The sunrise painted the Ashwood Lane house in soft gold, as though the night before had never happened. Dust motes drifted lazily through slanted beams of light. The old floorboards creaked underfoot like an old dog stretching after sleep. The house looked dusty, sure. Old, definitely. But the shrieks and murmurs of the night could be blamed on sleepy fancies and settling timbers. Maya told herself that twice while she stood at the stove making pancakes.
