I needed to be away ... not to hurt him, not to abandon anyone, but to think. To process. To finally escape this hell.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Artisan
Cards from the index box were piling up on top of my shoes. All the numbers were looking the same, the wheel of the telephone making me dizzy in my repetitive insanity. I phoned the theater, the tearoom, her parents’ home, as well as Lorelei’s. All those who answered couldn’t place her; all those who didn’t answer were suspect.
She had been missing all day. I had no way of knowing if she’d gone to the police to turn me in, or to her father to beg him to spare her, or if she’d run away altogether in light of the minimally satisfying options at home.
Why couldn’t she just trust me? I had it handled.
Smoothing down my hair for the half-dozenth time, my jaw turning to stone from how long it had been clenching, I kicked away the pile of calling cards scattered across the floor. Pacing incessantly as if to warm up my blood for more efficient flow to the brain, to magically clear my head and give me all the answers.
“Fuck!” I shouted, kicking the cards again, a few of them fluttering in the air, accompanied by several larger moths.
Crunch.
I stopped, tilting my shoe to reveal a fatally pressed moth against the sole. It winced, shaking as its own fluids stuck it to the floor. Anothercrawled past, sticking itself in its partner’s mess. Doomed by the spillage of one another, no flailing would save them now. Then another crawled out from the paper.
“Where are you coming from?” I muttered, brushing the cards from the floor in search of more clumsy trespassers.
The vibrations of my footsteps sent a few scuttering from under the brand-new rug.
Moths coming from under something was never a good sign.
I pinched the tasseled edge of the hallway runner carefully, lifting the corner.
The underside was moving, shifting.
At first it was a dizzying illusion, then I saw in between the fine threads were even finer strings of translucent larvae, falling away in their gluttonous state as the carpet lifted. They pittered onto the floor like boiled rice, thinking themselves stealthy as they rolled between the uneven hardwood.
I tucked my nail into a gap, the wood remarkably ill fitted and loose.
Tossing the carpet away, I inspected the surrounding flooring. One notoriously jutted panel of the hall stuck out awkwardly, several bent nails holding it in place. I assumed it was just poorly fitted wood, but it seemed to be a haphazard mend.
I hurried to the kitchen, digging between chemicals and cookware under the sink for something useful. Neglected in the back of the cabinet were a few small tools, nothing worth using.
I went to clear the clutter from the living room tables, the chair. I checked inside boxes, to no improvement in my luck.
Then, the fireplace. A small stand with a poker and sweep collected dust beside the hearth. “That’s it.” I grabbed the cast-iron poker.
With swiftness, I drove the pick between the floorboards, bending to try to lift them. The poker jolted, releasing the plank from the hold of the nails. Upon freeing it—the most egregious smell permeated the air.
In the long, narrow view between the neighboring boards, a pale, stiff hand.
“My God . . .”
I broke the plank, then was able to wedge up another, then another.
Just the breaking of planks and movement of the musty air was enough to encourage the reek. A scent so natural and primal, it was smothering, the earthiness of a dying flower, completely uncultivatedfaex.
Her arms were bent rigidly across her chest, no more color to her skin than the powdery wings, dehydrated and void of life, pale in the eyes from what I could see between the moths.
The insects were as still as she was. Which might have been an unremarkable observation if she were not covered by hundreds, if not thousands, of them in various stages of life.
Her gaze was lowered, as if in disappointment at the state of her being, doomed to watch her body follow the soul. Her face youthful yet sunken, with the exception of the hole in her cheek and nose. The moths had almost gotten her eye, but they’d expired just before they could dig in. Luckily, I couldn’t see, as their wings shielded that wound from view, like a painting, still and delicate.
At this point, I had no choice but to cover my mouth and nose with my own handkerchief. Deep breaths of composure, telling myself it would be all right if I just breathed.
