AFTER OUR PIT STOP at Sprockets, we drive past the Myer Estate.
“No wonder people think it’s haunted,” I mutter. “That place is spooky at night, especially tonight with the moon out and the sky clear.”
Something catches my eye. A flash of light in an upstairs window.
“Helen,” I say, looking over my shoulder as she speeds past. “I saw something in an upstairs window. A light.”
“Oh, Tom,” Helen says.
“No, I’m serious. We need to go back and check. I think someone is in there.”
“Who? Victoria Myer?”
“Would you just turn around?” I say, a bit louder than I mean.
“OK, OK,” Helen says with exasperation. “You’re getting surlier the closer we get to the wedding.”
She makes a u-turn, and a couple of minutes later, we’re going up the driveway to the front of the Myer Mansion.
I see the li
