Eighteen

EIGHTEEN

An hour later, everyone has seen the nest behind the furnace. Everyone has come to the same undeniable conclusion. We are dealing with the family tragedy of addiction.

Still, we're cautious. Jin grabs a spade he spotted in the garden and brings it down, apparently as a potential weapon. Then we all search the basement, just to be absolutely certain there's no chance Brodie crawled behind a stack of chairs and died of an overdose. He didn't. He was here, and now he's gone.

"I'm very sympathetic to Mrs. Kilmer's situation," Cirillo says as we head back upstairs. "But her son has a key to this house, and that's very troubling. I had a younger brother who suffered from addiction. Thankfully, he pulled through, but there was a time when we couldn't leave him alone in the house, and not just because we feared an overdose. He stole everything he could get his hands on."

"And we're leaving laptops just lying about," I say.

"Not only that but… We don't know this young man and how desperate he is. We could be in danger of losing more than valuable but replaceable tech."

"Are you saying we should leave?" Shania sneaks a look my way. "Obviously, it's up to Nicola, but I'm willing to take whatever precautions are necessary."

"Precautions should be enough," Cirillo says. "We'll speak to Mrs. Kilmer and be compassionate but firm. We'll lock the doors and put something behind them to alert us to entry. We'll check all the windows to be sure they are closed and locked. Nicola and Shania should share a room, if that's all right with them."

I glance at Shania, who nods. She's obviously eager to stay. We're close to getting proof of an afterlife, and that's what she's here for.

"Can anyone think of other steps we can take?" Cirillo asks.

"I'll think on it," Jin says. "I'm really hoping, though, that a talk with Mrs. Kilmer will do the trick."

"It should."

After my nebulizer therapy, Jin and I head out to speak to Mrs. Kilmer. We'd debated driving, but the bugs seem better today, and I really could use a walk. I wear my vest to get that over with.

As we quick-march down the road, I swat at bugs and growl under my breath. "I thought they were better."

"They are," Jin says. "Doesn't mean the stragglers are any less annoying."

I pull up the hood on my sweater and cinch it tight as the bugs drift around us. Individually, they don't make any audible noise. They just fly into us and drift around us.

"I'm not sure what I'm more annoyed with," I say. "The bugs themselves? Or the fact that I'm letting something so harmless get on my nerves."

"And there, Nic, you have a metaphor for life." Jin swats at insects. "Or maybe it's a simile? A symbol? I'm a science guy. The point is that it's easy to let the little things bother us, even when they're harmless. One or two minor annoyances pass with barely a ripple, but when they're nonstop, like these damn bugs, it's a constant irritation that doesn't let us relax. Then we get annoyed with ourselves for not toughing it out. Like we get annoyed with ourselves for being conned into hiring spiritualists to contact our dead husbands."

"That was the worst segue ever."

He shrugs. "I take them where I can get them. You're angry with yourself for not toughing out the bugs. You're angry with yourself for not moving faster through the stages of grief. You're angry with yourself for being conned by charlatans who take advantage of that grief. Stop being so hard on yourself. The bugs annoy you. Accept it. Accept that you'll experience grief your own way, and that the ones to blame for preying on that are the predators."

"I don't like being prey," I mutter.

He puts an arm around my shoulders in a quick squeeze. "I know."

We walk past a row of maples, and Mrs. Kilmer's little house appears ahead.

"Do you think Dr. Cirillo is preying on me?" I ask.

Jin shakes his head. "No. I don't consider his field hard science, but he isn't a quack running home experiments. He's the closest thing to legitimate you can get. Or, at least, that was my impression when we hired him."

"And now?"

"Now?" He shrugs. "I'm still not ready to believe anyone can speak to the dead but . . I heard Anton's laugh the other night, Nic. I can tell you've had more happen, including things you aren't ready to discuss with me. We're on the cusp of something here. A breakthrough. An answer. If that answer is ultimately silence, then that is an answer. If Dr. Cirillo can't summon Anton, then I don't think Anton can be summoned."

Jin looks over at me. "How are you feeling about it?"

I lean my head to touch briefly on his shoulder. "Same. I'm not ready to accept what I'm experiencing as proof, but I feel that either we're going to get that proof or the lack of it will answer my question. That doesn't mean Anton isn't somewhere, just that he can't communicate with me."

The Kilmer house is tiny compared to Eventide Manor. I'd peg it at mid-twentieth century, a little brick bungalow with a fence surrounding a yard that would be massive in the city. The gardens are immaculate and already bursting with flowering annuals. More flowers hang from baskets. In the middle of the front yard, there's a chair under a tree, with a little table that begs for a book and a glass of lemonade.

The driveway is empty, but there's a garage that I'm hoping holds Mrs. Kilmer's vehicle, meaning she's at home. As we head up the drive, I realize that I don't know whether there's a Mr. Kilmer. I get the impression there isn't and hasn't been in a very long time. Widowhood? Divorce? Or just never a "Mr." Kilmer in the picture?

Until she mentioned a son, I would have guessed she lived alone. I'd had multiple conversations with the woman when Anton and I were here last time, and yet all I knew for sure was that she was an excellent cook.

The front door is teal blue, like the garage door. A burst of cheerful color against the gray brick, bolder than I could have expected from the woman I've met. There's an antique door knocker, polished bright.

I use the knocker, and I swear I'm still lowering it when Mrs. Kilmer throws open the door.

"Mrs. Laughton." Her face lights up with such a glow that my heart sinks. I tell myself I'm wrong. She's just happy because her son has come home.

"Hey," I say. "I've been thinking about your son, and I wanted to see whether you've heard from him."

She deflates, and I know she opened this door hoping we'd brought news… because she doesn't have any.

She doesn't answer. Just shakes her head.

I glance at Jin, seeing my own disappointment reflected back.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say. "I really hoped he'd returned. We managed to get into the basement, though."

She goes still, and that look on her face now makes me feel cruel, as if I'm intentionally inflicting this pain on her.

"He's not down there," I say quickly. "All four of us searched the basement thoroughly because…"

Yep, I need to rip off this bandage. It's the only way to set her mind at ease on this one score—that her son isn't dead of an overdose in a hidden corner, our "thorough" search being the half-assed check of people who don't understand the situation.

"There's a sleeping bag down there," I say. "And… used needles."

Her entire body sags. When she speaks she seems to be forcing the words out. "I was afraid of that. I knew he was going somewhere to… do it, and he swore he didn't have keys to the house, but I found oil on his shirt once, like from that old furnace."

"He isn't down there," I say. "And we didn't break the door open. It was ajar this morning. If he was down there, he left."

Her eyes fill. "I am so sorry. He was—he was such a good boy. He still is, deep down. But when he moved out, he fell in with new friends. I'm trying to get him into a program, but there's a waiting list."

"You don't need to explain," Jin says softly. "We're just glad he seems to be okay."

"If you want to come up and look around the basement," I say, "please do. I understand why you didn't explain the situation, but now that we know, we want you to be sure he's not in the house, and we would strongly suggest you call the police."

She nods. "May I come over now?"

"Absolutely."

We walk back with Mrs. Kilmer, and now I do wish I'd driven, because that's one hell of an awkward walk. Do we talk around her addicted son and his disappearance? Discuss the weather instead? Thankfully, Jin takes over the conversation by steering it toward help for her son. Working in a hospital, he has a better understanding of what's available, and Libby will know even more from her perspective as a therapist.

There are many wonderful things about living in a country with a national health-care system. It allows someone like Mrs. Kilmer to get help she likely couldn't otherwise afford. However, just because help is free doesn't mean it's freely— readily —available for mental-health issues and addiction.

If you can pay, there are private clinics and rehab. The free version has a wait list, and the system isn't always easy to navigate. Jin offers help with that. He can put Mrs. Kilmer in contact with the right people so Brodie gets the help he needs sooner than he might get it going through the usual channels.

It's wrong that she needs this kind of networking to get help for her son, but our health-care system isn't perfect. As someone with a chronic illness, I know very well, though I always hesitate to bring it up in front of Americans, knowing some will leap on "it's not perfect" as proof that a national health-care system doesn't work.

Back at the house, I warn Cirillo that Mrs. Kilmer is coming in. I expect he'll balk, but the guy isn't a monster. He understands that as much as he might like to keep our "lab" pristine, finding Mrs. Kilmer's living son is more important than contacting my dead husband.

We take Mrs. Kilmer downstairs. She tries very hard to ignore the sleeping-bag nest, her cheeks coloring each time she glances that way. A symbol of a shame—and maybe a guilt—that she takes very personally.

We let her search the basement to her heart's content although, again, there's not much to search. In the end, she must admit that the scenario seems to be what I first imagined. Brodie was in the basement, and then he snuck out last night. The only difference between my theory and the apparent reality is that he didn't go home.

She apologizes profusely for what he did, but she doesn't ask us to keep it a secret, and I appreciate that. I don't want Brodie losing his job over this. I certainly don't want Mrs. Kilmer losing hers. But if it comes to a missing-person search where the police need to know he was in the house? Then that's in his best interests, whatever the fallout.

For now, we're letting her handle this. She has promised to go to the police. What she tells them will be up to her, for now.

This settles the mystery of the noises I heard the first night and the locked door that was suddenly open. No supernatural explanation needed for either. I can put that aside and get back to the reason we're here.

We eat lunch together, and then Shania has an online meeting and Cirillo wants to take some readings in the basement, now that it's open. Jin and I retire to the sitting room. I can't help it. I'm drawn there, pretending I just find it unexpectedly cozy when I'm really hoping to hear from Anton.

Would I rather be alone? On the one hand, if Anton's here, I want him to be entirely comfortable reaching out. On the other hand, if anything happens again, I'd like a witness. So when Jin offers to keep me company, I don't argue.

We both work on our laptops. I'm mostly doing correspondence. Part of me would love to get wrapped up in coding, but I just can't find that degree of focus. Better to get the less enjoyable tasks out of the way.

Yes, I find coding enjoyable. It's problem solving, and I can get as immersed in it as Anton would get in his mathematical equations. We were both in the rare and enviable position of having jobs we genuinely enjoyed. That was one of many things that drew me to him. I'd been with guys who complained nonstop about their work, or who made me feel guilty for liking mine, as if I were giving in to "the man." I wanted a healthy work-life balance, but I also didn't want to be mocked for enjoying my job.

Within an hour, I achieve inbox zero. That sounds impressive until I admit that I have a very organized email system that snoozes anything I don't need to handle right away. Once all the important emails are answered, I move on to project management, double-checking my schedule and moving things around my task list.

I'm in the midst of switching the order of two projects when I hear my name.

"Nic…"

I glance at Jin, even as I know that's not his voice. It's Anton's.

Jin doesn't notice my pause. He's typing something, his keystrokes far softer than mine, but his attention even more riveted on his task.

"Everything's okay," Anton whispers.

Jin's head whips up, and he looks from side to side before his gaze shoots to me.

"Did you hear…?" he says.

"Yes," I whisper, barely able to get the word out. My heart hammers so hard I have to struggle to breathe.

When Anton's voice comes again, it slides from another corner of the room.

"I love you," he says, barely louder than a sigh. "I'm waiting."

"Holy shit," Jin breathes, his eyes wide.

"You… heard that?"

"Anton's voice? Saying he loves you, that he's waiting?"

I nod, my entire body drum-tight, my teeth aching from clenching.

Don't get too excited. You've been fooled before.

As if reading my mind, Jin glances toward the door and whispers, "We need to be sure, right? That Dr. Cirillo isn't doing it? With speakers or something?"

Another wordless nod. Jin slides silently to his feet and eases the door shut. Then he comes back to me.

"Anton?" Jin says, looking around.

No response.

"If you're there, can you give us a sign?" Jin says, and then whispers to me, "Is that how it's done?"

I'm going to say something sarcastic when I see the earnestness in his eyes, and I say, neutrally, "That's classic séance-speak."

"Which means it's probably Hollywood bullshit."

"Classic spiritualism, I should say, which predates Hollywood."

Jin looks around. "Anton?"

Nothing.

"You try," Jin says. "If he's come back, it's for you."

There's something in those words that sets the hairs rising on my neck. Jin says it with that same earnest calm, but what I hear is almost a threat.

He's come back for you.

I'm waiting.

This is Anton, and that's not how he'd mean it.

I entreat him to speak to me, but there's no response.

"Where did you hear his voice coming from?" I ask Jin.

"I think—" Jin stops. "No, we should approach it scientifically. Close your eyes. I'm going to mark the directions I thought the voice came from. Then you'll tell me where you heard it."

I give him a look.

"Do you have a better idea?" he says.

I shake my head and shut my eyes.

A moment later, Jin tells me to open them and says, "So where did you hear the voice from?"

"Two directions." I point. "There, near the door, and there." Another gesture. "From that bookcase."

He walks to the love seat near the door and takes a piece of paper he'd placed behind it. Then he takes another from the bookcase I indicated.

"What exactly did you hear?" he says. "I only clearly caught the last lines, which I wrote here." He lifts the paper from the shelf. "For the other one, I wrote what I thought I heard."

His second note exactly matches my recollection—"I love you. I'm waiting." For the first, Jin thought he heard "It's okay" instead of "Everything's okay."

"Can we agree that's close enough?" he asks.

"It is."

"So now we search for speakers."

We take everything off the bookshelf and examine each item. Look behind the bookcase. Look under the bookshelves. Look behind and under the love seat. Take out the cushions of the love seat. We even check for holes in the fabric where a speaker could have been stuffed inside.

"Nothing?" he says.

"Nothing," I say.

A slow grin spreads across his face. "So we heard him, right? We really heard him."

I nod, not daring to speak. Jin catches me up in a hug and then says, "Let's go tell Dr. Cirillo."