The Chick and the Dead (16 page)

Remember, I said I had a plan. On my way toOhioCity , I'd stopped and bought a flashlight. Armed with it but reluctant to turn it on until I was safely in the attic, I inched open my door and stepped into the pitch-black hallway.

I'd already checked out the lay of the land, and I knew the location of the door that led up to the attic. Of course, finding the right door when all the lights were on wasn't the same as finding it in the dark. In the dark, the old house seemed bigger, emptier, and spookier than ever. The floorboards groaned, and after each step I took, I paused, just to be sure no one had heard me. When no lights flicked on and no one came running, I continued on. One hand on the wall to anchor myself, I inched my way down the hallway, and when I got to the door that led to the third floor, I took a deep breath and wiped my damp palms against my jeans.

As ready as I was ever likely to be, I opened the door and turned on my flashlight. I started up, one creaking stair at a time.

As it turned out, the attic was huge. It was just as cluttered as the first floor. And way more dusty. I slid the beam of my flashlight over boxes and trunks and furniture covered with old sheets. I sidled between stacks of packing crates and stopped dead when I ran smack into one of those old dress forms that look like a woman's body—minus the head. She swayed and tilted, and good thing I have quick reflexes, I grabbed her by the shoulders right before she crashed to the floor. Like a million tiny fairies dancing in the shaft of light, a puff of dust rose up from the dress form. I sneezed.

And froze.

I waited for a minute.

Nothing.

I waited for another minute.

Still nothing.

If either Merilee or Bob had heard the sound in the attic, neither one of them was heading up to investigate.

Reminding myself to be quick and more quiet than ever, I whispered the directions I'd gotten from Didi, my voice muffled by the head-high wall of boxes on either side of me. "The windows that look out over the front sidewalk. The board below the windows is loose and if you lift up one corner…" I arced the thin beam of light around me, heading in the direction I thought was the front of the house, carefully threading my way between one of those mirrors on a swivel stand and an old metal storage closet taller than me. Just on the other side of it, I found the window and breathed a sigh of relief. There were no boxes piled nearby, and I was grateful. At least I didn't have to move anything. I'd just knelt down for a closer look at the floorboards when I heard a sound from across the attic. Like the tread of a footstep.

I held my breath, listening for I don't know how long. When I didn't hear the sound again, I told myself my imagination was on overdrive and the sooner I got out of the attic and back to my room, the better. With that it mind, I ran my hands over the floorboards.

Just as Didi said, one of them was loose. Just as she assured me it would, when I pressed on the corner of the loose board, it tipped up. Just as she told me to, I wiggled it out of position and looked beneath it. There was a twelve-by-twelve space below the floorboards. Just as Didi promised. And just as she'd described it, it was big enough to hide a manuscript.

Trouble was, it was empty.

In spite of the way I sometimes act, I'm not stupid. I'd known all along that this was a possibility. Still, facing the reality of the empty hiding space, and the fact that it meant that Didi's claim to authorship of So
Far the Dawn
was as close to fiction as she'd ever get, made me feel as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. I struggled to catch my breath and listened to the words that echoed inside my head.
You actually believed me? How naive can you be?

The voice was my dad's. No big surprise there. My reaction, however, was. Though I'd spent close to two years dealing with Dad's lies and the maze of legal troubles (not to mention the social pariah-ness) caused by his selfishness and his greed, I guess I had yet to come to grips.

A tear slid down my cheek.

I wiped it away, sniffled, and scrubbed a finger under my nose.

That's when I realized my hands were clean.

All right, I know I just said I wasn't stupid, but honest to gosh, I'd been so busy concentrating on Didi's directions and the thrill of finding her hiding place, it never occurred to me when I knelt down that the floor was bare.

I mean, really bare.

I arced the beam of my light over the boards.

Not two feet away, the floor was coated with dust. But here near the window, it was clean. As if something had been piled here and that something had been moved.

Someone had been here before me.

I was so busy thinking through this new discovery, I didn't pay any attention to the catlike sound behind me. Not until it was too late, anyway.

The next thing I knew, I heard a thump and then a crash. I jerked upright and aimed my light across the room, but it was already too late.

The last thing I saw was the metal storage cabinet. It was falling. And it was headed right at me.

I knew what it felt like to be knocked out. After all, that's how this whole Gift nonsense started in the first place. After I got knocked out from knocking my head on Gus Scarpetti's mausoleum. That time, I'd come to my senses in the ER of the hospital.

This time…

The sound of a groan penetrated the fog that filled my head. It took me a couple of seconds to realize the noise was coming out of me.

I opened my eyes to total darkness. I knew I wasn't dead because I could feel my cheek pressed to the attic floorboards. My stomach was flat to the floor. My legs were asleep, and I tried to move them. I wasn't worried until I realized I couldn't.

I tried my arms, and this time had more success. I swept my left arm over my head at the same time I groped around for my flashlight with my right hand. I didn't find the flashlight, but I did figure out why I couldn't see anything. There was something soft and warm over me. Something that felt like an animal. It's not every day you wake up and feel as if you're being smothered by a Wookiee. With a screech, I plucked at the thing. My hand closed around fur and something that felt like silk lining.

"Fur coat," I told myself with a little hiccup of relief, and just to prove it, I pulled the coat off me and flung it as far away as I could.

That's when I saw that it was already morning.

Pale gray light seeped in at the windows, and for the first time, I was able to take a look around and assess the damage. Instantly, I saw why I couldn't move. My legs were pinned by the metal storage cabinet. I twisted out from under it and sat up, my back to the wall, pushing my hair out of my eyes and realizing how lucky I'd been. When the cabinet fell, it didn't hit me in the head. Instead, whatever had been stacked on top of it had come down on me. The fur coat had kept me warm all night. The wooden box that lay next to me (open and empty) was what must have conked me into unconsciousness. Nothing was broken. I knew that for a fact because I flexed my arms and legs and everything was working, even if it all was a little stiff. Still, a night on the attic floor hadn't done much for my looks or my mood. The taste of dust filled my mouth, and when I swiped one hand over my face, I felt grit dig into my skin. A deep pore cleansing was in order. ASAP.

So was a change of clothes. The left knee of my jeans was ripped. The right strap of my tank top was torn. There was a smudge of dirt across my pink cardigan.

And none of that was as disturbing as the questions that bounced through my head. When the cabinet came down, it made one hell of a noise. Hadn't anyone heard it? And if so, why hadn't they come to see what was up?

There was only one way to find out. I dragged myself to my feet.

As anxious as I was to get out of there, I couldn't avoid the whole private investigator thing. On my way across the attic, I stopped to check out the spot where the cabinet had previously stood. In my dazed and confused state, I had yet to question what caused it to fall or if the sound I heard (or at least I thought I heard) right before it tumbled had anything to do with the mishap. Now, in the anemic morning light, I saw that the floor nearby was scuffed, the dust kicked into little mounds. As if someone had stood there and pushed.

My blood went cold, and another barrage of questions assaulted me.

If someone tipped the cabinet over on me on purpose, was it to scare me?

Or kill me?

I glanced around, but there was no sign of anyone there now. Still, I wasn't taking any chances. I bolted across the attic, heading downstairs in search of answers, coffee, and a long, hot shower. Not necessarily in that order.

I might have opted for the shower first, but the moment the attic door closed behind me, the aroma of coffee enveloped me like a wonderful, caffeine-laden cloud.

Dirty face and torn clothing be damned. I hurried to the kitchen to find a good, hot cup of Java. What I found instead…

Well, how can I possibly express the mix of horror and embarrassment I felt when I walked into the kitchen and found Quinn Harrison in there pouring himself a cup of coffee?

At five eleven, with a 38C bust and hair the color of fireplace embers, I'm not exactly easy to forget. Still, I swear that when Quinn heard me out in the hallway and looked over his shoulder just as I saw him and froze in the doorway, it took him a second to register that he knew me. But a second isn't very long, and I could tell exactly when the truth dawned.

That would have been when his jaw tensed and his shoulders went rigid.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in." He took a sip of his coffee, examining me over the rim of a mug that was decorated with pink roses and the letters ISFTDS in flowing script. "Don't tell me, let me guess. You missed me so much, you tracked me down all the way here."

"I didn't miss you." I lied, but hey, like I should feel guilty? I was dirty, disheveled, and feeling like shit. Better I should lie to the man who topped my would-like-to-jump-his-bones list than look like a complete loser. I tried not to limp when I crossed the room.

Keeping my distance—from Quinn and from the uncontrollable urges (see the above reference to jumping his bones) that swept over me whenever he was around—I reached for a mug and filled it with coffee.

"And I didn't have to track you down anywhere," I told him almost as an afterthought. "I work here. In fact, I'm living here for the summer."

"You're kidding me."

I was in the process of rummaging through the cupboards in search of sweetener, and I made a face at him. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

He glanced from the tips of my sneakers to my ripped jeans, and from there to the top of my head. Big points for him, he didn't ask why I looked as if I'd spent the night on the floor of the attic. He was more the cut-to-the-chase type. "You look like hell."

"Thank you very much." I finished with the cupboards and tried the drawers of the baker's rack that stood next to the stove. "Which explains why I'm getting a cup of coffee." I ransacked one drawer and started on another. "Want to tell me why you're here?"

Don't ask me where he got it, but he held up one of those tiny bags of sugar. "This what you're looking for?"

Okay, so it wasn't sweetener and the calories were empty. I wasn't in a position to argue. I plucked the sugar out of his hands, ripped the bag open with my teeth, and dumped the contents into my cup. "Were you going to make me beg?" I asked him.

I had meant it as one of those—what do you call them?—rhetorical questions. But Quinn took it at face value. He set down his coffee, cocked his head, and leaned back against the countertop, his arms crossed over his chest. "I'll tell you what," he said. "I'm kind of liking the sound of that. You begging, that is. Does this scenario have anything to do with you being down on your knees?" Have I mentioned that Quinn is gorgeous?

Of course I have. I can't possibly talk about Quinn and leave out the gorgeous part. Gorgeous is as much Quinn as his take-no-prisoners attitude and the wardrobe that came from a place where cops shouldn't be able to afford to shop.

Today was no exception. Navy suit. Crisp white shirt. Red tie. All of it expensive. All of it designed and tailored to make the most of the chipped-from-granite chest, the lean and stubborn chin, and the dark hair that was so thick and wavy, I had spent more than one night dreaming about running my fingers through it.

None of which meant I was going to crumble.

At least not this early in the game.

I pretended I had no idea what he was talking about. Just like I tried to convince myself that what he was talking about didn't make me tingly all the way down to the tips of my toes. Instead, I reached for a spoon and stirred my coffee. "You haven't explained why you're here."

"What can you tell me about Merilee?"

I shrugged. So what if the broken strap of my top slid down my arm and made the front of the tank dip just a bit? For all he'd put me through, Quinn deserved a little torment. I saw him glance at my chest. He was tormented, all right. It cheered me right up.

"Merilee is my boss," I said.

"What about the cemetery?"

"I'll be working at the cemetery again. As soon as Merilee leaves town."

"And how did you get the job here?"

"What, you don't think I'm qualified?" I had to give myself credit. Even I knew I wasn't qualified, but still, I made it sound like I was offended.

"Oh, I'll bet you're plenty qualified." Quinn reached for his coffee and took another sip. "But you're talking about being qualified to work here at the museum, and I'm talking about…" His grin was hot enough to smoke the angels out of heaven. "Well, never mind." The smile I shot back at him was tight around the edges. Maybe because I was tired. Or maybe there was just so much grit on my face, I couldn't manage anything more sincere. "Only if we're talking about me working as Merilee's secretary for the summer," I told him.

Though he tried to corral it, Quinn couldn't control the fleeting expression that crossed his face. It looked like worry to me. But then, I'd had a rough night. And finding him there in the kitchen had been something of a shock. Maybe I was just imagining it.