She ignores him and keeps crawling. When she’s near the opposite side of the pool, she stops suddenly and sits down. Her eyes are closed and both palms are pressed flat against the concrete beneath her. “Here.” She slides over an inch or two and pats the spot under her left hand. “It’s right here.”
“Under concrete,” he reminds her. “Surrounded by a brick patio.”
“Call Sam. See if—”
“It’s nearly one a.m. On a Sunday. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. And I don’t know if he can even get anyone to issue a warrant based on another anonymous tip.”
“If he can’t get a warrant, I’ll come back myself with a damned jackhammer. Because Molly’s pink purse is right here.”
The lack of sleep hits me hard on the drive back. Aaron, too. He keeps rolling down the window so the cool air will jolt him awake. I offered to drive, but he could see that I wasn’t in much better shape, and Taylor was out before we even reached the main highway.
I try to focus on the Order of the Phoenix again but catch myself nodding off a few times before we reach North Beach.
And I don’t want to nod off tonight. I don’t want to sleep, perchance to dream. I definitely don’t want to dream without the pills Kelsey prescribed. But if I sleep at all, it will have to be without the pills. I won’t risk taking them when there’s the chance my phone could ring, even if it’s only another round of texting Notable Quotables.
I unload the bags of supplies we picked up at a convenience store while Aaron drags Taylor out of the car. She stumbles up the stairs without speaking. He kicks off his shoes and stretches out on the sofa, as he did this morning.
“There are two other bedrooms, you know. Much more comfortable than the couch. Plus there’s a security system. If anyone comes in, we’ll have a warning.”
He glances at the door and shrugs. “The couch is fine. I’ll sleep better here.”
“You are such a liar. I sat on that sofa today and felt the springs poking my ass.”
Aaron doesn’t argue, just pulls a pillow under his head and closes his eyes.
“Aaron, if I decide to leave, I’ll drop down from the porch outside my room into the bushes below. Or I’ll sneak out the back. If they contact me, and they tell me to come alone, I will be going alone. If the terms are me for Deo, that’s what they’ll get.”
His eyes are still closed, but he says, “Why do you believe they’ll let him go if you give yourself up?”
“Because Deo doesn’t have anything they want. Dacia said her bosses are interested in what I can do.”
“They’ve got a woman who can read minds. Cregg can apparently make people do whatever he wants. Why do they need someone who picks up ghosts?”
It’s a good question. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m the reason Deo is in this mess, but even if I wasn’t, I’d still be following their instructions to the letter.”
He doesn’t budge from the couch. I stand there for a minute, debating whether to just let him suffer.
“Okay. I can’t promise that I’m not going alone. But I will promise not to sneak out of the cottage without telling you. So would you please go upstairs and get some decent sleep?”
He agrees to the compromise, but he takes the room facing mine and leaves his door open. Trust but verify, I guess.
I close my door and splash my face with cold water. Then I turn on the TV, keeping the volume low. But there’s nothing that seems likely to keep me awake, so I flick it off and look through the old books stacked in the closet, probably left behind by vacationers over the years. Mostly spy thrillers (no), murder mysteries (no), and horror (hell no). There are a few romances, and even though it’s not my favorite genre, that seems like the best option for keeping me awake tonight. I pick the only hardback in the bunch, which looks ancient. Something called The Middle Window, from the 1930s.
It’s clear as I thumb through the first couple of pages that the book is sappy and sentimental, but it’s set in London. That’s different enough that it shouldn’t trigger any thoughts about my current circumstances.
I crank up the volume on my phone to max, in case I doze off, and settle in.
It’s dark and cold. A damp cold, almost like I’m in the snow. The person next to me on the tiny bed is shivering, her entire body shaking. “Are you sick?”
She doesn’t respond.
I reach onto the floor and pull the thin blanket around us. The wound on my left hand throbs as I try to tuck the blanket in. It’s pointless anyway—she’s thrashing too much. Then she screams, “El vine acum! Ajut?-ne! Ajut?-ne!”
Daciana shrinks back against the wall, pulling the blanket with her. The words are in English now. “He is here.”
I glance up at the ceiling, but there’s no light coming through the floorboards. “No! It’s okay. You’re dreaming.”
“No. No dreaming.”
And she’s right. I hear a thud, and then pinpoints of light shine through the slats. I hear his boots as he crosses the floor. When he throws the cellar door open, the light that floods in is so bright that I have to turn away.