At eleven-thirty, when the house has sunk into that deep suburban stillness where every creak sounds intentional, you begin looking for the chapel.
You find it in the backyard beyond the detached garage, half-hidden behind live oaks and neglected hydrangeas. It is not a real chapel, not officially. It is a small stone outbuilding Dolores converted years earlier into a prayer room after her husband died, with two stained-glass windows, a narrow altar, and a single iron key usually hanging inside the pantry. You remember it now because she once tried to show it to you at Easter, and Carlos had laughed and said, “Mom turns every room into guilt.”
The key is not in the pantry.
You search drawers, hooks, ceramic bowls, the junk tray by the mudroom door. Your hands are sweating by the time you find the key taped under the bottom edge of a bread box, where no one would leave something accidentally. Outside, the air is warm and insect-loud. The motion sensor by the garage blinks on as you cross the yard, and for one wild second you imagine Michael somewhere remote, watching the camera feed and smiling because he knew curiosity would do exactly what fear could not.
The chapel door opens with a reluctant scrape.
