Page 1 of How to Fake a Haunting

I looked upward too, more for a reprieve from the chaos than from a desire to admire the architectural feats of nearby houses.

When I looked back at the party, I saw that my friends and family members had been joined by caterers in navy polos, as well as a local bluegrass band preparing for their opening number.

“How great is this housewarming?” my brother-in-law, Cody, crowed, and I flinched. He held a plate of salad in one hand and an Aperol spritz in the other. “You and Cal must be so excited!”

I forced a smile. “It’s great. And we’re glad to be settled.”

“How’s Cal doing?” Cody asked. “I’ll never forget the first two weeks after Sean and I moved. Constant trips to Home Depot. My nightmares will forever be steeped in orange.”

My smile curdled. Cody would complain about having to run out for light bulbs after being gifted a 1700s waterfront farmhouse in Avondale Circle.

Though I supposed I couldn’t judge; Callum had taken his parents up on their long-standing offer of land, real estate, or cash in the same way Cody and their older sister, Corrine, had.

Callum and I had used our own money to build the house, but the lot had been given to us by Rosalie and Dustin Taylor.

That it was down the street from the historic Gilded Age mansions where I worked was an added bonus.

“Callum’s doing well,” I said carefully. “Excited to join the Newport Country Club.”

“Best course in Rhode Island!” Cody sipped his drink.

“Though I’d venture to say Sean does more drinking there than golfing.

” He laughed in a way that made me think of a cartoon hyena.

No wonder the hospital where he worked constantly fielded complaints about his gossipy nature, at least according to Callum.

I looked to where Cal had been taking shots with Monty but no longer saw them. I didn’t bother telling Cody that lately, Callum hardly needed an excuse to drink or that the liquor cabinet was the first one he’d filled after moving into the new house.

“You don’t drink, do you?” Cody asked.

I pulled myself back to the conversation, flustered by his directness. “What? No. I mean, I do, just not often.”

Cody smirked. “Not big on losing control, huh?”

Before I could respond, a hand gripped my arm.

“Lainey, there you are! You’re needed for an urgent hostess question in the kitchen.

” Adelaide Benson fixed Cody with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“So sorry,” she said. “I need to steal Lainey for a minute.” Her gaze shifted to Cody’s hands.

“Isn’t that salad delish? The prosciutto complements the dressing perfectly.

” Her smile widened as she pulled me away, leaving Cody staring after us, open-mouthed.

“See you!” Adelaide called over her shoulder.

Her grip on my arm tightened as she led me toward the house. When we reached the porch, I gave up on stifling my laughter. “My mom made that salad!” I exclaimed. “There’s no prosciutto in it.”

“I know,” Adelaide replied. “But I also know Cody’s a performance vegan, and I wanted to see that faux-horrified look on his face.” She grinned and opened the door on the empty foyer. The house was silent.

“What’s this ‘urgent hostess question’ that needs answering?” I asked, confused.

“Oh, I don’t need to ask you anything. I wanted to tell you”—she pushed a lock of lilac-colored hair behind one ear, relishing the growing suspense—“you’re looking at the new assistant to the director of development!”

“Oh my gosh, Adelaide, you got it! That’s amazing.

” I wasn’t surprised; she’d impressed everyone with her talk of bringing the mansions—those eleven properties the Preservation Society of Newport County held under our stewardship as historic house museums—into the present by connecting them further with the past.

“All thanks to you, Director of Visitor Experience.”

“Not all thanks.”

“Oh, please. I never would’ve gotten in without your recommendation.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “When do you start?”

“Monday. This party’s my last hurrah before I have to be a responsible adult.”

I laughed. “I’m not sure how much of a banger it’ll be. But should we head back out?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d give me the grand tour.”

“Of course! I should have offered.” I gestured for her to come farther inside.

“I love the deck and pool,” Adelaide said, wiping her shoes. “Were the trees here, or did you plant them? It’s like a forest out there!”

“Funny story,” I said dryly. “Cal’s parents tried to help with what they called some ‘amenities.’ I said no to the backyard pond and pergola, but I accepted an increase in the landscaping allocation for the fast-growing arborvitae.

Even our highest-elevated neighbors don’t have a view into the yard. ”

We were about to turn into the living room when a noise came from above us, a grating shriek like metal on glass. Adelaide’s eyes traveled to the ceiling. I cocked my head, listening. “Probably came from outside,” I said.

As if in response, the shriek came again. Louder. Shriller. Followed by a low, disturbing thump. For a moment, there was silence except for the muffled sounds of the party. Then five pounding footsteps, loud enough to rattle light fixtures in their brackets. I stared at the freshly painted ceiling.

“Maybe someone’s using the bathroom upstairs?” Adelaide offered.

“Maybe.” I turned back toward the living room, but the grating sound came again. I sighed. “I better go see what that’s about.”

We climbed the stairs to the large room above the garage, but it was clear the sound hadn’t emanated from here.

“Might as well continue the tour while investigating the strange noises coming from some dark corner of my house.” Adelaide laughed, and I shrugged.

“This is my office,” I said. She eyed the boxes waiting to be unpacked, the artwork leaning against the walls.

“At least, it will be at some point,” I added.

“This feels like a room I would’ve wanted as a kid. Off-to-the-side and quiet. A little hidden. A good place for scheming.”

I gave a Hmm of agreement while studying Adelaide.

We’d been friends for nine months, the same length of time I’d dated Callum before getting engaged.

If anything, learning what made Adelaide tick had been more of a process than getting to know my husband, something Cal pointed out whenever he had to spend more than five minutes with her.

Adelaide and Callum weren’t each other’s biggest fans.

Adelaide could be cagey and bossy and had a bizarre, albeit mesmerizing, style—a cross between a bohemian academic and a second grader obsessed with glitter, as evidenced by her evil eye–patterned sweater and fingernails painted ten different shades.

She never ordered the same drink twice at a coffee shop, and her hair color changed only slightly less frequently than her nails.

I looked down at my own clothes: white shorts, white top, white tennis shoes.

White was my thing. Clean. Cool. Easy. The polar opposite of the new assistant to the director of development.

But as far as free spirits with devil-may-care attitudes went, Adelaide was the smartest and most responsible one I knew.

I closed the door, and we doubled back along the hall. “Guest bedroom,” I explained when we reached the room at the front of the house. “And I guess maybe a nursery in the future.”

Adelaide cooed. “You’d be such a good mom.”

I shot her a look. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s a vibe you have. In control. Totally in control. Selfless.”

“Huh,” I said. “Well, thanks.”

We left the guest room, Adelaide closing the door behind us. The only room left was the primary bedroom. At the door, a string of muttered curses reached our ears.

“Callum?” No response. I turned the knob and stepped inside. The space was as I’d left it. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through an open window. A hollow clang echoed wrongly from beneath the bathroom door. Anxious to figure out what the hell was going on, I crept toward it. Adelaide followed.

“Cal? What’s going on?”

I tried the door handle and found it unlocked. “I’m coming in,” I said, and pushed the door open.

Callum, red-faced, paced on the other side of it, a metal candleholder clutched in one hand. Vomit stained the white tile floor behind him. “Lain-ney,” he slurred. When he saw Adelaide, he straightened, trying to appear more sober than he was.

“What are you doing?” I asked, and reached for the candleholder. He jerked away.

“I’m—” he started, then looked down, as if unable to recall why he was holding the piece of metal.

Adelaide nudged me. Her eyes were on the brand-new, intricately arched mirror we’d hung the previous weekend. It was cracked in one place and marred by three deep grooves in another; Callum had evidently dragged the metal across the mirror deep enough to carve out strips of its reflective surface.

“Callum,” I said, not recognizing my own voice, the incredulity and uncertainty there. “What the hell is this?”

He looked down at the candleholder again and then up at the mirror. As he did, his mouth trembled. “I saw—” he stammered. “I saw a—”

White-hot rage coursed through me. Sure, Callum was stressed, and not just about finishing the house.

Now that we’d moved in, there was no more planning, no more anticipating living up to the expectations of his parents.

Now that Rosalie and Dustin had given Cal his “leg up,” he would have to deliver on it.

But I didn’t give a shit how frightened Cal was of growing up; getting drunk and destroying our new house was unacceptable.

“If you trashed the mirror because you’re shit-faced and, I don’t know, you saw a spider or something, I’m going to kill you.”

Callum shook his head, the movement slow. “Not a shpi—spider. I saw . . .”

He locked eyes with his own reflection and raised the hunk of metal.

“No!” I cried, and leaped forward, but it was too late; Callum brought the candleholder down against the mirror’s center. The sound was the shattering of a frozen lake beneath a monstrous oak. The cacophony filled the room—and my head.

For an instant, the explosion was beautiful, shards of glass like flakes of ice spinning through the air.

But not before I saw my husband’s face in the mirror at the moment of impact.

Callum’s face, but not quite his face. Twisted and distorted.

Dark and shimmering and multipaned, like the iridescent eyes of a fly.

I dropped to the ground like falling glass myself, slivers of crystal piercing my arms and neck like stinging rain. A stark, desperate thought occurred to me as I crouched in the ruin, the beat of my heart like the hooves of a runaway horse:

This is for the best. This is for the best because after this, it will be over . . .

After this, there’s no way he’ll ever drink again.