Chapter Fifty-One

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

I make sure Rose and I spend a good twenty minutes with the horses. My sham report is several pages long; the Barclays need time to read it. Perhaps one of them will photograph it so they can study my words, letting them sear into their brain.

Rose runs a dandy brush over Tabasco while I watch. Her strokes seem gentle, and the horse appears to enjoy the grooming. I don't attempt to engage Rose in any kind of communication. That's not why I'm here today. I merely lean back against the side of the stall, smelling the slightly sweet scent of bales of hay, listening as Tabasco occasionally exhales noisily through his nostrils.

I know Rose saw my folder before we left the kitchen—her eyes went to my bag as soon as she entered the room. I wonder if that's a sign she was the one who took my pen and Tina's earring. Perhaps Rose's heightened awareness of my belongings is an indicator of her culpability.

When Rose and I make our way back into the kitchen, the room is empty. I immediately look to the blocky island with the cement countertop. My bag is just where I left it.

A rhythmic tapping sound alerts me to Harriet's approach.

"Hello, ladies." Harriet leans on her cane as she pauses in the doorway. "Did you have a nice visit with the mares?"

"It was wonderful," I answer. "Rose gave Tabasco a brushing."

"She's so good with them. Horses bond to people, you know, and those two have chosen Rose."

I don't reply. Instead, I turn to Rose. "I'm going to talk to your grandma for a while downstairs now."

Then something happens I don't anticipate.

Harriet steps deeper into the kitchen and presses a panel. It draws back and reveals the open maw of the elevator. She walks inside, clearly expecting me to follow.

How could I have forgotten about the elevator when I asked to see Harriet's living quarters?

I always take the stairs. Even when it means climbing the six flights to Dr. Markman's office.

Being confined is my Achilles' heel. Claustrophobia took root in me, fast and deep, right after I spent the night in a too-small space while the life ebbed out of my mother only yards away.

"Stella?" Harriet's voice seems to echo in my brain.

I can't let anything distract from all I've set into play. I walk into the elevator so Rose will be alone with my folder.

Harriet presses a button and the door slides shut. The elevator gives a little jerk, then makes a grinding noise as it begins to descend.

It's just one floor down, I remind myself.

But I'm hyperventilating. Sweat forms under my arms and on my face.

"A lot of people get uncomfortable in elevators," Harriet says soothingly. She must see my distress.

My throat is too pinched to answer; I can't get enough air in this small container.

"We're just about there," Harriet tells me. "A few seconds more. Tell me, Stella, have you ever seen a horse up close before?"

Her words infiltrate the cloud of my terror. Somehow Harriet is doing the one thing capable of easing the grip of my panic: She is distracting my mind.

"Yes—a client—had a horse—Pacino."

"How old was that client, Stella?"

Whatever else she has done, and whatever she may be doing now, this one thing is true: In this moment, Harriet is my ally.

My panic is on the verge of tipping into a full-blown attack. Harriet's questions are keeping it hovering behind that line.

"Fourteen," I gasp.

The elevator stops. The door slides open, agonizingly slowly.

I squeeze out the moment the gap is big enough, desperately sucking in air.

"Are you okay?" Harriet is peering at me.

I nod, but it takes a minute for my heart to stop fluttering.

"Sorry about that," I finally say. My legs feel weak, but my mind is now clear again. I resist the urge to sit down. I have to press on. "So this is your place?"

"At least until the house is sold," Harriet replies.

This is not the dark, cramped basement I expected. It's above ground, with lots of windows to let in air and light. Unlike the rest of the house, which is chopped up into dozens of rooms, this space is mostly open, with just a few support beams in place. The floor is covered by a soft gray carpet, and lush plants are grouped by the windows, sunshine spilling over their vivid green leaves. There's a yellow couch, a big recliner with a matching ottoman, and several bookshelves filled with hardback volumes. Nestled in a corner is an artfully designed kitchenette, with a copper teakettle resting on the stove and a bowl of dewy red grapes decorating the counter.

I walk over to the bookshelves. Harriet leans toward mysteries and historical nonfiction.

"Beth knows I love to read, so she got me a subscription to Book of the Month for my birthday," Harriet tells me. "I go through two books a week."

I hear footsteps above us in the kitchen, starting and stopping as someone moves around. Harriet is right; the old bones of this house don't provide a lot of cushioning or soundproofing. You can hear everything down here.

I wish I could see everything, too. Right now, at this very second, someone could be looking through my report, their fury mounting.

Despite the air and space, I'm not comfortable in the basement. It isn't just a remnant of the panic I felt in the elevator. The thick, suppressive current that pervades this house flows down here, too.

When I can't stand to be here for another minute, I thank Harriet for showing me around. She takes the hint and leads me past her bedroom to the spiral staircase that is tucked away in a far corner near a storage room.

"I'll meet you upstairs," she tells me. Then she turns and walks to the elevator.

As she does, I hear something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I swear it's a girl's voice saying "Hi!"

I spin around, expecting to see Rose standing behind me. But the space is empty.

"Rose?" I call out, my voice shaking.

Harriet turns around to face me, a puzzled look on her face. "Rose isn't down here, Stella."

I heard Rose say "Hi!" Didn't I?

I keep looking around, expecting to see her pop out from behind a piece of furniture, smiling that same grin she showed me at the Waffle House.

Harriet resumes limping toward the elevator, and I hurry up the spiral staircase, the metal clanging beneath my steps, and find myself in yet another room I haven't seen before. It holds a deep purple velvet couch and matching chairs, with thick curtains covering the windows. It has the feel of an extraneous space, a room that is never actually used. Could Rose have been up here, leaning over the staircase, uttering that one word?

It's possible. Her voice was like the first beep from a smoke detector, impossible to locate with just that single reference point. It could have originated anywhere.

Or it could have been my imagination layering my worst fear onto a different kind of sound.

I keep turning around, scanning my surroundings. Every inch of me feels exposed.

It hits me like a thunderclap: This happened to Tina, too.

Eerie voices called to her in this house, too. Ashley told me Tina heard her grandpa saying her name in the night.

I make my way to the kitchen in time to see Harriet stepping off the elevator. No one else is around. My eyes go instantly to my bag. It's exactly where I left it, with the Barclay name still peeking over the top. I reach for it and hook it over my shoulder.

"Please tell everyone I thank them for their time today."

Harriet's eyebrows lift. "Are you leaving already?"

I nod, trying to remember the lines I'd planned. "But this isn't the last time you'll see me. I'll make sure I have the chance to say goodbye to Rose."

Harriet seems to fumble for words. "It's hard to believe this is over."

"Almost," I reply.

Then I walk to the front door and step out onto the porch.

I make my way to my car quickly, feeling the skin-tingling sense that someone is watching me.

No matter what else is going on in this plastic house, I know this for sure: Every single member of the Barclay family has had the opportunity to snoop through my folder.

Someone would have been tempted. Someone would have been desperate to know what I'd written.

Someone is going to erupt.