“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Cole says. “We already have a system—it just hasn’t been installed yet; it’s only our third day here. Do you have any . . . usual suspects?” she asks.
The officers exchange a look. “We’ll do what we can, but with no camera and no witnesses . . . it may be difficult. Such petty vandalism charges always are.”
Mrs. Cole gives them a curt nod. Mr. Cole puts an arm around his wife. “Really appreciate it. Thank you Sheriff, Officer.”
“No problem,” the sheriff says. “We’ll call you, should anything turn up. You have a nice day now.” He turns toward the door, but his partner hesitates.
“Er, did you know that your kids were playing outside? On a door?” she asks Mrs. Cole. Then she turns to the kids. “You all should be careful; there can be nails in those things.”
Mrs. Cole turns to her children and raises an eyebrow.
“We were doing a Titanic-themed wreckage photo shoot,” Rudy says.
“Photo shoot?” the deputy asks. “Playing models?”
Mrs. Cole lets out a surprised cough. Oh no, Rudy thinks. Here we go. “Oh. I thought you knew. The triplets aren’t playing models. They are models. On Instagram.”
“Oh.”
Rudy is hoping that Officer Perry—who can’t be older than in her late thirties—is just going to say that she knows about Instagram and end the conversation, but to his disappointment she’s clearly clueless. Before Officer Perry can do more than make a confused facial expression, his mother is already pulling out her phone and thrusting their feed in the deputy’s face. “Here’s their account—we post about the renovation, too. You should follow us; we can help keep you up to date on things happening around your hometown!”
The deputy takes a small step back and glances at the sheriff. “Er, I will, thanks,” she says. “Just, uh, be safe out there! And call us, should anything else happen.”
“We know how to handle ourselves. Don’t we, kids?” Mrs. Cole says.
Rudy swallows. “Of course.” His mind strays back to the Alex Grable account. The follower, he can almost hear Cecily correcting. Then again, it hasn’t posted in a while. He gets an idea. “Hey, Officer,” he says, leaning against the bannister of the grand stairway. “What . . . happened in the house?” He leans too far; a loose wooden dowel pops out of the railing, clattering to the floor. Rudy gives a shaky grin and sticks it back on. “I mean, can you tell us anything about the deaths?”
Cecily shakes her head, letting out the word “no” in an almost inaudible whisper.
“Rudy,” Mrs. Cole cautions, but from the expression on Officer Perry’s face, Rudy can tell she knows something.
“The realtor told us that some girl killed herself,” Rudy powers on before his parents can stop him. “And then Cece heard something in town about how she killed her mom first, and then something about the last owners also having an, uh, accident? We’d just like to straighten things out. Sir and ma’am,” he adds, an afterthought.
Sheriff Yang shakes his head. “We can’t discuss case details. I’m sure you understand.”
“That’s all you know?” Rudy presses.
Sheriff Yang and Officer Perry exchange a weighted look. He nods, ever so slightly, and Officer Perry turns to the family. “Evan Andrews fell from a ladder while painting the fourth floor,” she says. “Ruled an accidental death. I can assure you that, despite what some citizens might like to tell stories about, there is no relation.”
Mrs. Cole looks at Rudy in horror. “Of course. I’m sorry, sometimes Rudy speaks before he thinks.”
Sheriff Yang claps a hand on Rudy’s shoulder. “Natural curiosity; no offense taken.”
“Well, uh, don’t worry,” Mrs. Cole starts. “About the house—I’m sure that the top-notch luxury renovations are going to really up the value of this neighborhood.”
It’s clear that the remark falls flat. Sheriff Yang gives her a slow nod. “I hope so,” he says. He tips his hat one last time. “Nice to meet you sir, ma’am, kids. Give us a call if you have any trouble, and have a nice day, now.”
They walk the police officers outside and watch as the car pulls away.
“They seem nice,” Mr. Cole says. “Lots of small-town charm.”
“We are in the suburbs,” Cecily deadpans.
“They seemed like nice officers,” Mrs. Cole reprimands, giving Cecily a look. “And good advice about the alarms. Shoot! We forgot to get a picture of you three in front of the cop car. That could have made for a nice thumbnail. I wonder if they’ll let you do any jail-themed photos; that could be great clickbait for when numbers are low.” Inside the house, a cell phone starts to ring. “That’s the paint—Robert, come on. I told them we’re going full sponsorship or nothing, and you have to back me on this.”
Rudy’s mom follows his dad inside.
Amber elbows Rudy. “I can’t believe that you asked them about the murders! What are you thinking? That we can work a second one into our ghost post?”
“Uh, come on, guys,” Cecily says. “Don’t you think that’s a little . . . insensitive? I mean, they did actually die here, didn’t they?”
“It’s got viral potential, Cecily,” Amber says. “Besides, they’re dead. Who cares?”
Rudy wiggles his hands at Cecily and cackles. “Well, maybe they care—if they’re ghosts. Oooooo.” He heads back inside. “Come on, I need a snack—then I want to reach out to the fans again, see what kind of ghost content would be best to post!”
“For real, though,” Amber says, following him. “We’re definitely talking about this on our next livestream—maybe we can get some supplies, do something creepy, like a séance.”
“But we have
