She should not be here.
“This is James. You can leave a message.”
Teresa ended the call and put the phone back in her pocket. That was so him. Not “please leave a message” and certainly not “I’ll get back to you.” More like “speak if you must, maybe I’ll play it next week.” She pictured him in the overlit basement of some grim medical facility. Carving up cadavers with intense concentration. Preparing himself to save the world. It was a ghoulish vision, but it amused her.
Uncle Fred snored through whisky dreams, and Teresa wandered the dark and empty house. At least she prayed it was empty. All the doors and windows were locked—the alarm would not engage otherwise. No one could get in. But who or what might already be inside? Unseen, yet always here. Someday you will stop being such a scared child, she scolded herself. Not tonight.
No one on the back stairs. No one in the billiard room. No one in the study.
They had not called the police about the hooded figure. Fred said he would, then called Philip instead. He told Teresa “reinforcements” were coming, whatever that meant. On her own, she had begun to dial Detective Waldron, then stopped. Why? Because she and Fred could not agree on what they had seen? Because she could not stand being looked at like she was crazy by one more person? Some other reason that she was not yet willing to confess to herself?
No one in the kitchen, pantry or mudroom.
Her days were busy. She had met two museum curators in the last two days, and spoken to a famous gallerist on the phone. She had filled out all her checklists, and most of the paintings were crated. Half had already been taken away to the storage facility. It was the nights that were hard. Sleep did not come easily, and Fred was poor company. He was no threat, but she was not sure how much good he would be in a real crisis. And though the phantom had not reappeared, she kept seeing things from the corners of her eyes. She needed to leave this house.
Dining room and sitting room both empty, so up the wide and silent stairs she went.
Teresa wished that James was here. She would tolerate his obsession with demons in exchange for his peculiar company. Yet she wondered how much relief his presence would bring if he suddenly appeared. What she truly yearned for was childhood, when the two of them understood each other in a few words, or none. When they could jam their small bodies into some hidey-hole and feel safe. There were no safe places now.
Ilsa’s room was next to her grandfather’s, and bare as a monk’s cell. The narrow bed looked as if no one had ever slept in it. Housekeeping ledgers, bound in green leather, lined one shelf. All in German. There was a print by Dürer on the wall, probably valuable. A cloaked figure lost in a gloomy wood. It was a gift from Alfred, the sort of cheerful thing they both liked. If there were any clues in this chamber, Teresa could not find them. All the bedrooms were empty but the one in which Fred grunted and thrashed. She wondered how Laurena got any sleep. On this night the noise was comforting, but Teresa moved away. Down the hall to the narrow stairs at the back. She had been to the attic several times in daylight, when it seemed another place. A low-ceilinged, dusty storage dump without much character. It would be different now. Sinister. Yet up she must go.
Her eyes had grown used to the dark, and she made her way without stumbling. At the top she found the big square flashlight she had left behind yesterday, the rooms up here being dim even at noon. The powerful beam lacked a candle’s warmth, but it illuminated her path far better. She went straight to the unfinished room, running the light across the broken floor and stepping carefully. Here. Somewhere right around here was James’ hidden compartment. This would be easier in daylight, but she kept not getting to it, and anyway Fred might be hovering. Now was the time. The wall panels were solid; she could find no give in any of them. Several floorboards shifted under her weight, but none would come loose. She worked from the center of the room toward the interior wall. She had not been at it ten minutes when her head snapped up suddenly.
What was it? A creak? Teresa forced herself to pick up the flashlight and go to the door. Nothing was visible down the long corridor. Two minutes passed and the sound did not repeat. Back to work.
She was about ready to quit when she found it. A shortened floorboard right against the wall. So obvious, she should have checked it first. The nails only lightly gripped the beam below, and by pushing them one way she could release the board. It was tricky. James must have practiced often to do it so swiftly. She grabbed the bulky flashlight and shone it into the compartment. A child’s treasure chest. Three marbles, two creamy with swirls and one clear with a green cat’s eye. She recalled flicking them with her thumb across a rutted wooden floor. Perhaps in this very room. James had tried to teach her the rules, but she ignored them. Next to the marbles was a cheap brass medal with a faded ribbon. A piece of pink quartz. A 1943 zinc penny. A scallop shell. A crow feather. All sitting upon a folded sheet of artist’s paper. Something touched her thigh.
She yelped and sat up. Her phone. It was the phone vibrating in her pocket. Teresa tried to laugh but shivered instead. She pulled the device out and checked the screen.
“James. What are you doing awake?”
“Why did you call if you thought I was sleeping?”
“Sorry, I lost track of time. What time is it, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Late. Or early. Maybe two o’clock.”
“So I guess you weren’t sleeping. You sound odd. Are you in your room?”
“No, out walking. Where are you?”
“Still at the house,” she replied.
“I know, but where in the house?”
Why the hell was he asking her that?
“The attic.” They might withhold information, but they did not lie to each other.
“Did you find my place?” His voice stayed neutral. He did not sound suspicious or wonder aloud why she was in the attic at 2:00 a.m.
“Yes.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind you finding it. But tell me if you take something.”
“Why would I do that?” she asked, gently sliding the paper out from under the other objects and unfolding it.
“For reassurance, maybe? Like a good luck charm.”
“A talisman,” she said. It was the sketch he’d mentioned last week, the one she did when they were young. Not terrible work. The details were nice, his lips and nose especially, but the features were not in proportion to each other. The expression was lifeless, even before it was changed. “I thought there were more marbles.”
“There were dozens,” James said. “I’m not sure where the others went. Those three were my favorites. Take the cat’s eye. As a...talisman, you said?”
“That’s all right.” Someone, likely Audrey, had taken a black marker to the sketch. The eyes were made pointed and evil-looking. Two horns stuck out of the wavy hair. Someone else, likely James, had tried hard to erase them, but the stubborn ghost of the marker remained. “I don’t need to take anything.”
“Are you looking at the sketch? I’m sorry about what happened to it. I’m happy to have the new one you made.”
“I’m honored you took it with you.”
“Of course I did. Are you working on my portrait?”
“It’s been busy.” She could not tell if it was his attempt at a joke, but he kept mentioning the imaginary portrait. As if talking himself into its existence. At the bottom of the hole was scattered debris that must have predated James’ use. Small rusted nails and chips of wood or paint. She slid the refolded sketch back into its place.
“I hope my father has been treating you well.”
“Yeah, he’s been great,” Teresa replied. A heavy sleepiness was coming over her. Caused by his gentle monotone, perhaps. “He’s a good cook.”
“He’s been on his own a lot. When he was young. Between wives, or even while he’s been married. Living overseas so often. He believes in self-sufficiency.”
It was not much, but more than she was used to hearing James say about his father.
“I shouldn’t tell tales,” she said. “But he and I have talked a lot this week. He feels bad about the way he treated you and Audrey. I don’t know if he’s told you that.”
James was quiet for a time, and Teresa felt herself nodding off.
“He said something like it once. When he was drunk. Truthfully, I don’t care. He’s never been much of a father to me. It’s Audrey he should apologize to.”
She did not believe him, and knew that even to the extent it was true, it was just emotional self-defense. Yet the coldness of his tone chilled her.
“Does Audrey care?” she asked.
“She says she doesn’t, but it’s a lie. She always wanted his attention, even if she had to make him angry to get it.”
“All of that stuff she did as a teenager. You know, drinking and drugs and breaking into houses. You think that was about getting a reaction from your dad?”
“I’m not her psychiatrist. I guess it started there, then it just became who she was.”
How sad, Teresa thought. And how thoughtless of her not to have understood. On some level she must have, but she was too busy resenting Audrey to really grasp it.
“That had to be rough for you,” she said. “Watching that happen.”
“It was unpleasant.”
“Did he beat her badly?”
“It got worse over time. The more she resisted, or fought back. He broke her nose once. We had to take her to the hospital, and my mother almost had him arrested.”
“You’re kidding! Jesus, I had no idea.”
“Later, Audrey broke his hand with a hammer. She threatened to kill him. They were going to send her to one of those camps for troubled teens. Dad and my stepmother, Joyce.”
“When was this?”
“The same year Grandma died. Just a few months before. She was on her best behavior after that. She was terrified of being locked up.”
Wow, Teresa thought. Imagine Audrey afraid of something.
“Did he ever beat you?”
“He hit me sometimes. Not hard. Whenever I was in line for a real beating Audrey made sure to do something worse, so she got it instead.”
“She really did protect you.”
“I suppose,” he allowed. “Honestly, I think she was just jealous.”
“Jealous of...of him hurting you instead of her?”
“Yes,” he said simply. Not seeming to find the idea odd in the least. “Also, I was her creature. If anyone got to torture me, it was going to be her.”
Teresa felt called upon to express horror, or grief, or anything at all. To say aloud how wrong it was, but she had no words. She should not have called him so late, she was exhausted in body and spirit. She wanted to roll back time to earlier this evening. To earlier this lifetime. She wanted to protect them, James and Audrey both. She wanted to go downstairs right now and cave in Freddie’s head with a lamp. The idea exhilarated her, then a moment later made her sick with fear. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with all of them? What was this demon in the blood of the entire family?
“I’ve upset you,” said James. “I’m sorry.”
“You have to stop apologizing. I wanted to know.”
“Do you think all families are like ours?”
“They all have issues,” Teresa said. “Some worse than us. But I don’t think this is normal either. Nobody should have to endure a childhood like you just described.”
“There were good parts,” he said dutifully. “Trips to see my father. In London once, and Hawaii. There was you. All of us together for the summers. There were never any beatings at Owl’s Point.”
No, just a cruel old man and his death-dealing painting.
“James, I have to go to sleep. I’m about to pass out on the floor.”
“I should be with you. We should be together. Don’t you feel that way?”
She had been feeling nothing but that for days and days. Years, maybe. Now she was not so sure. It seemed possible that they were not good for each other. That each brought out the other’s fears and weaknesses, instead of their strengths.
“You can’t leave school,” she said gently. “I’ll come to you when I’m done with my work here.”
“What if that’s too late?”
“What do you mean? Too late for what?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled.
“Tell me,” she insisted. “What are you afraid of?”
“I said I don’t know.” A rare annoyance in his voice. “I have this feeling that more bad things are going to happen. Don’t you feel it, too?”
“Nothing is simply going to happen. But somebody might do something. Whom do you fear?”
“All of us.”
“Me, too?”
“Yes. And me. I don’t trust myself, Tay.”
Join the club, she thought. Her feelings were vaguely hurt that he did not trust her, but why should he? Did she completely trust herself? Was she aware of everything she said or did when her episodes occurred? What were those shreds of memory that kept surfacing? Conversations that seemed so real, yet must be dreams.
“You’re a good soul, James. You have to believe that.”
“I should let you sleep. Please, don’t worry about me. Just look out for yourself. And don’t trust anyone, Teresa. Good night.”
“James, wait.”
He had disconnected. She was wide-awake now, and considered calling him back. To what end? It was a small miracle he had said so much. He was unlikely to say more, or to even answer. Her work here would be done in another day or two, then there would be a break before taking it up again in the city. She must use that break to pursue the questions she had posed herself last week, and come no closer to answering. First she must sleep. And she would, after one more perambulation around the lonely house.
* * *
The lonely house by the river. The Quinta del Sordo, empty but for Teresa and Ramón. Again he gestures her through a door to the room beyond. A room she has never seen, and must never enter. The room of terror. He is not angry this time, but gentle and encouraging. The father she knows. Entering the chamber first, he kneels and gestures to her. There is nothing to fear, my child. Not for you. You have seen the others, now look upon this last, their master. Together we will make sense of it. Slowly, so slowly she goes forward. One step, then another. Into the room of dark wood and books. She turns her head and...
Sat up. Half her face was hot and there was drool on her cheek. Drool on the rock-hard settee, upon which she had somehow fallen asleep. She was in the sitting room. It was morning, and a noise had startled her. The doorbell. Which rang again, too loudly. Freddie would come stumbling downstairs with a hangover and the shotgun in a moment. Teresa stood too fast and nearly fell, gray spots darting about her muzzy head. Then she righted herself and went into the hall. First disarming the alarm, she fumbled with the front door locks. At last she pulled it open, squinting against the harsh sun.
“Dave?”
“Hello, Teresa.”
His eyes were less brooding and more alert. Maybe he was a morning person.
“Your nose looks better.”
“Thanks, it feels better.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Philip sent me. Can I come in?”
“Oh.” She realized she was blocking him. “Sorry, I’m not awake.” She shuffled out of the way slowly. Uncertain. Don’t trust anyone, Teresa. He stayed on the steps, eyeing her. The guy missed nothing. “Please come in,” she said. “But be careful of my uncle. He might shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Philip spoke to him,” said Dave, stepping inside. “I’m told Fred has to get back to Los Angeles in a hurry.”
“He didn’t mention it. You mean you’re the reinforcements?”
“I guess. Phil wants me to play security guard for a day or two.”
“So it would be just you and me?”
“If you’re uncomfortable with that we can—”
“No,” Teresa said, too eagerly. “This is good. This is perfect, in fact. I’ve been waiting for you to show. We have a lot to talk about.”