“Yeah,” Lenora continued. “She’s just…hungry. Wanting. Waiting.” She turned the flashlight on him. “Wouldn’t you be starving if you gave everything you had to something that never gave back? Everything’s been taken away from you and nothing or no one ever gave anything back? Wouldn’t you deserve something after all that sacrifice?” Her voice quavered.
“I…” he said, “I don’t know. I mean, she got this house.”
Lenora exhaled sharply. She pointed the flashlight at a slender door to their left. “It was just a house,” she muttered.
He sighed. “You’re right,” he said, stepping toward the door.
Lenora half turned to him, like she was going to say something, but then she grasped the knob, pushing the door open.
Lenora’s flashlight moved over a claw-footed tub, an old toilet, and a small vanity table and mirror. A hair brush, comb, and small vial of perfume rested on the table.
“Do you think there’s any perfume left?” Lenora whispered, her voice croaky like she hadn’t spoken in a long time.
“Impossible,” he said in a slightly louder whisper, confused as to why they were whispering. He took a few steps into the bathroom and lifted the perfume bottle. Lenora focused the flashlight on the bottle and he shook it—no liquid. For good measure, he removed the glass stopper.
He gasped. The scent of roses infiltrated the small space, as if he had stepped into an overgrown garden. His skin prickled like it had been brushed by thorns. He quickly stoppered the bottle and left the room to stand in the hall, sweat beading on his upper lip.
“Are you okay?” she asked. She didn’t touch his arm, but he could smell spearmint gum on her breath.