Having found nothing vile in the first drawer, it was easier to make herself open the second. A book entitled Conflict and Resolution sat on top, and she pulled it out to see underneath.
Beneath it was a notepad and pen, a CD, a small box of tissues and a jar of ointment.
Allie refused to look too closely at the ointment.
‘There’s nothing here,’ she called out.
‘Look under the bed,’ he replied.
‘Awesome,’ she muttered.
Sighing heavily, she climbed down on to her hands and knees to peek underneath the pine bed frame. Clean as a whistle. There was nothing there but a suitcase and a cardboard box.
She pulled the suitcase out first to find it empty. Methodically, she checked all the pockets, finding nothing.
As she worked, she thought about what Sylvain had said. How easily he’d seen through her attempt at normality after what happened in the woods. And she thought with guilt about how she’d treated him since Jo’s death – as if he were a problem she didn’t have time to solve. In many ways, she’d treated him the way Carter had treated her.
The realisation made her stop in the middle of closing the suitcase. Turning, she stared over her shoulder at the open doorway behind her. Through it, she could hear the sound of Sylvain shuffling through the contents of the desk drawers. She could envision his quick, intelligent movements as he searched for signs that his mentor had helped a murderer.
The floor felt cold beneath her as she shoved the suitcase slowly back into its hiding spot.
Ever since Jo’s death, she’d tried so hard not to feel anything. But now it was as if when Carter kissed her it opened a door she’d been pressing shut with all her strength. She was flooded with confusing feelings.
Sylvain was a complicated person, and they had a messed-up history, but he’d never once stopped caring about her. Never given up on her and found someone else. Never pressured her. She’d ignored him for weeks but still he’d waited for her. Been patient with her. He had been… constant.
‘Have you found anything?’
Sylvain’s voice made Allie jump guiltily, as if he might know she was thinking about him.
‘Nothing yet.’
The only other object under the bed was a cardboard box, and she pulled it now. The lid wasn’t sealed, and it appeared well used, as if the box had been looked through many times.
It seemed to hold mostly keepsakes and records. There were some old bank statements – she studiously didn’t read those – and a few bills and letters addressed to ‘Mr August S. Zelazny’. (What’s the S for?)
A book at the bottom caught her eye and she pulled it out. It was pale blue and white. The title read ‘Your Baby Book’.
Frowning, she opened it to find a picture of a tiny red newborn, his face screwed up in protest. Above the picture was the cheery heading ‘Your first photo shoot!’
The baby’s name was filled in below it. Arnold August Zelazny. The birthdate was fifteen years ago.
Zelazny has a son? She read it again, puzzled. He’d never mentioned a child. And he was clearly not married now.
She turned the page. There was a photo of a younger, smiling Zelazny, hardly looking like himself. He had more hair, a dimple in his chin. He looked relaxed and… joyful. With him was a smiling brunette, her hair in slight disarray, as if she’d just been in bed. Between them they held the baby carefully, as if he were made of the most delicate glass.
Allie stared at the photo in dismay.
What happened? she wondered, her fingers lingering on the edge of the page. The thick paper was slick beneath her fingers – designed to last for ever.
She had a horrible suspicion that something dreadful had occurred. Babies don’t just disappear from your life.
She turned the pages to find more photos of the baby. Growing hair. Smiling with tiny teeth. Dates when he took his first steps, said his first words. Cards from his first birthday party.
Then it ended.
With deliberate thoroughness she looked through the rest of the box but there was nothing else there about the child. It was as if his whole life was contained in that book.
Arnold Zelazny: What happened to you?
Carefully, she put everything back, and returned the box to its hiding place.
Sylvain appeared in the door. ‘There is nothing in the desk. Have you found anything?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
He looked relieved and she didn’t blame him. Maybe it wasn’t Zelazny after all.
He motioned for her to follow him. ‘We should go then. This is a waste of time.’
Standing, she turned to follow him. As she did, she noticed Conflict and Resolution still sitting on top of the bedside table – she’d forgotten to put it away.
‘Just a second,’ she called after Sylvain. Opening the bottom drawer, she grabbed the book hurriedly to put it away. But as she lifted it something slipped from the pages and fell, hitting the wooden floor with a metallic jangle.
Instantly alert, Sylvain returned to her side. ‘What it is?’
Leaning down they both saw the small silver key gleaming against the dark floorboards.