Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

We go back to bed after that. Cirillo makes me promise to be careful. He even asks, for tomorrow night, whether I'd be okay switching to the room with two twin beds and sharing with Jin or Shania. I say I will, on the condition we don't tell Jin about my near falls. If Jin knows, he'll worry, and he'll also be compelled to tell Keith, who will drag my ass home.

I will be more careful. That was the real danger both times. Carelessness. On the stairs, I'd been distracted by hearing noises downstairs. In the bathroom, I'd been distracted by the dumbwaiter.

Walk with care. Hold railings. Pay attention.

I crawl into bed but it's soon obvious that I'm not going back to sleep. It's after five, and I'm far too unsettled. Maybe I'll go for a walk to clear my head.

I roll out of bed and open the blind. It's still dark, but the bugs are definitely there, their buzzing audible even through the windows.

I yank the blind down hard enough that it flips back up when I let go. I ignore it, dress, and head downstairs. If I can't walk today, I'll wear my vest while emptying the dishwasher, tidying the kitchen, all the little things in a house where everyone feels like a guest and waits for the nonexistent host to clean up.

At least everyone's been putting their dishes in the dishwasher, although I have doubts about whether they were rinsed. Rentals don't usually have new or high-powered dishwashers. Maybe I should wash dishes by hand. It's been a long time since I did that, and I don't mind—it was my chore as a teen. Put in my earbuds, hit a podcast, and off I go.

I get downstairs, and that bubble of purpose pops. Suddenly, the couch and a coffee and my book seem like a far more tempting combo. I brew a pot and take my book onto the sofa. No sitting room for me just yet. That's a little too isolated in a predawn house where everyone else is sound asleep.

I'm halfway through my coffee when a sound comes from the hallway. The click of a door latch. Someone must be up early. I'll tell them there's a pot of coffee ready.

I head into the hall. It's empty. The door I figured I'd heard click shut is the one to the bathroom. It's wide open, and the light is off. So what did I…?

The basement door is open.

I blink. I must be seeing wrong. It seems to be just barely ajar, as if someone pulled it shut but it didn't latch.

I walk over.

The door is definitely ajar. The knob turns easily in my hand.

It was locked last night.

No, it was locked an hour ago when I checked it.

It's open now, though.

Was Brodie in the basement and now he's up here?

I shake my head sharply. I've read too many weird news stories where someone moves into a new house and discovers a stranger living in the attic. The attic would make sense—there's probably a window to climb in and out. But a windowless basement, where they could only come and go through the house?

Also, if Brodie wanted to flee, he'd have come up in the middle of the night. Same if he wanted to murder us all in our sleep.

Yeah, I've definitely read too many stories.

We aren't dealing with a killer in the basement. If it were even remotely possible that Brodie had been down there, it was because he was looking for a place to sleep. Maybe he had a fight with his mother and snuck into the basement to sleep… only to realize too late that the house was occupied and he didn't dare come upstairs again.

But there are cars in the drive. Two of them. He'd have known the house was occupied.

As I'm working this through, I'm on the move. I check the front door. It's locked.

I circle through the main level. Empty. The rear entrance is also locked.

I end up back at the basement door. There's no one in the house, and no sign that anyone left. I haven't heard a footstep or a creaking board. Just the click of this door opening, as if from a change in air pressure.

As if it hadn't been locked.

But it was just an hour ago.

Am I sure? Apparently, I hallucinated an old newspaper and dripping blood around the same time.

I rub my temples. Then I open the door wide. Making sure I have my cell phone in my pocket, I turn on the light, and I head down, one step at a time with my hand firmly on the railing.

At the bottom, I glance over my shoulder. The door atop the stairs is still open. I check my phone. I have three bars. All good.

No, all is not good. You are in a basement that has been locked since you arrived.

"Hello?" I call.

Yes, because clearly the serial killer hiding down here will answer you.

That's ridiculous. There can't possibly be a serial killer down here. The probability of both a killer and a ghost being in the same house is infinitesimal.

I snort a laugh under my breath.

Maybe it's a serial-killing ghost. Or the ghost of a serial killer. Dad always said I was an overachiever. A mere ghost or mere killer wouldn't be enough for me.

I peer around the basement, which is well lit, the bulbs overhead not even wavering. As spooky basements go, it's kind of disappointing. Oh, the floor and outside walls are concrete, the inner ones drywall and tape. Those bulbs don't have any fixtures attached. But it's the cleanest—and emptiest—unfinished basement one could hope to find.

This first room is the one where they'd kept the washer and dryer. And there's still a washer and dryer there, probably so the cleaners can whip through the bedding and towels faster by using both sets.

There's a shelf with detergent, bleach, dryer sheets, and empty laundry baskets perfectly stacked. Otherwise, this room is empty.

I'm turning when I catch sight of a panel in the wall. A panel that looks a lot like the one on the dumbwaiter shaft. Because that's what it is. The dumbwaiter would have been used for moving things from one floor to another, and one of the main things it would be moving is laundry.

I open the panel. It's empty, of course. What did I expect? The front page of a twenty-two-year-old newspaper? Drops of blood?

I'm about to shut it when I remember something else that should be in there. The penlight I dropped. I use my cell phone to examine every shadowy corner of that space, and there is no sign—

Nope, there it is.

I didn't imagine looking into the dumbwaiter shaft then. Just the part about seeing the newspaper and feeling blood drops.

I dwell on that for a moment before I scoop up the penlight, shake off my thoughts, and refocus on the basement. Doors lead to other areas on either side. When I'd been here with Anton, both had been locked, which made sense when the basement was only open for laundry access.

One of those doors is still shut. The other is cracked open.

As I pass the stairs again, I look up. Yep, the door at the top hasn't mysteriously swung shut. I approach the partly open door down here with care, listening intently. Once I reach it, I knee it open and jump back. Nothing leaps out at me—or scurries away—so I reach in and flick on the light. Then I stay in the doorway and look around.

It's exactly what the owner had said earlier. Extra storage. Outdoor furniture, folding chairs and folding tables, boxes labeled WINEGLASSES and LINENS . The house is available for events—dinners and small weddings—and here's where they store the supplies. The door was open because, with the upstairs one now locked, there's no need to secure this one.

I back out and shut the door behind me. Again, I check upstairs to be sure the main-level door is open. Then I continue to the closed basement one. I reach for the knob and turn, expecting it to stop, but it continues turning, unhindered by a lock.

I repeat my ridiculous "safe entry" routine. Knee it open. Jump back. Wait for noises. Turn on the light. Push the door wider open and survey from the doorway.

It's the furnace room, which contains… Wait for it. The furnace. And holy shit, Anton was right—the thing is massive, taking up half the room. In fact, it seems to be two furnaces, one smaller and more modern and the other the ancient behemoth Anton remembered, complete with a door for shoveling in wood. There's also a hot-water heater. Otherwise the room is empty.

Well, that's underwhelming. Maybe there's another door? The basement seems smaller than it should be.

Are you really looking for a secret room?

Not really.

Okay, kind of?

I return to the storage room, and I can see all four walls. Same as I can see the fourth wall in the laundry room—the other three holding the stairs and two doors. When I map it out, I must admit there isn't a chunk missing. The basement seems small because the entire area hadn't been excavated. It's a perfect rectangle, comprising those three rooms.

Disappointing, indeed.

The only wall I can't quite see is behind that monster of a furnace. I'm walking toward it when a scratching sound halts me. The sound stops, too. When I move forward again, I listen, but it doesn't come.

I'm lifting my foot when I feel something under it. I lean against the furnace and raise my stockinged foot to find a piece of concrete from where the floors are crumbling. That must be what made the sound—the stone-sized piece scraping against the concrete floor.

Did it sound like that?

No, it sounded more like…

I'm not even sure, but I don't hear it again, so I chalk it up to the pebble. Then I catch another sound. This one soft but distinct.

A drip.

The very clear sound of a droplet plinking onto metal. I turn slowly, trying to track it… and my gaze lands on the hot-water heater.

Yep, the sound of water dripping in a room with a water heater. Shocking.

It didn't seem to come from there, though. It came from closer to the furnace.

I look up to see pipes snaking everywhere. Including pipes from… the water heater.

Really? Are you that spooked, Nic? Freaking out at drips and scrapes in a furnace room? It's a wonder the whole furnace isn't groaning.

Well, no, it's not a wonder because the active furnace is new, as is the water heater. The monstrous old one probably hasn't been used in decades. It's just still here because the house was built around it, and it's not going anywhere.

I nearly turn and walk away before I remember what I'd been doing. Not investigating strange noises but looking at the other side of the furnace.

Right, looking for your secret room.

Hey, I'm going to be thorough, because I know how this goes. If that door upstairs doesn't slam shut, locking me in, then once I leave, it'll relock before I can fetch the others. I am checking all possibilities while I'm down here.

I take another step, and when my foot slides, it's only the barest of slips, but my brain goes wild, proving I'm not nearly as calm as I'm acting. Both hands fly out to catch myself, one slapping the side of the new furnace.

As I catch my breath, I chastise myself for overreacting. I hadn't nearly fallen. My toe had just slipped a little on something.

Slipped on what?

I go very still and slowly glance down. I catch sight of plaid fabric under my foot and I dance back with a yelp, remembering what Mrs. Kilmer said about Brodie wearing a plaid jacket. In my mind, I'm stepping on a dead body. In reality, I've stepped on the slippery edge of a plaid sleeping bag.

An empty sleeping bag.

I catch my breath again as I brace against the furnace. The sleeping bag is tucked into a gap between the old furnace and the new one. If I hadn't walked over here, I'd never have seen it, which seems to be the point. A hiding spot with a sleeping bag and a rucksack. Empty pop cans and chip bags spill from a grocery-store polyester bag clearly being used for trash.

It looks like a teenager's hidey-hole. The place he goes to escape parents who are just too annoying to handle for a moment longer. Brodie might not be a teen, but if he's troubled or developmentally delayed, this could still be where he comes to escape an overprotective mother.

It's clear he's not here, though. The sleeping bag is empty, and that wall I came to check has no secret doors or windows. I bend to touch the bag. Cold. I'm pulling away when something pricks my hand and, again, I overreact, stumbling back and falling flat on my ass.

I lift my hand to see a tiny scrape, not even deep enough to draw blood. I crouch by the sleeping bag and pull back a fold where my hand touched down. A needle rolls out, the plunger depressed.

I pull up the sleeping bag. There's another needle underneath, and when I check the bag used for garbage, there are more in it.

The explanation for this could be that Brodie is a diabetic. I know more about the condition than most, because nearly half of CF patients eventually contract it when our disease affects our pancreas to the point where it no longer produces insulin.

But that needle isn't for insulin taken before Brodie consumes the snacks. I don't just find syringes. I find a rubber hose, a spoon, and a lighter.

Seeing that, I sink onto my haunches, overcome by a wave of sympathy for Mrs. Kilmer. We'd been trying so hard to figure out what "issue" Brodie might have. Why would she think her adult son might be in our basement?

Because he was shooting up. The owner said no one else had keys, but Brodie obviously found or made a set, using his position as a part-time groundskeeper. While the house would often be empty at this time of year, he still wasn't taking the chance of shooting up in the living room. He had his hiding spot down here, with snacks and a lantern, in a windowless space where even the glow of his lantern wouldn't be seen. A sheltered and warm spot near the furnace where he could do what he obviously couldn't do at home.

His mother knew he was an addict and, apparently, knew where he liked to shoot up, and she was handling it in her own way. Better to keep him at home and work on his addiction than give ultimatums that sent him into the streets, beyond her reach.

I understand her desperation now. Brodie came here to shoot up and maybe to sleep it off, and if he hadn't snuck back the next morning, that could mean her worst nightmare come true. Her son had overdosed. Overdosed in a place where she couldn't get to him, and she was obviously too afraid—of censure, of judgment, of losing her job—to tell the truth.

Had I known what she feared, I would have broken down the door. I'm horrified and heartbroken thinking of how panicked she must be, at how cruel we'd unknowingly been, brushing her off like that.

If Brodie had been here, he's gone now. Either he's been slipping in and out or he'd been on a bender for the past two days and snuck out this morning, forgetting to close and lock the basement door behind him.

I suspect he's already home, with an excuse at the ready for when his mother wakes. Still, I'll head to her house after breakfast. I won't shame Mrs. Kilmer by admitting I know the truth. I'll say I'm concerned and want to know whether he's come home, and she'll say he has, and that will be the end of it.

One mystery solved. Maybe I should be relieved, but I'm not. What happened to Anton was a tragedy made all the worse by the mundaneness of it. My life was ripped apart that night. On that same night, five people died in car accidents across Canada. Five other families experienced life-exploding pain that day and then five more the next day and five more the day after that. The same goes for this family tragedy. It is all too commonplace—a child caught in the grip of addiction, a parent desperately praying the next needle isn't their last.

These things happen. It's a breathtakingly cold fact, and it leaves me sitting beside that sleeping bag, crying for Anton and crying for Mrs. Kilmer and crying for a young man I don't know, until I hear Jin and Cirillo talking as they make coffee upstairs. Then I wipe away the tears and head up to tell them what I found.