The House that Loved Me

When I heard the fantastic and historic Lovewell mansion went up for sale, I gave Barry a sharp elbow in the side, a gleam in my eye. I showed him the listing on my phone, an image of the perfect stucco and stone Tudor mansion. I giggled to myself. "Help me achieve my dreams!" I said, snuggling into his neck. He laughed. "Yes, I am a vehicle for all your wants and desires, aren't I?" But he too wanted to get a closer look at the property, all 5,500 square feet of it. He flipped through the images of it on his phone. "This is stunning," He said softly. "I mean, wow. Of course, when you live in an apartment, every home is impressive, but not close to this level."

Ahhh, yes! The Lovewell property. More of an estate than anything. In Northeast Ohio, the car industry made some families extremely wealthy in a short period. The Lovewells, already a success, did even better and created one of the loveliest homes in the Cleveland-Akron area. Of course, most people do not know much about the Lovewells, as there were many, many families doing well in the 1920s up in Cleveland-Akron. The Higbys, the Lincolns. Business and family names woven into one of the same, so you knew who owned what. But the Lovewells kept a low profile: most didn't know the origins of their success, which helped serve them later as their lives delivered them great change--but when it all came down in sharp pieces, people couldn't get enough of their story.

How do I know this? My very grandmother was one of the onlookers who couldn't avert her eyes from the disaster of it all. Probably because she was worried that the same thing could happen to her. And she knew Jane Lovewell personally. They were neighbors and socialized with the same groups of people. Jane had a domineering husband, and when the ship was sinking, all Jane could do was watch: Mr. Lovewell had spent her whole inheritance trying to save his linen company, unable to fight for herself, state her opinion, or even go to the bank and close off her accounts, she disappeared. The bank did not need her signature as her husband sold their mansion to the highest bidder: Dr. Rothglow. He and his family have owned it for the last thirty years. I am aware that it has sat empty for a bit now, two years or so. As I read the listing, I tell Barry, "There is no mention of the Lovewells ever having owned it. I think that's a little bit sad for a prominent family, don't you?"

Barry runs his finger through his beard, straightening it out a little. "You mean a once-prominent family? C'mon, Lida. The only constant is change. No one can hang onto wealth past a generation or two, anyways."

I shrug my shoulders and won't share anything further. I really want to see this house. I don't want to tell him about how Jane had gone missing before the sale of the home, or how their livelihood changed so drastically. I don't want the threat of a negative conversation swaying me away from this mansion that I have always desired to step into.

Later that day, as we walk under the dark wood arched entrance, I feel myself melt like I do every time I see or experience something close to my heart: a new baby in the family, an antique sapphire ring, a pretty yellow lab puppy. Barry tells me to get a hold of myself, as the look on my face gives me away: I am in love with the wood beams on the ceilings, the stone mosaic in the parlor, the decorative wood trim in the dressing room that graces the closets. The master bedroom is four times the size of our current bedroom, which I always thought was fairly roomy. There are recesses in the wall that I have never seen before in any type of new construction. This can be to hang a painting, or it may be another mosaic. My eyes dart everywhere, taking in the details, many of which are original to the home. And they were created for the extra aesthetic, there is absolutely no purpose for some of these features. How fortunate that the most recent owners left everything intact!

Except for one thing.

There is one disturbing feature that my eyes cannot turn away from. Why is that? In this romantically, beautiful and historic mansion, well cared for and lovingly preserved, why would I turn my attention to the one feature that is perhaps out of balance, a little off, and just doesn't sit well with me? While no one is watching, I take a quick snap with my phone camera.

"You don't like the joker on that wall accent, do you?" Barry asks me, chuckling. "Don't pay it any attention. You interior designers are picky for a reason. That is why you all get hired to do what you do." I nod my head. Who says men aren't mind readers? He knows me too well.

I love this mansion, but I am concerned about its history. Barry sits down on the smooth, wooden steps. They are made of dark wood and sit in a lovely contrast to the cream stucco behind them. He looks like he is thinking hard about something. Perhaps it's the demands of his job, or perhaps he is trying to picture himself living here.

"With a little money moved around, we can afford to put an offer in." He whispers, not wanting the other potential clients to hear him.

"What?" I ask him, confused. We haven't discussed or processed anything. I was just thinking that this is the perfect home for his sister with her seven kids when he started talking about a $6000 a month mortgage and that it was quite doable, considering our DINK status at the moment. I am honestly shocked. My very careful Barry has also fallen in love with the beauty of this home.

Barry waits for the realtor to stop talking to an older couple for a bit, and then asks her about the next steps to take to put in an offer. I have to admit that I'm pleasantly surprised. I thought for sure I would be the one having to convince him that buying such a house--being quite an undertaking-- would mean we'd be investing in one of the most amazing homes in the area. We could have all of our out-of-town friends and family here, we could host beautiful parties, maybe even our relative's wedding in the backyard.

Years later, cynics will laugh at my dreaminess, my grand, ill-fated visions.

When Barry and I get back into the car, I ask him what he thinks it will cost to replace the long, winding driveway, as eventually all aspects of a home need replaced. He waves the question off. "In sections, it can be replaced. No one does this all at once."

I don't agree. But dang, who wouldn't love such a home? I'm just being negative, I suppose, instead of enjoying the possibility that it could one day be our forever home. I say nothing of the expansive roof--it's multi-color slate tiles, with some of the shingles missing. It's an old home! Of course, some repairs have gone unattended! And with the snow starting to fall, it looks cozy and so comforting despite its grandeur...

I tuck my scarf around my neck, and as we drive off, I think about how lucky we are to even consider such a home; so far out of reach for most of the population. Yet, if I feel this way, why is there a pull--a testy little nag, as I wonder what happened to poor Jane Lovewell in that very home? What is that home hiding?

"Do you know what I find so fascinating about that home?" Barry asks, as we pull into Yours Truly, our favorite breakfast spot. "Tell me," I say. We sit down with our menus, as the waitress wipes the table again.

"How something so large, so huge--feels like a home. I'm sure, as an interior designer, you can appreciate this." He's right. A lot of work goes into transforming a large space to make it "inviting". One has to consider the lighting, the size of the furniture, the paint...

"You know what else I can appreciate? The size of the home did not match the rooms we saw," I said, sipping on ice water.

Barry shakes his head. "How so?" he asks.

"There are rooms in that house that we didn't look at. Who knows why? But before we make an offer, we need to see it privately. ALL of it. The first time you look at a home, you fall in love. The second time, you look for flaws or inconsistencies."

"Or, if you are married to an interior designer, you just look for flaws the first time you look," Barry smirks at me.

"I'm just protecting us, my dear!" I say with a sugary voice. But now I know that I must go see my grandmother, who lives in a nearby assisted living, to see what she thinks of the home. She had been inside it on many occasions.

"Did you see that odd, older lady there? She was very well dressed, but so strange. She kept calling out, 'Jane, Jane? Where are you, Jane?' Lida, I can't believe you didn't see her! You miss nothing!" Barry states.

I did not see this woman. I should tell him about Jane, but I don't.

After our scrumptious breakfast of French toast, eggs, and turkey sausage, I ask Barry to take me to Heinen's so that I can get Gan-ma her favorite ice cream: Black Raspberry Chocolate chip made by Graeter's. I meant to visit her last week but ran out of time.

For some reason, I don't want to speak of Jane Lovewell and my grandmother's old connection to her. It's very possible that it is just gossip versus facts, and that Jane Lovewell lived a very happy, quiet life after the fallout. For her sake, I certainly hope this is the truth. I drive out to see my Gan-ma, who lives approximately ten minutes away.

The ice cream has softened. I reach into her cupboards and find the bowls that she once kept in her home. Pretty cobalt and lime colors; from Peru. Heavy, you couldn't break them apart if you tried! Each was just a little different from the other.

"Tell me what you wish to know, my dear." Gan-ma says, looking at me with her wizened, old eyes. "for I am so old now, I just might tell you anything. My secrets are all ready to be split and spilled, mauled over, and picked apart." Gan-ma has been saying this in several different ways for many years. She still has an interesting way with words. Yet, here at age 86, and me being 32, what she has to say seems far more fascinating now than even two years earlier. I waste no time.

"So...Barry and I are looking at the Lovewell's home. Interesting, isn't it? I took some pictures of the more interesting features of the home-". But Gan-ma pushes my phone away from her, with no desire to look at the photos.

"Don't. Lida--no. Please. There will be other homes for you to consider. Do not go back into that house, and do not put an offer on it. I mean it. My dear friend Jane...oh, I still believe that I should have done more to inquire! But your grandfather was scared! I guess we all were. And her young friend Elaine...none of us trusted her!"

"No offense, Gan-ma, but that was a very long time ago. I am sure that she went off to a relative's or a daughter's home."

"Nonsense! I would have heard if she had done so. But I see the look on your face. And I have a strong feeling that you will buy it regardless of my warning. But beware. The doctor who bought that house was good friends with Mr. Lovewell. I always found that to be so strange, given his wife's disappearance."

I pick out the chocolate chunks stuck in the raspberry ice cream, and I through the rest away. It's my favorite ice cream, but I'm always after the soft chocolate pieces that melt in your mouth as soon as you taste them.

"Thank you for visiting," Gran-ma says, smiling. "And please. Use your good judgment. This city is full of beautiful houses, why would you choose one with such a troubled history?"

"Good-bye, Gan-ma! Love you!" I say this, not wanting to hear anything further about the Lovewells, their sheets and pillow case businesses, or disappearing family members. All families have their secrets. Their promising beginnings turn to fortune or some terrible demise. If they land somewhere in the middle of this, no one discusses it. The middle is dull as it is safe so therefore nothing is of interest in that.

When I got home, Barry told me that he forged my signature on a few documents for the bank. He put an offer in without discussing it with me first.

"Umm...Babe. How much...did you offer?" My voice comes out sharp and accusatory. My hands tremble slightly, as I feel a loss of control. Before he can say it, I already feel it.

"Full price. The house is already priced low considering what type of house it is. We do not have the luxury of time. Others will put in their offers too."

"Oh, Barry! You never offer the full price for such a home. Not in this bear market! You should have waited for me so we could talk through it."

"Why can't you just be happy? My gosh, for a girl who grew up so middle class this should be a dream come true for you!" He yelled out.

"I am happy--don't get it confused. But you should be way more considerate when we are taking on big purchases. Especially the purchase of a huge property, don't you think? Can you not see my point?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Fine. Yeah, I guess. I guess so. But I'm telling you right now, that home can slip through our hands. A bunch of people will be putting in offers."

I sit on the edge of our couch, my eyes taking in the humble 1300 square-foot space. We have lived here for three years and took great pride (and money!) in making it our own. We didn't as so much buy a $300 knick-knack without consulting the other: due not only to budget but because we wanted to make sure the other liked it. Sometimes we disagreed, but other times it was an easy compromise. So how have we gone from being extra careful with the purchase of insignificant paintings from unknown painters to placing an offer on a million-dollar home?

I don't know how long I sat there on the edge of that black leather sofa, straight-backed, unable to conceive of what now felt like a permanent decision. But at some point, I heard Barry's voice from behind me say, "Well that was quick! They took our offer! They want to work with us!"

Of course, they do! Anyone receiving the listing price would. But I don't tell him this. The first thing he does is call his parents. Next thing I know, I'm looking up prominent Cleveland families from long ago, looking for the Lovewells in particular.

But there is no mention of Jane Lovewell missing, there are only a few faded, sepia photos of a very tall and elegant woman, standing next to her husband and their four children. I cringe as I hear Barry retell the story of the offer to his mother.

***

Two months later we moved in. I am unpacking my boxes, my journals, and bags of winter clothing. I am reflecting on how I was so frightened of buying this home. I must have been concerned about the finances, or maybe it's just all of the cleaning that I would have to take on. Well, that's only natural for a first-time homeowner, let alone someone wanting to buy a mansion. Every time I look up in our new bedroom, or I step out into the hall, I notice some new feature that catches my eye and just delights me to no end. A small stained glass window or another built-in bookshelf. Again, more decorative wall accents, where the wall meets the ceiling.

Yet, once again, my eyes are drawn to the unsightly court jester, the joker, on the wall accent in the main hall. I stand there looking at it. Barry passes me in the hall and takes note of where my eyes travel.

"Don't even think about it. You are not dismantling history, Lida."

"It's out of place. Come on! I will replace it with something nice. I'll get professionals to help."

He shakes his head and moves on with his boxes. Hey--if he put an offer down without my permission, I can remove a wall joint and have it replaced. I put my boxes down, wanting to get a closer look. Barry is setting up his home office, cursing, and boxes are getting knocked over. That means he will be occupied for some time.

I spy my burgundy ottoman in my bedroom, and I slide it out into the hall. I step onto it and I study the structure closely. I reach up to sense the stability, how anchored is this unsightly thing? Can I remove it with the right tool by myself? I am surprised that it has so much give. This isn't even glued! I am excited at the idea of being able to get rid of this myself. I adjust my stance carefully, not knowing how much force to give it. Suddenly, it's as if someone is staring at me from the far end of the hall.

It's only then that I hear: "What the hell are you doing Lida?" I whip around and I see Barry looking up at me, angrily.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask, annoyed. "And don't sneak up on me like that. This house is too big, and you will freak me out if you do that. Especially if I'm high up on a ladder or something."

"Then don't mess with this house," he said. "We paid way too much for it for you to take this apart, or mess with that."

"Let me be clear: if there is something I don't like about this place, I will be taking it apart. Within reason, of course. I'm not out to redo this home. But that joker is coming down."

"No, Lida! Don't touch anything! Not a thing without my consent! I mean it, we must keep everything original to the home intact!" He speaks firmly, but I feel a note of strain in his insistence.

I step off the ottoman. "Okay, hold up a sec. Let's just take a breather. Let's go out to eat, then look at furniture. I've got measurements in my phone for the bedroom, and the living room."

"Yeah. Let's do that. Sorry. I think I'm just stressed about the money."

But as we get in the car, I wonder if our financial reality is just now catching up to him. Now that the dream is in motion, now that it is happening, it is no longer a fantasy: there are heavy bills, there are needed repairs not caught by that quick and dirty house inspection, and there are many rooms to furnish. Soon, this newness will wear off completely, as it always does.

"When we get to Night Town, let's set a budget, okay? Let's slowly decorate, slowly furnish. That way, it's easier on our finances. In due time, I will get a raise, so will you." I say, calmly.

But Barry doesn't listen. "Thank God for my parents. They are really helping us out. Mom gave us over one hundred grand. What are your parents doing to help us? Can't your grandmother kick anything in?" He asked. The server brings us our coffee.

I nearly lose my grip on the coffee cup. Why in God's name should our families help us at all?

"Barry," I say directly, looking right at his forehead, as he cannot look at me. "Please tell me that we didn't just buy a home we can't afford. Please tell me this. My mom gave us a $500 gift card to Arhaus, and that's all she can give."

"What a pittance," he mumbles. "Won't hardly cover a chair."

"Actually it is quite generous! What is up with you? Can we not afford this dinner here either? Do you want to just go home? We can eat canned soup." I suggest.

And with that said, Barry stands up and stomps out of the restaurant. I lay cash down on the table to cover our drinks. I suppose furniture shopping isn't in the cards today. But I think nothing of it. I can find all kinds of pre-loved furniture.

When we pull up to our new home, his mood softens. "Isn't she the most beautiful home you ever saw?" he says, sounding like his old self. "I swear we have never been in such a palace. No one we know has ever lived in such a home."

That's because the people we know are careful and conservative with their money. They aren't buying homes they can't afford, hoping someone will rescue them, or assist them in any way. And we know a lot of people that are much better off than we are. Their homes, lovely and in good taste--are more modest by a long shot. But it isn't helpful for me to throw this in his face. He is somewhere between buyer's remorse and la-la land. My observations of how others spend their money will not ease him. Instead, I turn my attention to finding the fabric so that I may reupholster a sofa I hope to find on Craigslist. This type of craft that I have honed will save us thousands. He goes back to his home office.

But as I go in search of my materials, I see a letter that has been stuffed in our attached mail entry. Most of the older homes in Cleveland and Shaker Heights have this feature near the front door, going into the main closet. Odd for a Sunday, I think to myself. I open the envelope. I pull out a small, torn piece of paper.

"How unfortunate that you bought this home. Now your family will suffer." I read it over at least five times. I stand there in the front hall, and I am just now aware of how terrible I feel, and how small I am in this monstrosity of a home. It's as if I've shrunk four feet. I feel hot breath on my neck. Barry is standing right behind me.

"What is that?" he snaps. Now I am agitated by his sneaking up on me and his tone. I'm not hiding my irritations, as he surely isn't hiding his from me. I let it roll off my tongue.

"First, stop sneaking up on me. I already told you I don't like it. Second, I just found this in our mailbox." I thrust the letter at his chest. He reads it, his bushy eyebrows raise up for a second. He shakes his head. "It's a dumb prank." And he throws the letter back at me.

"Jane Lovewell. The wife of the original owner went missing right before this house went up for sale. The next owners were friends of the family. It's odd, is it not? And to my knowledge, no one ever heard from Jane again." I say, but my attempts to stay calm are nothing but a front. I feel myself starting to sweat.

"Ask your grannie. She was friends with the whole bunch. She and your grandfather both did business and pleasure with the Lovewells. The Rothglows. What did she say when she found out that we bought the house?" He asked.

"She said nothing. But before I found out that you put the offer in, she advised that we buy a different home. I should have told you, but I chose not to."

"Yes. You should have. What else are you hiding from me?"

I look at him with anger. "Me? And what about you? You should have waited to put an offer in! You should not have forged my signature!" I retort.

"I have more money, but you have better credit," he said. "So that's why I did that."

"And you don't think that was wrong?" I ask, getting angrier than I thought I would.

"You know what? How about you sleep in the guest room tonight? Since there are four to choose from."

"Barry. None of them have beds yet!"

"So? There are plenty of blankets."

"How about YOU sleep in the guest room?" I demand. But he has walked down the hall.

What has happened to us, I ask myself, as I rummage through our belongings in the basement. I am looking for my suitcase, and I am leaving for the night. I'll stay with Mom. I send her a text, briefly describing what is going on. A few minutes later, she suggests I pack what I need to pack, and that I leave. She will tell me more when I get to her home. I have the most terrible feeling that I am being watched. I whip around, and I hear what sounds like the slow drag of a house slipper. It must be the old furnace.

I go back upstairs to retrieve my best jewelry, purses, shoes, and clothes. I grab a few journals and my laptop. As I do so, I hear Barry get in his car and go God knows where at 9:00 PM on a Sunday. I keep packing when suddenly, an idea comes to me.

Who knows how long I will be gone? This might be my only opportunity for quite some time to get that joker-jester down. Back to the basement I go, in search of a sledgehammer. I find an old one with a blue wedge.

Once again, I drag out the ottoman, and I place it under that terrible Joker accent. I take a good crack at its jeering expression. Is this necessary? No. I suppose I could have tapped and loosened it first. But I follow my impulse, and I knock the block off. It didn't take much. Just a few hits. It falls with a thud. I peer in to see what the jester was hiding all of these years. How strange, it's as if I feel cold air coming through a narrow gap in that wood beam. I reach my hand in, at first, feeling nothing but rough wood. I reach in a little bit deeper, and I hear a gasp from down the hall.

Before I can think through it, I fall backward, grabbing onto some small object. I land on my tailbone, right next to the wall accent. I'm lucky I didn't land on top of it, or else I would have hurt my back even worse. I look over to my right hand, surprised at the small book. It's as if it were shoved in my hand with enough force to knock me off the ottoman. My cell phone fell out of my pocket and is ringing. I scoot myself over, in a moderate amount of pain, and I answer it.

"Hi Barry," I say, whispering. I open the small book. Only, it's not a book, it's a journal. My heart slips into my stomach.

"What are you doing, Lida? Besides getting ready to go to Mommy's? I don't think it's a good plan. There are things you don't quite understand, my dear. Your curiosity will only end up hurting us."

"Barry. Stop scaring me. I hate how weird you have been lately. It's as if you've completely changed since the day you put an offer in. I'm going to my mom's, and we will figure out how to proceed." I scoot along towards the bedroom. Finally, the pain subsides just a bit, enough for me to pull up to a standing position. I grab my bags off the bed, they are light, thankfully. I pray I can get down the stairs, that my back won't give out, and send me falling down the sharp, angled steps. I feel extremely vulnerable.

"My dear, I am sorry that I was so grouchy with you. Please don't leave," he says over the phone. He doesn't hear the jingle of car keys in my hands, doesn't hear the door close, or the lock turning. I slip the small journal into my pocket. "Lida, whatever you do, please stay out of the basement. I found this weird room down there, with a bed and everything--"

I am going to read that journal in a parking lot; somewhere he can't find me, before I go to my mom's.

"Don't worry, see you when you get home," I lie.

"Who is that standing in our driveway? It doesn't look like you." He demands.

"Goodbye, Barry," I say, feeling uneasy. I shut my phone off, and get into my car.

As I turn onto Lee Rd., I consider the turn of things. My husband has become obsessed with this house as if under a spell. He is stopping me from doing anything that might improve it--or improve us. My concern regarding Jane Lovewell makes our situation quite complicated.

Before I get onto the highway, I pull over to a CVS. I take out the small journal, with it's dry, cracked navy blue cover, and with pages worse for the wear, I am sure. I turn on the car light above me.

The writing is large and scrawling for such small pages. It reminds me of being rushed and not having the luxury of time or peace to write neater. I am disappointed that parts of it are illegible, but then other parts are easier to read. I focus on certain chunks of sentences, interpreting them as best I can. I read aloud to calm myself.

'They are discussing what to do with me. I will not give in. I keep money...'

'Now I hear Dr. Rothglow mention a place called Rosehaven. A psyche ward. I am being kept prisoner in my own home, and then I will be a prisoner there. Both are terrible but I could just disappear or I could chain myself to any of the secret rooms in this house, a protest of sorts. I refuse to leave on my own, because I paid for this house and it loves me. I stupidly showed Elaine one of the secret rooms, so now she knows where to find me should I go missing.'

'I am hiding this journal. Whoever may find it--know that I am in Rosehaven or I am locked away in this very home, with food and water to last me two years at best, for how much can I keep in there? I would love to live out on my own, but these times do not permit me to do so. My monstrous husband has fallen in love with Elaine, one of my best friends. They will end up together, and he will go through her money like he went through mine.'

I stop for a second.

"Elaine? Who are you?" I whisper, and a terrifying discomfort comes over me in that moment. I look up from the journal, and I feel a heavy thud on the back of my head. And another, then another. I feel myself fading away from my Mercedes.

Instead of going to my mother's, I'm going to the police station in Cleveland Heights. This journal may be of help to them. It could clear up this mystery that is as cold as a Cleveland winter.

I go to the front desk and put my name on a list. Soon, Officer Linda takes me around to the back desk. I give her a quick rundown of the journal I found, and what led to me finding it. I tell her I have been worried sick about Jane for years. Officer Linda gives me a controlled stare, and in a low voice, says. "Wait here while I get my supervisor."

Her supervisor looks very familiar to me. He is an older man, perhaps ready to retire. Silver hair, shorter and thicker than I remember. "Officer Dan, we have met before, but it was a while back," I say, my voice betraying me. Small, tiny slivers of the past are falling into place. I feel the need to go.

"Elaine. You have been missing for many years," he says calmly.

"My name is Lida. Not Elaine. Do not call me Elaine."

"You have been on the run for many years, Elaine. You absorb the personality of every woman who has lived in the Lovewell mansion. You have broken in at least five or six times in the past 50 years."

"Because it's mine! Ours! All I did for him!"

"Who?" asks Officer Dan.

"Lovewell! He promised me! I know he took Jane to Rosegrove so that we could live in that home together!" I demand.

Officer Dan looks through a few files. I see Elaine written on one of them. "Elaine...Lovewell was a bad man. He used you, bankrupted you, and then he married Margaret Happle. In secret, you lived in Lovewell's mansion in a small room located in the basement for some years, and also in your mother's home in Akron, before and after she passed away. We are curious as to where else you lived."

"That's crazy," I say. "I am a 32 y.o. interior designer. Lida Freeman."

Officer Dan pulls out a small compact mirror. "Before we arrest you, you need to take a good look. You've aged well, but you are in your mid-80s, my dear." He hands me the mirror.

I take in my gray hair, my deep lines. My eyes are still a bright blue but my skin has darkened and become more pigmented over the years.

"Where is Lida, where is she?" Officer Dan asks. He steps out into the hall and calls out for the woman at the front desk. "Linda! Send a squad out to the home, and check her car in the parking lot."

"Elaine, you were from wealth, and then you married into wealth. Lovewell destroyed all that, but even sadder, he destroyed you. You have tried to attack every woman who has lived there since, as you were unable to punish Lovewell himself." He says, with great seriousness.

"But I loved the house, and it loved me! It wanted me back, it did! From the first time I set foot into it--when Jane first invited me for tea--it's as if it hugged me, embraced me. None of the other women cared for it like I did. So I lived in it every chance I could!"

"Where is Lida?" he demands. But I just roll my eyes. "I AM Lida!" I demand back.

Not a second later, Linda bursts into the small room. "We found Lida. She is in her car. EMS is on the way," she says, out of breath. The silver handcuffs are brought out.

"Elaine, you have the right to remain silent..."