The Family Plot by Cherie Priest

or to houses . She didn’t say that out loud.
    â€œIn a figure eight?”
    â€œIt’s as good a shape as any.”
    Gabe frowned. “Looks like you’ve been ballroom dancing.”
    â€œYes. I was ballroom dancing in my work boots.” She whapped him gently on the shoulder, and ignored the pathway in the dirt. “Then I did a little tango into the dining room, pirouetted through the kitchen, and sambaed up the stairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”
    She gave her crew the same cursory tour she’d taken alone, and made sure to declare vocal dibs upon the master suite. Brad took one of the other rooms. Bobby wanted to double up with Gabe, but he said no. He wanted the attic.
    â€œBut there’s bats up there, and Christ knows what else. You’ll wake up in the morning with rabies,” his father warned.
    â€œI don’t care. I don’t want to share with nobody.”
    Dahlia shook her head. “Your dad’s right—and that’s something I won’t say every day, so you may as well listen. Why don’t you take that little dressing room—or see what’s behind door number three, if you want your own space? The door’s stuck, but you’re a big boy. You can shove it open. We’ll have to get in there eventually, anyhow.”
    He shot a side-eye toward the attic stairs, then back at the jammed door in the hallway. “I’ll check the room out later,” he semi-relented. “There’s plenty of time.”
    â€œTrue,” Dahlia agreed, and she headed back downstairs, the rest of the crew following behind her. “But only sort of. We need to get started, if we’re going to stay on schedule and budget. Let’s open the trucks, pull out the bolt cutters, and check the carriage house. Then we can start making lists, and getting more specific with our task plan.”
    â€œIs there any power out there?” Brad asked.
    â€œI’d be shocked to find any,” she said. “To the best of my knowledge, we only have power and water for the house.”
    Then Gabe wanted to know, “Are we going to turn off the water when we get inside the walls? Like we do the electricity?”
    She tromped down the last of the stairs, leaving fresh prints across the figure eight and muddying its shape. “Maybe, but I haven’t seen any bathroom or kitchen fixtures to get excited about. They’re all mid-century, but not in a good way.”
    Bobby darted around her, heading for the front door. “Some people like mid-century. And this family was shitting in high cotton. Even if the fixtures are ugly, I’m sure they’re good quality stuff. We ought to take them with us.”
    â€œAnd we might, but only as a last resort—and only if there’s room. We’re here for last century, not mid-century. Or … the century before last, technically. Stupid millennium.”
    â€œWe’ll have plenty of room,” he said stubbornly.
    â€œWe’d better not . We ought to be able to fill the trucks and then some, without ever resorting to that other junk.” She pushed past him, reaching the front door first, and grinning like it was some kind of victory. She drew back the bolt and wrenched it open. She paused at the threshold, but didn’t look back when she spoke. “Everybody get that? Kitchens and baths are last resort. Don’t let Bobby tell you different.”
    â€œFuck you.”
    Now she turned around. “That’s not a nice thing to say to your boss.”
    â€œUncle Chuck’s my boss.”
    â€œUncle Chuck isn’t here, and you’ve already had a talking-to about that. Now open your goddamn truck. I think you’ve got the pry bars and cutters back there. Gabe, lend me a hand, if your dad’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”
    â€œYes ma’am.”
    Bobby glared at Gabe, who ignored him while he unlatched the back of the truck and hoisted