, handsome man smiled back at her, charming.

“I’m here to purchase this house,” he said. “I’ve already spoken with your agency about the price, and I’m prepared to pay cash. In full. How soon can we close?”