Pearl had left her car parked on the Cove Road turnaround again and walked in, in case Tristan should show up. A squirrel chittered at her as she approached the fence and wrapped her hands around the bars, looking up at the house with its burn scars and socketed windows.
She walked aimlessly, lost in thought, running her fingers along the bars until she reached the front gate. It was massive, like the entrance to the Emerald City. Nobody else had security like this on Millionaires’ Row—fences, yes, alarm systems, but not a fortress. What, or who, had the Garrisons been so worried about keeping out, right from the first day they moved to Tenney’s Harbor?
Pearl rattled the gate on a whim. It moved, sliding a few inches forward over the grass. Surprised, she shoved harder, then walked the gate open wide enough to slip through.
Tristan had left it unlocked with the same half awareness that allowed him to leave keys in ignitions and hundred-thousand-dollar boats floating at deserted island docks. Knew he’d left it open, but couldn’t be bothered to retrace his steps and remedy it. Even from here, she could see the big black combination lock hanging from the front door handle, the signs declaring private property.
She followed the walk, grass and weeds creeping up through the slate slabs. She imagined Bridges’s and Akil’s feet passing this way, sometimes Hadley’s, sometimes Quinn’s, when the house was still pristine New England white from foundation to eaves, the clapboards touched up by Dad’s paint roller each spring. Imagined music pounding from inside and silhouettes passing by the silk drapes on the nights when Tristan had thrown his epic parties, inviting the rest of the summer kids to tear the place down.
Some of the blinds were missing from the kitchen windows, and she cupped her hands against the glass, peering in, a little apprehensive about what she might see. Cupboards, marble countertops, a stainless-steel fridge twice the width of their Kenmore at home. Cream-colored floor tiles smeared with ash, which someone had made a halfhearted attempt to sweep up. A few grim artifacts: a cup and bowl on the draining board, a cardigan hanging from a hook by the side door.
Pearl dragged over a planter to use as a step stool to see into the parlor. A Christmas tree stand lay on its side in the corner—of course, the ten-foot balsam would’ve been there, framed in the three-paned bay window, probably with white lights and carefully coordinated ornaments; no construction-paper-and-glitter creations from childhood like the kind Dad faithfully hung on their tree each year. There was a bald rectangle above the mantel and another on the floor, where a painting and throw rug had been removed. Through the doorway on the right, the base of the center stairway was visible. The steps were blackened, strewn with ash and chunks of plaster.
She climbed down and walked the circumference of the house, looking up at the bare second-story windows, most of them smoked dark, like the glass panel in a gas boiler. She remembered from the Time article diagram that Cassidy’s room was adjacent to her parents’, with an arched window that looked out over the backyard and woods.
The window was directly above her now, and Pearl stopped, looking up. Like the rest, the glass was cloudy and streaked, but she imagined it having lace curtains before, maybe a window seat beneath. She took a few steps, and sunlight bounced off the panes, vanished, flashed again. Like a signal. A beacon saying look at me.
She stood there, reminded of another flashing light, a flicker, really, one she’d pushed from her thoughts as residue from Reese’s talk of hauntings. Another signal. Maybe.
Pearl went back around the house and replaced the planter, making sure she hadn’t left any sign of her presence before dragging the gate shut behind her and heading for the trees, faster and faster, until she was running. She had her phone to her ear before she even made it back to the car, relieved when Reese picked up after only two rings.
“I think I know where to look.”
Twenty
“HOW MUCH TIME do you think you’ll need?”
“I don’t know. Probably not a whole hour?” Pearl saw the look on Reese’s face and tossed her hands up. It was the next night, and the dining room and the start of their dinner shift waited beyond the kitchen doors, strains of Steve Mills singing “When Sunny Gets Blue” rising over the current of conversation. “Well, there are a lot of rooms. And I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“But you’ll know it when you see it, huh?” When she shrugged, he sighed, glancing over at the rear entrance to the kitchen. “How sure are you about this?”
“It’s a feeling. I’m going to do it either way. You don’t have to help.”
“Haskins, I’m helping. You’re the one who actually cares about keeping her job here.” He took her shoulders and steered her ahead of him, massaging her like a fighter. “If Meriwether comes sniffing around, I’ll give her an ankle to chew on until you’re clear. Sound good?”
“Thanks, Reese. I mean it.”
He split off from her, and the evening began, passing far too quickly, the hours slipping through her fingers as she greeted and served and cleared away, nervous energy propelling her toward what was easily one of the craziest things she’d ever done.
At nine o’clock closing time, Pearl wiped down her section, topped off the salt and pepper shakers, and made a pretense of counting her tips as the other servers prepared to go home. Then, grabbing her bag, she went to the staff restrooms, chose a stall, and climbed up on the toilet tank, where her feet couldn’t be seen beneath the door.
The restroom had already been cleaned for the night, and everything was damp, smelling of bleach. She closed her eyes, listening to the distant sound of footsteps, the occasional laugh carrying from the kitchen. Overhead, the energy-saver sensor light turned off, leaving her in blackness.
Eventually, all sound stopped. Pearl shifted on the cold porcelain, checking the time on her phone. Nearly a quarter to ten. Everybody must be out by now. She slid down, making the light blink on again, and went to the door, peering out.
The sconces in the corridor were still on. She had no idea whose job it was to make sure all the lobby lights were off at night, but generally everybody who worked the front desk and office was gone by five o’clock. Except sometimes salaried employees, like Meriwether.
With that, there were footsteps, and Pearl jerked back through the doorway, forcing the slow-close door shut with her hip. Light, quick steps across the hardwood, joined by others, and Meriwether’s voice rang out in the silence. “Mr. O’Shaughnessy? Can I help you?”
“Not unless you’ve got my car keys.” Reese spoke in the usual bored monotone he used with the assistant manager. “Can’t find them anywhere.”
A short, tense sigh. “I haven’t seen any keys. It’s way past closing time, so I suggest you call someone for a ride.”
“I can’t just leave my car here. Look, they’re around somewhere—I went to the bathroom during my break, so maybe—”
“No one is supposed to be back here.” Pearl pictured the telltale vein standing out in Meriwether’s brow. “You already have one write-up. It would be wise not to push it. If you don’t have a phone handy, use the lobby line.”
“Okay, okay.” Reese muttered something more under his breath.
“What did you say?” The silence stretched on, so long that Pearl strained her ears, wondering what she was missing. Then it hit her: the restroom was still bathed in light; the motion sensor hadn’t timed out yet. Meriwether could be staring at the strip of light beneath the door right now.
Pearl shoved the manual switch over, sending the room into darkness again. The moment stretched on—then Meriwether said, “I asked you to repeat yourself.”
“I said, yeah, I’ve got a phone. Right here, see?”
“Very impressive. Use it outside in the parking lot.”