Chapter 28
28
Just as I guessed, the Van Huusens live in a brownstone on the Upper West Side. A historic oak with naked branches shades the stoop.
I pad up the icy brick stairs and ring the doorbell. The buzz sends a tremor up my finger. Waiting for an answer, I glance through the window. There’s a plant sitting on the sill—or a shriveling sepia skeleton of what used to be a plant.
I ring the doorbell again.
When I’m certain no one is inside, I pull out my jingling key chain and try my luck, finding the match on my third attempt. I twist and it unlocks with such a heavy clack that I startle at the noise. Feeling a bit like I’m breaking into someone’s house, I glance over my shoulder as if someone will stop me at any moment. An old woman wearing a thick brown trench coat walks her Pomeranian across the street. The dog has little neon-green boots. They don’t even look my way.
I take a breath, whisper a quick affirmation— I am courageous —and go inside.
Pushing my way into the brownstone, I step over a pile of unopened letters on top of a worn Egyptian rug. Threads of dust dance in the air, caught in the sunlight spilling through the entrance.
My limbs stiffen as I close the door behind me.
“Mom? Dad?”
Nothing.
I’m reminded of the first time I entered Chloe’s apartment. Her body. I inhale deep. No smells—none of decay, at least. Maybe a bit of mildew, dust, old wood.
I turn on the light and examine the letters. Judging from the layer of fine dust blanketing the pile, it’s been months since someone’s gone through these. The first few letters are from the bank, and a few are from the NYU Alumni Association.
While I’m curious about what the Van Huusens’ bank statements look like, I have a more pressing task ahead.
This is my first time in a brownstone, and I can’t lie, I’m excited. The whole space breathes luxury. Wooden trim and brass features accent furniture that looks handcrafted. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves slope under the weight of the pages; dust motes rim the edges. Large windows make the narrow space feel lofty and alive. If all the plants were still green, this would have been a vibrant home.
I head upstairs, the steps creaking under my weight. The second-floor hallway is lined with dusty family portraits. In each photo, the family is posed similarly: Mr. and Mrs. Van Huusen in the foreground, dressed in knitted sweaters, their hands on Chloe’s shoulders as she stands between them. Her smile is paper-thin in every portrait.
I head into the office, which is equipped with two desks and more bookshelves. Wind wheezes through a cracked window, weathering the crisp plants that sit beside it. When I go to shut the window, I notice the wooden frame is black with mold, rotting and wet. Dead flies and a moth lie with their bellies up on the sill. I brush their carcasses off with my sleeve, trying not to gag. The window struggles to close, the house’s foundation groaning in agony as I force it down.
I peek at the Van Huusens’ desks. A blue ceramic mug sits on a cork coaster. Inside, a dead fruit fly rests in a bed of sticky brown sediment. The keyboards are dusty. A quick shake of a mouse makes a monitor light up with the sign-in screen. The computers must have been left in sleep mode. I survey the desk drawers, hoping there’s a note with log-in information, but find only stationery. After inputting a random string of passwords, I give up.
It almost seems like the house was abandoned in a hurry—not enough time to put away the dishes or power off their computers.
The floor above holds the main bedroom and a small reading nook. Chloe’s room, painted turquoise, is on the fourth floor.
I snoop in her nightstand, hoping for a journal or diary. Instead, I find a stack of opened letters that have Chloe’s Manhattan address printed on them. Odd. Why would she bring the letters all the way here? It’s almost like she was trying to hide them.
I take the one sitting on top, excavate the paper from the envelope, and find an invoice from the Kennedy Nursing Home. For the month of January, they withdrew an obscene total of $35,500 from the “Van Huusen Family Trust” to care for two people. Patient names: VAN HUUSEN, MARGARET and VAN HUUSEN, CHARLES .
My lips part in surprise as I skim the printed text once, twice, three times, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. I toss the invoice I’m holding and search through the other letters, my heart thundering. They are all invoices. The earliest one is dated August of last year.
That’s not long after their last text to Chloe. One day they’re making dinner plans, and shortly after, they’re in a facility. Is it possible for two people to experience such a steep decline in the span of a few weeks? My mind bounces back to the text Jessica sent. Is this what she meant by Chloe’s “critical turning point”? From my snooping online, I know the Van Huusens had retired some time ago. I figured their lack of communication was because they were traveling somewhere remote, but were they actually in a facility? How is there no record of this online or elsewhere? And why didn’t Fiona mention this when I asked for the Van Huusens’ address? Did she not know the truth? But why would Chloe keep it a secret?
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. No point speculating.
I order an Uber for the Kennedy Nursing Home.