Chapter 7 - The Return to Elm Street
The sky was low and overcast when the black taxicab pulled up to the curb in front of our home on Elm Street.
It was our first time returning to the house since the night Dr. Cooper had locked the examination room door at St. Jude’s.
The yellow police crime scene tape that had draped across the front porch for weeks was gone, though the faint outline of adhesive residue remained on the painted wooden railings. The front lawn was covered in fallen red and orange maple leaves, rustling softly in the cool November wind.
Brenda stood at the bottom of the porch steps, holding the shiny new brass key Mr. Vance had given her that morning.
“Are you sure you want to go inside, girls?” Brenda asked, looking up at the two-story brick home. Her voice held a slight tremor. “We can sell it. We don't ever have to set foot in there again.”
I looked at Chloe.
Her hand was tucked inside the pocket of her coat, her face pale, but her posture was straight. The bruises on her neck had faded to faint, yellowish shadows.
“We’re going in, Mom,” Chloe said quietly. “It’s Dad’s house. Not Edric’s.”
We walked up the steps together. Brenda inserted the key into the deadbolt, turned it, and pushed the heavy oak door open.
The hallway smelled faintly of stale dust, damp leaves, and police fingerprint powder.
We walked into the living room.
The heavy, dark velvet curtains that Edric had always insisted on keeping closed were pulled wide open now, allowing the cool, grey afternoon light to flood across the hardwood floor. The large television set—the one Edric had made Mom turn up every night—sat dark and unplugged in the corner.
I walked over to the heating vent beside the wall.
The wooden floorboard was still pried up, exposing the dark square beneath where my father’s old smartphone had sat for ninety days, catching every whisper, every threat, every strike.
I knelt down, resting my fingers against the edge of the smooth oak wood.
“Thank you, Dad,” I whispered into the quiet room.
Chloe came up behind me, resting her hand gently on my shoulder. “He heard you, Faye.”
Brenda stepped into the doorway holding a large black plastic trash bag. She looked around the living room, her eyes clearing, her jaw setting into a line of absolute determination.
“First thing we do,” Brenda said, her voice stronger than I had heard it in years, “is go upstairs to his closet. Every shirt, every suit, every shoe he left behind... goes into the incinerator at the dump.”
I stood up, offering my mother a small, real smile. “I’ll get the bags from the kitchen.”
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For the next four hours, the three of us moved through the house like a whirlwind. We stripped the master bedroom of Edric’s belongings, clearing out his oak desk, his expensive leather boots, his cologne bottles, and his framed corporate awards. We piled it all into the back of a rented pickup truck.
When the truck drove away toward the city disposal site at five o'clock, the house felt lighter, as if a thick, suffocating layer of smoke had finally cleared from the rooms.
