Chapter Seven
Dressed for bed and carrying a couple of pillows, Willa cautiously opened the door to her mother’s bedroom. I was at her shoulder, but she wasn’t aware of my presence. Her mind was too unsettled – fearful in some superstitious way – about what she might find. The last time she’d ventured in there, she’d been carrying a cup of hot broth for Liz, who was sitting up in bed and amusing herself by tearing out the pages in a Hollywood gossip magazine. After her mother was gone, Willa hadn’t dared go back in. The bed was still turned down, just the way it had been after Liz had gotten out of it early that last morning. Her sweet-and-musty scent lingered in the linens – a mixture of sweat, dander, and her habitual rose sachet talc. Other than the mussed bed, the room and its Victori
