“Pretty spooky, huh?” Charlie asks. “Welcome to the sanctum sanctorum…”

It takes about four seconds for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, it’s clear why Gillian checked this room herself. Like the living room and the office, Duckworth’s bedroom has the same unapologetic engineer’s fashion sense: a plain bed shoved against the dingy off-white wall, an unpainted wood nightstand holding a ratty old alarm clock, and to make sure every single piece seems randomly selected, an almond Formica dresser that looks like it was plucked from the back of a truck. But the closer I look, the more I realize there’s something else: A cream-colored comforter softens the bed, a vase of burgundy eucalyptus flourishes on top of the dresser, and in the corner, a Mondrian-styled painting leans against the wall, waiting to be hung. This room may’ve started as Duckworth’s – but now it’s all Gillian’s. So this is where she lives. A pang of guilt swirls through my gut. This is still her private space.

“C’mon, Charlie, let’s go…”

“Yeah… no… you’re absolutely right,” he says. “We’re only trusting her with our lives. Why would we ever want to learn anything more about her?”

I go to grab his arm, but as always, he’s too fast. “I’m serious, Charlie.”

“So am I,” he says, sidestepping around me. Moving in further, he searches the floor, the bed, and the rest of the furniture, hunting for context clues. Ten steps in, he stops, suddenly confused.

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You tell me. Where’s her life?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Her life, Ollie – clothes, photos, books, magazines – anything to fill in the picture. Take a look around. Besides the flowers and the art, there’s nothing else out.”

“Maybe she likes to keep things neat.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “Or maybe she’s-”

There’s a loud clunk as a door slams behind us. I spin around and realize it came from the hallway. Still, we know when we’ve overstayed our welcome. I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand to check the time – and quickly cock my head to the side. That’s not an alarm clock. It’s an old-

“Eight-track player!” Charlie blurts, already excited. But as he squints through the darkness of the room, he notices that the slot that usually holds the 8-track looks a little wider than normal. At the edges, the silver-colored plastic is chipped away. Like someone cut it open, or made it bigger. Curious, he moves in, squatting down in front of it.

“Sombitch,” he whispers.

“What now?” Stepping behind him and trying to make the best of the fading light, I lean over his shoulder. He points down at the 8-track.

“I don’t get it” I tell him.

“Not the 8-track, Ollie. Here…” He points again. But what he points at isn’t the player. It’s the nightstand underneath. “Check out the dust,” he explains.

I angle my head just enough to see the thick layer of dust that blankets the top of the nightstand.

“It’s so perfect, you barely notice it,” Charlie says. “Like no one’s put anything on it, or even touched it… in months, even though it’s right next to her bed.” He turns back to me and tightens his gaze.

“What?”

“You tell me, Ollie. How could she not-”

“What’s this, a panty raid?” a female voice asks behind us.

Charlie whips around to face Gillian.

She flicks on the lights, making us squint to compensate. “What’re you doing in my room?”

“Oh, this is yours?” Charlie asks. “We were just… just checking out this awesome 8-track.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder to point, but she doesn’t bother to look. Her dark eyes lock on his and don’t let go. She just stands there, arms crossed against her chest. I don’t blame her. We shouldn’t have been snooping through her stuff.

“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I offer. “I swear, we didn’t touch anything.” Locking on me, she puts me through the exact same test. But unlike Charlie, I don’t lie, fumble, or condescend. I give her the absolute truth and hope it’s enough. “I… I just wanted to learn more about you,” I add.

Perfect, Charlie smirks.

He thinks it’s an act, but in many ways, it’s the most honest thing I’ve said today. With everyone else after us, Gillian’s the only one who’s offered to help. As she stares me down, her arms are still crossed in front of her chest. The free spirit’s gone. And then… just like that… it’s back again.

“It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” she asks as her shoulders bounce.

I smile a thank-you. Suspicious of the kindness, Charlie looks around like she’s talking to someone else.

“The 8-track,” she explains, moving excitedly toward the nightstand.

With a shove, she pushes my brother aside and sits on the bed, right next to me. She scoots back, then forward, then back a little more. “Wait’ll you see what he did to it,” she tells me eagerly. “Hit the Pause button.”

She’s got that same singsong laugh as before. Next to her, though, Charlie motions down low, where her bare toes are balled up like fists against the carpet.

See? Charlie scowls with that I-told-you-so look he usually reserves for Beth. But we both know Gillian’s no Beth.

Gillian flicks the power switch on and leans back on her hands. “Just hit Pause,” she adds.

Following instructions, I reach down and press the Pause button. The ancient machine hums with a mechanical whir. It’s such a familiar sound… and just as I place it, a plastic CD tray – complete with a shiny compact disc – slides out of the widened opening where you’d normally put the 8-track.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Gillian asks.

“Where’re you from again?” Charlie blurts.

“Excuse me?”

“Where’re you from? Where’d you grow up?”

“Right here,” Gillian replies. “Just outside Miami.”

“Oh, that’s so weird,” Charlie says. “Because when you just said Pretty cool, I coulda sworn I smelled a hint of New York accent.”

Clearly amused, Gillian shakes her head, but she won’t take her eyes off my brother. “Nope, just Florida,” she sings without a care. It’s the best way to take him on – don’t take him on at all. She turns back to me and the CD/8-track. “Check out the disc,” she offers.

I reach down and spear it with a finger: The Collected Speeches of Adlai E. Stevenson. “I take it your dad did this?”

“I’m telling you, after he left Disney, he had way too much time – he used to always-”

“And when did you move in here again?” Charlie interrupts.

“I’m sorry?” she asks. If she’s annoyed, she’s not showing it.

“Your dad died six months ago – when did you move in here?”

Playfully grinning, she hops up from the bed and crosses around to the foot of the mattress.

See that? Charlie glares my way. That’s the same trick I use on you. Distance to avoid confrontation.

“I don’t know,” she begins. “I guess a month or so ago… it’s hard to say. It took a while to do the paperwork… and then to get my stuff over here…” She turns toward the window, but never gets flustered. I listen for a New York accent, but all I hear is her short-O Flooorida tone. “It’s still not that easy sleeping in his old bed, which is why most nights I’m curled up on the couch,” she adds, watching Charlie. “Of course, the mortgage is paid, so I got no reason to moan.”

“What about a job?” Charlie asks. “Are you still working?”

“What do I look like, some trust fund beach bunny?” she teases. “Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights at Waterbed.”

“Waterbed?”

“It’s a club over on Washington. Velvet rope, guys looking for supermodels who’ll never show… the whole sad story.”

“Let me guess: You bartend in a tight black T-shirt.”

“Charlie…” I scold.

She shrugs it off without a care. “Do I seem like that much of a cliché to you? I’m a manager, cutie-pie.” She’s trying to make nice, but Charlie’s not biting. “The good part is, it leaves the days free for the paintings, which’re really the best release,” she adds.