The monitor at the left end of the shelf showed a room furnished with Victorian pieces like they had downstairs, rather than the modern style of ours. A couple slept peacefully in the bed. The room on the middle monitor looked almost identical, except it was papered in an old-fashioned rose pattern.
A movement caught my eye, and I inched closer to the screen. The couple—presumably the Siefferts, the ones who’d arrived before us—were awake. I hadn’t noticed this before, but they weren’t in bed. They were sitting on a matching pair of ottomans positioned close to the camera. And it appeared that they were fighting. Mr. Sieffert slumped back, arms folded across his chest, and his wife leaned forward, her chin jutted, lips moving fast. She was mad about something, that was for sure.
It was hard to tell with the low lighting and the grainy picture, but she looked like she might be the same woman I’d seen earlier, watching us from the dining room. She was slim, and her hair was the same lightish tint, blonde or gray, pulled back in a clip.
“How do you turn up the volume on this thing?” I murmured.
I twisted a couple of knobs along the bottom of the monitor, but nothing happened. Maybe there was another volume control. Or maybe Cerny disabled the sound at night. I drew back, chewing at my thumbnail, momentarily ashamed for prying into their private moment. The feeling didn’t last long, because another blip from the left monitor caught my attention.
Jerry McAdam—no more than a fuzzy gray blob on the screen—was climbing out of bed, easing out slowly from between the sheets. He disappeared into the bathroom, then a few seconds later returned and crept toward the sitting area. He eased himself down, threw a glance over his shoulder at the bed, and began thumbing at an old-school flip phone.
“Jer, you sneaky bastard,” I breathed, moving closer to the monitor. “You smuggled a phone into Baskens? I call a flag on the play.”
He set it on the arm of the chair. A few seconds later it flashed; he snatched it up and started typing again.
“Texting somebody, are we? And not your wife, obviously, as she’s just a couple of feet away.”
Suddenly, behind me, I heard a loud click and a whir. I leapt backward, bumping into the desk, bashing my hip bone. I yelped, then clapped a hand over my mouth. As I limped to the other side, the yellow pad caught my eye, and I smoothed the page. There were four names written on it, in all caps.
SIEFFERT.
MCADAM.
AMOS/BECK.
I looked back up at the monitors. The woman, Mrs. Sieffert, was alone now, her husband out of the frame. He must have gone to the bathroom. She had her head in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. She was crying.
The apparatus behind me beeped again, one long, tinny whistle, and the monitors went black, dousing the room in darkness. I froze, my heart pattering. Holy shit. This room was a minefield of cables and metal corners. How was I going to get out of here without impaling myself? Arms extended, I picked my way out of the room, managing somehow not to trip or bang any more body parts. After gently pulling the door closed behind me, I hurried down the stairs. At Dr. Cerny’s room, I paused for a quick beat, then continued down the stairs that I hoped would lead me to the kitchen.
I was right, thank God, finding myself in Baskens’s thoroughly modern and spotlessly clean kitchen. Commercial appliances gleamed; above them, shelves stacked with pots and pans and every conceivable cooking implement. Just beyond the massive double refrigerator, I spotted a door and was immediately rewarded with a pleasurable little spike of dopamine.
Ah, yes. The pantry.
I opened the door. Inside, wooden shelves lined the wall, one stacked with cans of soup and pickles and sun-dried tomatoes, another with dry goods. The rest were bare. I looked around, not quite able to stop myself from counting as I took it all in. There was a hanging basket with a few potatoes, onions, and apples. A glass jar of candy bars. Two boxes of cereal. Not exactly the bounty I’d expected to see. But maybe the cook brought in fresh food every day.
I snagged a couple of packages of peanut-butter crackers, an apple, and a bag of M&M’s, and, kicking the door shut behind me, carried my windfall back into the kitchen. As I did, one package of crackers slipped from my grasp and went spinning across the floor. I scuttled forward, anchoring everything with my chin, and reached for them, only to be met by the sight of a pair of expensive-looking black leather loafers.
I straightened, my face already hot.
The man, dressed in a dark sweater, tailored trousers, and the loafers, was in his late sixties. He had an impressive head of thick hair, mostly gray with streaks of honey, and a neatly trimmed beard. A smile played around his lips, deep dimples cleaving his cheeks, and I felt something twist hard and fast inside me, and the pain was so unexpected it took my breath away. He looked so familiar, like someone I’d known. Someone I’d loved . . .
It was Mr. Al, I realized. From Piney Woods.
He held out the package of crackers. “My apologies, I didn’t realize you were awake.”
I accepted them. “I’m sorry. Heath and I—we slept through dinner.”
“No apologies necessary. I’m Matthew Cerny. It is my great pleasure to meet you.”
“Daphne Amos.”
We managed an awkward handshake. His grip was firm, warm.
“I was hoping you didn’t stand me up because you were unhappy with something. Your accommodations, possibly. Something Dr. Teague said.” He grinned again. And there was that twisting sensation once more, deep in my gut. I felt breathless.
“Daphne?”
“Excuse me. No, everything is lovely. We just . . . we were so tired from the trip.”
“Feeling better now? More rested?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Would you like your dinner?”
“Oh, this will be fine.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Sit.” He gestured to a small table by the window. I sat and deposited my haul as he swung open the refrigerator and began pulling out an array of plastic containers. “We have a wonderful cook, Luca, but he goes home, back down to Dunfree, every night and doesn’t return until morning. So I’m afraid you’re left with me. No fear, however. I am well versed in the ways of the microwave.” He spooned leftovers onto a plate.
“You really don’t have to,” I protested.
“No, please, allow me. It’s a first, someone paying for one of my retreats but declining to meet with me. I have to admit, on one hand, it’s been making me feel like the last one chosen for the kickball team.”
I gulped.
“On the other . . .” He turned now and regarded me with a thoughtful expression. “It means we can be friends. I think I’ll rather enjoy running into someone this week who isn’t a client.” He put the plate in the microwave and punched a few buttons. He drew two wineglasses hanging from a rack above the counter toward him. “How about something to drink? How about a red?”
“Water’s fine,” I said.
“Problems with alcohol?”
I hesitated. “No. I just don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. And I’d like a glass myself.” He inspected a bottle on the counter. “They left us half.” He filled both glasses, then held his aloft. “I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free. Do you know the quote?” He looked hopeful. And even more like Mr. Al than I’d thought at first. It was the cowlick, just above his left eye. On Mr. Al, it had been endearing—made him look like a wide-eyed boy. It lent a certain charm to the doctor as well.
“No, sorry,” I said.
“It’s from Wuthering Heights. A classic.”
“It’s a good one. Evocative.” If a little bizarre for a toast. He clinked his glass on mine, and we drank the strong, mellow red. “When I looked at you, that’s immediately what came to mind. Heathcliff’s girl, making her way back to the old house, searching for her lost innocence. Her childhood love.”
The microwave beeped, and he pulled out the steaming plate.
“It’s just Heath, by the way. My fiancé’s name. Not Heathcliff.”
“Noted.” He set the food in front of me, along with utensils and a cloth napkin, then settled in the other chair. “So, shall we discuss the elephant in this shadowy kitchen?”
I blushed.