“So do I.”
“You didn’t know about the one in the living room.”
My eyes narrow with challenge. “Close your eyes and count to twenty.”
Chapter 17
HE ISN’T THE ONLYone who knows a thing or two about this old house. There’s a large framed painting in the hallway upstairs that conceals a storage area. Not very big—Violet used it for ice skates and tennis rackets, if memory serves—but big enough for someone to curl up inside of if they wanted.
“I can hear you running up the stairs!” he yells after me.
“Stop listening!”
“You’re bad at this game.”
“You’ll eat your words.”
I clamber inside the hole in the wall, close the picture behind me, and sit as still as possible. I’m a lot bigger now than I was the last time I sat in here. I have to squish my head between my knees to fit.
Wesley finds me in under a minute. “Hey there.”
“You cheated!”
“Ibestedyou.” He bites into a cinnamon-sugar donut. “Arethese my words? They’re delicious. I’m so good at making donuts.”
“I tell you to stop being nice, so you subject me to killer clowns and bad sportsmanship.”
“Your turn.” He shuts the picture frame on me again. I hear his muffled shout down the hall: “Count to twenty! And use Mississippis!”
Twenty Mississippi seconds later, I’m diverted in a number of dizzying directions thanks to Wesley’s switching on every television set in the house.Jumanjiis playing on FX, stampedes of animals throwing out red herrings every time I think I’ve heard him. The surround sound he’s set up in his art studio to amplify a spooky playlist is particularly evil.
“Gotcha!” I cry a dozen times, using a broomstick to poke flickering curtains and lumps under his bedspread. No Wesley to be found.
I shoot him a text.I see you.
It’s a bad bluff, and he knows it.Actually, I see YOU.
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
He adds:Ha. Bet I made you look.
Come out,I demand.
Can’t. Hide and seek is on Violet’s list. Wish number 6.
And to think I’ve been comparing him to angels.
But texting gives me an idea. I call his phone as I creep along, smiling wickedly when I peek around the corner of a hallway and spot a tiny white-blue light floating. I follow it, and footsteps, intoyet another secret passage I had no idea existed. Not simply a secret passage, but a secret stairway, leading into the ballroom downstairs. It was hidden behind a heavy floral curtain that I’d assumed was just another window. I’ll never trust a curtain again.
I was right on his tail all the way down the stairs, so there’s only one place he could have hidden so quickly. “Hmm, wonder who’s behind that Christmas tree,” I muse into the phone when he answers.
He walks out in a huff, hanging up the phone. “You cheated.”
“Ibestedyou, you mean.”
His mouth curves.
“I can’t believe there are all these hidden passageways,” I say. And if I sound jealous, I can’t be faulted for it.
