My overhead light illuminated a wide swath of the rectangular hall. If anyone was there, he or she clung to the shadows. I stared into the dark corners, listening. My muscles tensed. From the other end of the hall came a thin, scratching sound. Rodents, I thought, calming myself. Then the main stairs creaked.
I moved forward silently. They creaked again-it sounded as if the noise came from the bottom of the stairs. Someone had tread on them, someone had descended from the third floor before I turned on the light. I rushed across the hall.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I stopped suddenly, surprised to see Patrick alone in the schoolroom. He was writing on the blackboard, his chalk making the scratching sound I had heard. Distracted, I lost precious seconds on the person trying to get away.
I hurried down the steps. The night lamp in the second-floor hall suddenly went out. I stumbled, caught hold of the railing, and continued on. But with the night lamp extinguished and bedroom doors closed, the darkness on the second floor was thick as velvet. I paused at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn't remember which side of the hall the lamp was on or the location of the wall switches. All I could do was listen and try to hear where the person was going. There were a number of exits from the second-floor hall: the bedrooms, the stairs down to the first floor, and the hallways to each wing.
My ears ached to hear the slightest movement. Then a faint crack of light showed. It came from the direction of Robyn's wing. The sliver of light darkened for a moment, all but at the top, then shone again just before it disappeared completely. I replayed the sequence in my mind, trying to figure out what I had just seen: Someone had opened a door into a softly lit area, passed through it, then closed it.
I remained still, fixing in my head the exact way the light had shone. From where I was standing in the second-floor hall, the door into Robyn and Brook's quarters opened straight on. But Mrs. Hopewell, with rooms in the connecting section between the main house and their quarters, would have a door along the hallway-not straight on, but to the right. I was fairly sure the light had been angled from that direction. I wriggled my shoulders at the thought of the housekeeper silently opening my bedroom door and looking in while I slept. Had she roused Patrick? Was she the one talking to him about Ashley?
I hurried upstairs, making no effort to be quiet. Patrick was still at the blackboard, writing one sentence beneath the next, like a child who had been kept after school and made to write one hundred times "I will not talk in class." But his message was far more chilling: You can't hurt me.
I stared at the repeated lines, then entered the room. "Patrick, what are you doing?"
He kept writing.
"Patrick, stop."
When he didn't, I reached out and turned his face toward me. He blinked, but there was no recognition. I uncurled his fingers and took away the chalk.
He gazed at me blankly.
"Wake up, Patrick. You're not in bed. Wake up." I gently shook his shoulders.
He blinked again and turned his head away from me to look around the room. He was awake now.
"Patrick, how did you get here?" I asked.
He continued to look around. "I don't know."
"Do you remember climbing out of bed?"
He shook his head.
"Did you hear something? Maybe you heard a noise and got curious?"
He thought for a moment and shook his head again.
"Were you talking to Mrs. Hopewell?"
His eyes grew wary. "Where is she?"
"She's in bed now. I thought you may have seen her earlier."
"No."
I pointed to the sentences on the board. "You wrote this. Who wants to hurt you?"
He rubbed his eyes. I don't know. I forget."
I took a deep breath. He was exhausted, and he really might not remember. I reached for his hand. "Do you think you can walk with me back to your room?"
"Yes."
We went by way of my bedroom and the back steps. He climbed into bed willingly.
"Would you say it?" he asked as I tucked him in.
"Say what?"
"Left and right and starlight," he prompted.
I swallowed hard. "Of course." I leaned down to kiss him on his forehead, and then, as my mother used to, placed a kiss on each eye, saying, "Close your eyes, left then right. Good night, starlight."
Chapter 8
Sunday morning I checked on Patrick as soon as I awakened. He didn't remember the events of last night-l asked him directly. A few minutes later, Emily came into his room and chatted about what they were going to do together that day. When Patrick realized that it was my day off and I wouldn't be spending it with him, he put up a fuss. Emily's mouth drooped, her feelings hurt. Patrick's fuss turned into a tantrum, and I exited quickly, knowing he would keep it up as long as I was there.
I had planned to show Adrian the writing on the blackboard, but he wasn't available. Uncertain about how Emily would react, I decided to talk to Adrian alone when I returned. I didn't want the others to see the board-they might be inspired with new ways to upset Patrick-so I wiped the slate clean before leaving Mason's Choice.
At Amelia's bed-and-breakfast I had seen an ad for Tea Leaves, a bakery and cafe on High Street. I drove into town and parked at the top of the street, where I found two spaces together, making it easier for me to slip in from the "wrong" side of the road. As I walked down the town's main street, my heart grew lighter than it had been since I'd arrived at Mason's Choice. Everything was so normal and cheerful.
People walked dogs and carried fat Sunday newspapers under their arms. On the steps of a church, families poured out, adults and children bursting to talk, their breath making clouds in the cold air. Shops were closed, so pedestrians strolled the sidewalks like patrons at an outdoor museum, pausing at store windows to see what they framed.
As I neared the cafe, I caught sight of a familiar figure across the street. Trent stood at the door of an old hotel, the Queen Victoria, talking with a woman dressed in a businesslike red suit-the hotel manager, I thought, the one Robyn deemed beneath Westbrook standards. The woman and Trent were so intent in their conversation, they didn't notice me. I studied them as I walked, my head turned sideways.
"Umph!" My ear banged against somebody's chest.
"You walk worse than you drive," Sam said.
I stepped back quickly. "Sorry. You might have stepped out of the way," I added.
"And let you crash into that tree?"
I glanced at the sycamore behind him, part of the row that lined the brick walk.
"Okay, next time," he said agreeably, then gestured toward the cafe. "They make the best doughnuts in the world. You should try some, Kate."
It was the first time he had called me by my name. I heard the way he said it-and I felt it, too, somehow.
"That's where I was going," I said, taking a step toward the door.
"Me too."
I hesitated and he laughed.
I think there is room enough in there for both of us," he said, "even if you can't stand me."
That wasn't why I'd hesitated. Now that he had been nice to Patrick, it was doubly dangerous to be around him. I didn't want to meet his dark eyes and nurture this lunacy inside me.
He reached for the door and held it open, waiting for me to go through.
I can open my own door."
He walked through and let it slam in my face.
I took a deep breath and entered. There was a mob around the glass cases, so I didn't have to stand next to him. He took a number, then I took a number. We went to opposite ends of the bakery shelves, but both of us gravitated toward the center, to a seductive tray labeled "cheese pastries." There were six left.
I hope there are more of those in the back," Sam said, glancing sideways at me.
"How many do you eat?"
"Six."
When his turn came he bought all six, then turned around and offered me three. ' "Thanks, but I prefer doughnuts," I lied.
1
saw the twitch of his mouth and the light in his eyes. I looked away, annoyed. I was doing my best to be prickly and off-putting, and he found it entertaining.
I ordered cinnamon doughnuts to go, paid, and headed for the door, looking neither left nor right. It was a relief to step into the brisk air. I turned toward the riverfront, then heard footsteps behind me.
Sam strolled next to me, chewing a pastry.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Eating. Walking. Being friendly. I would have left with you, but I was waiting for you to do your door thing," he explained. "Trade you a cheese Danish for a doughnut."
"No thanks." I wasn't going to be seduced. "But you may have a doughnut."
His hand dove into the bag. "Do you act like a cactus with everyone?"
I didn't respond. We crossed the street and continued down another block.
"Maybe you kind of like me and are just pretending."
"That's an interesting theory," I replied.
"So, where's the short guy today?"
"Patrick? With his mother and headed for a concert. It's my day off."
"I owe him an apology," Sam said, "but since I don't think he realizes it, I'll apologize to you. I'm sorry I was a jerk. It's stupid to judge people by their parents. It's not like we get a choice."
We walked on silently, he seeming much more at ease than 1.
"So," Sam said, "can Patrick and you come to the play-off game next Saturday?"
"We're planning to. It will be good for him."
"And for you?"
"It's entertaining," I said.
We had reached the public dock, a large wooden platform that jutted over the river, with pilings for temporary docking. On a cold day like this, it was deserted. I sat down on a bench facing the river and Sam sat next to me. Maybe it was just the roughness of the water and the way the wind came off it and wrapped around us, but I was very aware of Sam's closeness and warmth. Part of me wanted to move even closer to him; part of me wanted to move away.
He was staring at me again.
"Didn't your mother teach you not to stare at people?"
"She tried, but it didn't take," he said. I don't pretend, Kate. I look where I want to look, except when I'm playing hockey. Don't your ears get cold?"
"Because my hair is short? No colder than yours."
"They're bright red. You look like you've got a rose stuck on either side of your head."
I covered my ears with my hands. "You have such a way with words."
He took a wool hat out of his pocket and put it on my head, pulling it down too far, then adjusting it, carefully rolling back the edge around my face. His big hands were surprisingly gentle. His thumb brushed my cheek. It felt warm where he touched me.
What was happening to me? How could I find a guy who said my eyes looked like green pop bottles and my ears poked out like roses in any way romantic?
His dark eyes swept my face. That was how.
I couldn't think of anything to say. I turned my face away from his, pulled my shoulders in, and folded my arms in front of me, as if I were cold. Out of the comer of my eye, I could see him smiling, as if he guessed I wasn't doing that to stay warm.
"So how old were you when you learned to play hockey?" I asked.
He tilted his head slightly, perhaps trying to decide whether I was truly interested or simply making polite conversation.
"I started skating when I was four. My dad taught me. He had grown up near a rink in Brooklyn and loved to skate." Sam's voice grew warm. "When we moved here from New York, they had just built the rink at Chase-it's an old college, and they keep trying to be like Harvard. Anyway, Dad would take me there every chance he got. He taught me a little about using a hockey stick. Then, well, then, a year or so after Dad died, when I was six, my mom enrolled me in lessons and then a league."
"Your father died?" I repeated quietly.
He nodded. "After his death I became an angry little kid. Mom hoped sports would help me channel that. It did more-it earned me a college scholarship.
Nothing too impressive-to Chase-but it's full tuition for four years."
"Congratulations. Your father would be very proud."
"Yeah."
I heard the wistfulness in his voice.
"I'm sorry." I thought of telling him that my own father had died recently, but sometimes, when people respond to your sadness by immediately telling you their own, it's as if they take away the importance of yours. We sat quietly, watching the gulls, which had discovered us and were circling close, hoping for a handout.
"I want to get Patrick started in hockey," I said at last. "He's a kid with some problems, and it would help him to get involved in a team sport."
"What kind of problems?"
"It's a long story."
I have three more Danishes and can chew very slowly."
I told Sam about the situation at Mason's Choice, the quarreling and resentment, and the way Adrian's cancer and the favoritism he showed Patrick made a bad situation worse. I recounted how the others treated Patrick, ending with my suspicions about the loss of his hamster.
"They'd kill a little kid's pet? Don't they have anything better to do with their time? I can't believe it-though I don't know why!" The anger in his voice surprised me.
I have no proof that it was deliberate, but I'm suspicious. Brook used to do the same kind of thing to Ashley, let out her pets, though we usually found them."
"Ashley-the girl who was murdered?"
"Drowned," I corrected. "She fell through the ice."
His eyes narrowed. "You said, 'we usually found them.' Who is we?"
"My mother and I. My father was an artist hired by Adrian, and my mother sometimes took care of Ashley. We played together."
"You're-you're Venerelli's daughter!" He spoke it like an accusation.
"That's right."
He hurled the pastry straight out in the river. The gulls dove.
"Is that some kind of problem for you?" I asked.
"You might say that." When he looked at me, his eyes were cold black glass. "My father was a detective for the N.Y.P.D. We moved here because the violence he saw every day was getting to him. My mother grew up on the Eastern Shore-it was the only other place they knew. But Dad had trouble getting work in Wisteria-all his training and experience were in detective work-so he hung up his shingle as a private investigator. He was hired by Adrian Westbrook to investigate Victoria Venerelli."
"Investigate.. my mother-why?"
"For killing Westbrook's granddaughter."
For a moment I was speechless. It was like being in a dream, trying to scream, wanting desperately to tell him he was wrong, but unable to make a sound.
I rubbed my throat. "No one killed Ashley. She fell through the ice."
"Or she was pushed."
"She was looking for her rabbit!"
"Okay, she was lured," he said.
"By my mother? You're mad, you're completely mad!"
"By whoever took the rabbit, then placed it on the ice."
I was outraged. Victoria wasn't capable of murder. She was too motherly a person-before she ditched her only child, I reminded myself. How could I presume to know anything about the woman who had abandoned me?
Still, what motive was there? I regained my composure. "She had no motive."
Sam stood up and paced back and forth behind the bench.
Joseph was right, I thought. I couldn't trust Adrian, telling that tale about my father's artistic temper tantrum. No wonder he was nice to me now. He was responsible for my parents' sudden departure, frightening them, hiring a private detective to find evidence against my mother. My father probably stole the ring because he knew they'd have to lie low for a while, but when my mother left us, it became possible for him to work in the open again.
My thoughts took a surprising turn: Maybe my mother hadn't really wanted to leave us. Maybe she had had no choice. But if she was innocent, why would she have run scared? Perhaps she was g
uilty — at least, of neglect.
"She had no motive," I repeated to Sam. "Didn't you hear me? What is your problem?" I asked angrily.
"Dad was following your parents the night they left Mason's Choice. Later the sheriff received a call about a possible accident. They found Dad's car upside down in a ditch. He was dead."
I mouthed Sam's words silently, trying to understand them. I felt sick, the taste of cake going sour in my throat. I remembered huddling between the seats of our car, terrified of the storm and the speed at which my father was driving. The car had taken a sharp turn, then spun out of control. I remembered the crashing sound that came almost immediately after our car had stopped. It was deer, my parents said, a herd of them rushing across the road and crashing into the brush on the other side. Farther on, at a dark petrol station, my father had made a telephone call. He never told me that someone had been following us that night, that someone had been killed on the road.
I rose, the liquid in my stomach threatening to come up. Steadying myself, I walked past Sam. A distance away, I stopped to look back. He was kicking at the planks in the dock, jamming the toe of his shoe against the uneven edges.
"Feeling sorry for yourself?" I asked.
He looked up. "I don't expect you to understand. Your parents and Westbrook are responsible for my father's death. Hating them helped me get through it."
"At least you have your mother," I replied, "which is one more parent than I."
"What do you mean?"
I continued walking, heading toward my car, wanting to get away from him. I, too, was good at feeling sorry for myself. Like Sam, I had dealt with the pain of losing a parent by turning it into anger and resentment. I had funneled my hurt into an effort to hate-hate my mother. And I suspected that, in the end, the effort had brought as much peace and happiness to Sam as it had brought to me, which is to say none.
The Deep End of Fear ds-4 Page 8
