Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I touch my watch again, restarting the count as I stride briskly toward the house.

In a stroke of luck, a yard worker fires up a leaf blower. But I caught the shrill tenor of Harriet shouting "Wait!" just before the noise erupted. She doesn't want me anywhere near Rose's room.

Which makes me even more determined to get there.

As soon as I pass through the sliding doors to the kitchen, I bend down and pull off my sneakers, hooking them on my fingertips as I rush to the staircase.

I slip past the housekeeper who is still dusting the living room, but she barely takes notice of me. Her role is to polish and tidy but never call attention to herself—to move about invisibly in this house.

That's what I need to do, too.

I climb the stairs as lightly as possible, but a few moan beneath my weight.

At one point I pause and hold my breath, but I can't hear anyone. When I reach the second floor, my luck holds: All the doors are closed again.

Notes of classical music come from Beth's office. It's loud enough that she and Rose may never know I'm here.

I reach for the cold metal knob of Rose's door, then hesitate. If Rose is inside, I'll likely startle her. But I need to take that risk.

I rap my knuckles as gently as I can against Rose's door, then push it open, holding my breath.

I see a girl on her bed, and my heart leaps into my throat.

Then I realize it's the doll in Rose's image, down to her red hair and scattering of freckles. I step into the room and close the door behind me, shaking off the creepy sense that the doll's eyes are following me.

Rose's room is spotless again, everything perfectly arranged. No books stick out of the rows on her shelf. Her desktop contains only a holder for pencils, a stack of school notebooks, and a whiteboard with an attached marker. Even the pretty little trash can is empty.

I check the nightstand for the book Rose was reading. It's bare, other than a wicker lamp with a frilly shade.

The timer on my Apple Watch hits the one-minute mark.

I hurry to the bookshelf and scan the titles.

Anne of Green Gables isn't there.

Another thirty seconds have elapsed. I peek out Rose's window, which overlooks the backyard, and see Harriet making steady, jerky progress toward the back of the house.

She's almost to the patio.

I yank open her desk drawers, but all I find are odds and ends: a tiny flashlight, a flowered barrette, a package of Post-it Notes. I lift the pillows off her bed and look beneath them. Nothing.

I drop to my knees on the pink-and-cream rug and lift up Rose's bedspread.

Way up near the headboard is a book, leaning upright against the wall.

I wiggle under the bed and pull it out. The title on the dust jacket is Anne of Green Gables . I slip it off, wincing as the sharp edge of the thick, glossy jacket slices the pad of my index finger.

Shock sweeps through me.

I read the book's title twice: The Stranger Beside Me.

I'm familiar with the book Rose is reading. I've read it myself. But I was in my twenties when I borrowed it from the library, and even then, the subject matter kept me up at night.

No little girl should be reading a book about the serial killer Ted Bundy.

I don't have time to process what I've seen. I pull out my phone and snap a picture before I replace the book jacket. Just as I slide the book back under the bed, I see a tiny drop of my blood has fallen onto the edge of the pages. I try to rub it away, but only succeed in smearing it.

I don't have time to try to clean it. All I can do is replace the book.

I straighten up and peer out the window again, putting my finger in my mouth to clean it and tasting my own coppery blood. I don't see Harriet. She must be making her way through the kitchen now.

I've only got time to check a few spots. They need to be areas the housekeeper wouldn't find and that Rose's parents wouldn't easily stumble across. She's an intelligent girl; she'd choose a good hiding place.

I peer into the closet, searching for the sweater I saw Rose wearing the first time I watched her go to see Dr. Markman. It's draped on a velvet hanger. I feel the pockets gingerly, but they're empty. Other than a pair of mittens, there's nothing in the pockets of the pink coat she wore to Lucille's, either.

Rose's shoes are lined up on a shelf, so small they almost look like they could fit the doll on her bed. Her clothes are hanging neatly. There aren't any boxes or drawers in the closet.

I can't see any other place in this room where she could conceal something.

Then I notice the big velvet jewelry box on Rose's dresser. It looks like an antique—something her grandmother might have passed down.

I open the lid, and a tiny ballerina starts to spin as thin, delicate notes play.

There are a few items in the box—a gold bangle, a necklace with a cross, a ring with a pretty blue stone.

And there's a drawer at the bottom. I slide it open.

Even though I've been expecting to find them, the sight of the objects makes me gasp.

Rose didn't just collect the sharp piece of glass and Lucille's box cutter. She's hiding a small arsenal.

There's also a pocketknife, a shiny shard from a broken mirror, and an ice pick.

I don't let myself think. I go on autopilot, snapping a picture of the contents. As I close the lid, I hear Harriet's voice from downstairs, yelling my name.

I dig into my purse and grab the envelope for Rose, dropping it onto the foot of her bed. I leave a tiny speck of blood on the envelope from my cut finger, but it's too late for me to open it and just put the photo on her bed.

I take one last look to make sure everything else in the room is as I found it, then exit and close the door silently behind me.

I hurry down the stairs, this time not worrying about making noise.

Harriet is just beginning to try to climb the steps. She's breathing hard and leaning heavily on her cane.

"What were you doing up there?" she demands.

I feign innocence, even though my heart must be pounding as hard as hers.

"I left a photo for Rose, like I told you."

Harriet is staring at me intently. I try to conjure a look of innocence, but I'm so shaken I don't know what she sees in my eyes.

She must know it would never take that long for me to merely leave something for Rose.

"I don't feel well. You need to leave," she says.

I step toward the door. "Of course."

I can tell Harriet knows something has happened that has left me shaken.

The loving, protective grandma who whisked Rose away when her parents argued and who claimed Rose was with her when Tina fell shifts slightly. She puts herself between me and the staircase, like a guard.

I have no doubt that if I tried to rush past her to get to Rose's room again, she'd use her injured body to block me.

Waves of anger and fear roll across her face.

I open the door and step out, then bend down and slip on my shoes.

Harriet's voice calls out to me. She doesn't sound angry any longer. Now she's pleading; it's as if she's seeking mercy.

Her words chill me to my core: "She's just a little girl. She needs her family."