“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said to herself.
She took the key from the hook and tried it in the padlock. It fit, turned, and unlocked the clasp. With her heart hammering in her chest, she pulled the padlock from the hasp and opened the door. A gust of stale air brushed over her face, as if the house were exhaling after decades of holding its breath.
To her surprise, the opening behind the door was even smaller than the door itself, like an entrance made for children. The upper edge hung a foot lower than the top of the doorframe, and the bottom edge rose a foot from the floor. In stark contrast to the shiny wallpaper and glossy wainscoting on the outside of the door, rotted, wormy wood surrounded the opening on three sides, and the mortar below the warped threshold had cracked and fallen away, revealing pitted craters of filthy plaster. Black streaks of tar ran down the plaster like melted wax. The opening reminded Julia of abandoned houses, or hiding places for Jews in black and white WWII photos. She shivered. Had the hidden door been there the entire time she was growing up? Maybe there really was someone living behind the walls.
Weak light from the outer room fell across the grimy landing of the opening and what looked like a bottom step. She picked up the flashlight, turned it on, and shone it into the door. Her light revealed a cramped, narrow stairwell with worn wooden steps and a tangle of electrical wires running along the edge of the slanted ceiling like a black snake. Chunks of yellowed wallpaper hung from the stairwell like flaps of dried skin, revealing broken patches of lathe and plaster. It looked like a tight fit, and the space above the steps remained hidden in darkness.
She stood transfixed, her heart kicking in her chest. Maybe she should wait and ask Fletcher to go up with her. It was going to be dark soon, and tomorrow, during daylight, they could go up together. Because what if she found the rats? What if one of the steps gave way and she broke her leg? What if one of the attic floorboards snapped around her ankle like a bear trap? No one would find her for days.
Then she remembered telling Claude about the rats in the attic. If she went missing, he would know where to look. Besides, she couldn’t wait until tomorrow. She had to know what was behind the hidden door. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought, and stepped into the dank opening.
She made her way up the steep stairs one step at a time, testing each step as she went, cobwebs clinging to her arms and face. The air was close and musty, and plaster and dried paint crunched beneath her shoes. Up she went, moving slowly and shining the flashlight on every worn rung to check for rotted or cracked wood. Halfway to the top, she felt dizzy and stopped. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself, then realized she was holding her breath. She inhaled deeply a few times, then moved up the staircase again. Near the top, she pointed her flashlight toward the ceiling. The circle of light revealed wood planks and rough-hewn beams soaring above her like the upside-down bowels of an old ship.
The attic.
Finally, she reached the top step and cast the flashlight beam around the attic, which was even bigger than she’d imagined. And on that rainy day, it was dark up there, the far reaches of the vast space hanging in shadows. The dormer windows were few and far between and crusted up with watermarks and mold. It was so quiet she could hear the creak and sway of the house, and the rain filtering through the leaf-choked gutters. Except for narrow walkways snaking through cobweb-and dust-covered piles of normal attic things—old trunks and dressers, mirrors and wardrobes, empty picture frames and faded portraits, china sets and books, boxes and crates and another headless dummy—every inch of space was filled.
No wonder there were rats up here. It was a rodent paradise. But how would she ever find out where they were getting in, let alone go through all of this stuff for clues about her dead sister and whatever sins her parents had been hiding?
She sighed and started through a narrow walkway, testing the strength of the floor as she went. It squeaked and groaned, but seemed sound. Faded portraits and landscapes hung from rusty wires on the opposite wall at the far end of the attic, their frames skewed this way and that. She made her way toward them.
When she reached the paintings, she stopped in her tracks. There was another door in the wall, a foot up from the floor.
“What in the world?” she said to herself.
This time, though, she didn’t have to search for a key. It hung from a hook next to the doorframe. She unlocked the door, turned the knob, and the door creaked on its hinges and swung inward. She took a deep breath and stepped over the high threshold into another part of the attic. To her surprise, it was bare, except for an empty bookcase and two cane-back chairs.
And then she saw a third door.
CHAPTER 27
LILLY
Outside Lilly and Cole’s sleeper car, the sun was blazing and the air was heavy. The land was flat as far as the eye could see, and the lot was covered in dry grass the color of hay. The roustabouts were raising the tent city, and the clatter of chutes, shouting, cursing, and the thunder of four-horse hitches filled the air. They were in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, and if Lilly’s estimates were right, it had been nearly two years since she and Pepper made their first appearance under the big top on these very grounds.
After her daughter, Phoebe Lillian Holt, was born, it didn’t take long for word to travel that The Albino Queen & Her Elephant were back from Europe, and the crowds entering the big top doubled. Mr. Barlow was happy, and so was everyone else. The money coming in was better than ever, and that made up for everything. Four to five nights a week they performed at a new spot, and for the first time ever, Lilly was getting paid on a regular basis. She and Cole owned their own sleeper car, and Lilly finally convinced Glory to leave Merrick for good, retire from the freak show, and take care of Phoebe when Lilly and Cole were working.