30

STEPHEN GESTURED toward the opening in the wall. “Want me to check it out for you before I go? I don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, I can do it,” I said quickly, not wanting to prolong his stay. “I was about to when I heard you coming. I’m not afraid.” Of course, that wasn’t altogether true. Just moments earlier, I’d thought Susan Johnson had broken into the house to exact some form of maniacal revenge.

“You never have been afraid of much, have you?” he said quietly.

I bristled. “You say that like it’s a—”

“I meant it as a compliment, Claire. I’m not trying to start a fight.”

His expression seemed to confirm that, yet I knew better than to let down my guard. Like the attorney he was, Stephen had a way of laying the groundwork, wooing his opposition until they felt at ease, then moving in for the kill. And though I knew the impulse was selfish, I wanted to keep this room to myself a little longer. Yes, Alex and Nanci had both seen it, but they were outsiders. Not owners.

“Well . . .” Stephen attempted a smile and came up short. “I’ll just grab that suit and let myself out.”

I knew what I should do but didn’t want to do it. A flurry of supporting arguments rose in my defense, until his mother’s face rose in my memory, her eyes kind, her smile compassionate. “Stephen,” I finally said. “This is still your house too. If you’d like to see inside, that’s fine.”

Even I heard the lack of compassion in my voice, but a flicker of light shone in his face.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. “Let me get dressed and we’ll check it out.”

Minutes later, I climbed through the opening. Stephen passed me the lamp plugged into the extension cord, then angled his way through holding the flashlight. The room seemed smaller in the semidarkness, and I put some distance between us. The wind howled and whipped the house, and the moaning sound swirled around us, closing in as though protesting nature’s rage. Or perhaps our presence.

“Have you heard this before tonight?” he asked.

“Not like this. But I have heard something I thought had to do with the pipes.”

“This isn’t any pipe.”

“Or the sound of a woman crying, either.”

He shot me a look, and I told him what Rhonda had told me about the former owner’s experience. His expression mirrored my own skepticism.

“Still,” he continued, angling the flashlight’s beam toward the ceiling. “Something’s going on.” He reached above the opening and ran a hand along the lath and plaster near the top. “You can feel a draft up there for sure.” He started to move past me, then paused as if realizing how close he’d have to come.

I moved, the elephant in the room between us making it an even tighter fit. It hurt, this strained, painful awkwardness after years of intimacy. I began feeling along the base of the wall shared with the bedroom, working my way toward the exterior of the house, eager to find the cause of whatever this was before he did.

“I bet that was something,” he said after a moment. “Finding this room the way you did.”

I could tell he was looking my way and seeking to make up ground. I didn’t turn. “Yes.” I said flatly. “It was.”

His silence told me I’d gotten my point across.

The wind died down, tempering the moan, and yet a shiver inched up my spine. I could almost hear a woman crying. Grateful not to be alone, I worked my way back to the corner, toward the exterior of the house, this part of the room having a danker smell than I remembered from previous—

I sucked in a breath as my fingertip snagged on something sharp. The cut burned as blood bloomed.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just . . .” I gestured. “There’s something sharp on the floor.”

He knelt beside me, handkerchief already out. “Here, let’s wrap it up.”

“I can do it. Thanks.” I took the handkerchief from him.

He aimed the flashlight along the base of the wall in the corner and leaned forward, carefully pulling something out. “A sliver of glass. A long one.” He set it on the lowest shelf. “Is the cut deep?”

I shook my head, his closeness and concern both angering and confusing me. I stood. “I’m fine. Let’s keep looking.”

He rose but the flashlight slipped from his hand and landed with a thud before rolling, the beam of light shooting like a laser on the walls. But it was the lingering sound—like dirt falling into a hole—that made us both take a step closer.

Stephen moved to the corner and gave the floorboards a stomp. Something—dirt? debris?—cascaded into nothingness.

He picked up the flashlight and looked at me. “I’m thinking this room wasn’t so much walled off as sectioned off. And that whoever did this made sure they had a way to get in—and out.” He glanced at the floor. “Those workers leave tools here?”

I nodded. “Their satchels are in the bathroom.”

He slipped out and soon returned, crowbar in hand. “Shall we?”

I held up my bandaged finger. “Go ahead.”

He knelt and inspected the floor, then tucked the flat end of the crowbar into a slit between the boards and pried. The wood creaked but didn’t give. Moving over a row, he tried again. An entire portion of the floor lifted. A trapdoor.