There doesn’t seem to be any way for me to get proof of Liam’s guilt on my own. I have to count on Sam’s ability to convince Drew to go to the police and urge them to delve deeper. Once the cops start taking a closer look at the party guests and wondering who had a motive, I can, as planned, turn over the list of addresses to them, and they’ll surely zero in on Liam.
The rest of the day drags on, with me doing my best to concentrate on work but failing miserably. I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve learned or worrying whether Liam and Tori suspect that I’ve been out there digging into their lives. Each time I get up to make a fresh cup of tea or grab a piece of fruit from the kitchen, I take my phone with me in case Sam calls or texts, but there’s no word from him. At the very least, I thought he’d fill me in about his visit to Drew.
By nine, I can barely keep my eyes open. Before heading to bed, I double-check the locks on both doors, reassuring myself that even if Liam and Tori have their suspicions, they don’t know where I’m staying. There’s still no word from Sam, and as I mount the stairs with my phone in hand, I can practically feel my anger pulsing in my fingertips. He doesn’t share my sense of urgency about finding the truth, and I don’t know how to fix that.
As I’m pulling back the bedspread, my phone pings with a text. I’m sure this finally must be Sam, but it’s Ava.
Hello dear one. Bookstore talk over and done with. Headed back tomorrow, how about an early dinner at the club? 7:00? Dan’s staying on for a couple of days, and he and Vic will do a working dinner so it can be girls only!
I’d love that, I write back.But the club only lets members pay and I don’t want you to have to treat me.
You can treat me in the city.
Deal.
I smile to myself, glad that I’ll be seeing her again soon.
Despite how warm the bedroom is, the sheets are cool, and I let my body sag in relief as soon as I’m between them. I’m so exhausted that sleep soon overtakes my swirling thoughts.
WHEN I NEXT OPEN MY EYES, IT’S PITCH-BLACK AND, I SENSE, NOTeven close to morning. Flipping onto my side, I squint at the bedside clock: 3:45. Since I don’t need to pee, I’m not sure why I’ve woken up. Was it because of a dream? Or an odd noise?
With bated breath, I strain my ears to hear. The only sound I notice is a light wind rustling the tree leaves. But as I lie in the tangle of sheets, I suddenly realize what’s roused me: a smell drifting from the open doorway to the hall.
The smell of smoke.
20
IBOLT UP, FLINGING THE TOP SHEET OFF ME, MY HEART GALLOPINGlike it might burst free from my body at any second.
Hold on, I tell myself.Maybe it’s all in my head, because what could possibly be burning? I ate leftovers tonight and didn’t use the stove.
I flick on the bedside lamp, swing my legs off the mattress, and stumble out into the hallway. The smell’s more noticeable out here, but not super strong—and thankfully there’s no smoke wafting up the stairs.
I step back into the bedroom just long enough to snatch my phone and then descend the stairs, gripping the rail. I don’t hear any crackling or snapping sounds, though the smell is still present. When I reach the bottom step, I fumble until I find the wall switch for the overhead fixture in the living room, which I have yet to use. The room floods with light and I scan it fast with my eyes. The odor is even stronger downstairs, but there’s no evidence of a fire.
I dart into the kitchen next, where I’d left the light on earlier. Right away, I see that the dials for the burners and oven are in the “off” position. I lift my eyes to the smoke detector on the ceiling. The green light is on, indicating that the device is working. My heartbeat slows to a canter.
I step toward the oven and tug the door open. Inside, it’s empty and not the least bit hot. So, no, I didn’t slide in a casserole earlier and forget all about it.
Letting the oven door bang shut, I twist back around and take a deep breath. The smell is actually more like woodsmoke, the kind you sometimes pick up from standing near a fireplace even when there’s nothing burning in the hearth.
I pause for a moment to think, and then head into the dining room, where I press my nose against the wall that borders the kitchen. Fireplaces are pretty common in old houses around here—the place Jamie was renting when I met him had one we used during fall and winter weekends—and though this house doesn’t presently have a fireplace, there might have been one years ago that was later enclosed. If that’s the case, the walls probably absorbed some of the smell over time. But there’s nothing like that coming from the wall. In fact, I can barely detect the scent of smoke in this room.
I return to the kitchen, completely baffled but also unnerved. What if an electrical wire is smoldering somewhere, and it’s only a matter of time before it bursts into flames? When I first moved to New York and was doing DIY projects in my apartment, my dad warned me not to leave oily rags around because under the right circumstances they can ignite on their own. But where could any oil rags be?
As if they’re one step ahead of me, my eyes shift to the door to the basement, and my stomach drops. There’s no way I want to go into a basement in the middle of the night, but I really need to check down there.
I unbolt the door, ease it open, and flick the switch on the wall, which activates a bare light bulb on a beam above the base of the steps. I start to descend but then reach behind me to one of the kitchen drawers and grab the flashlight that Clarissa pointed out during her tour.
Midway down the steps, I stop to survey as much as I can from my position. The space is unfinished with a poured cement floor, and it seems that the main things being stored down there are two badlyscuffed leather trunks and an old refrigerator. A couple of raw wood shelves have been nailed to the far wall and lined with mason jars, but they all seem to be empty. Well, at least they’re not filled with human body parts swimming in formaldehyde.
My pulse racing, I go down a few more steps, just enough to take in a full view of the basement. I flick on the flashlight and direct the beam into the corners that the light bulb doesn’t reach. There’s no sign of anything smoldering, and the only odor is the kind of musty one old cellars are known for.
I scurry up the stairs so fast I stumble and bang a shin hard against one of the steps. Cursing, I reach the top, slam the door shut, and shove the bolt back into position.
As I take a few steps into the kitchen again, I realize that the smell is almost gone now. What the hell? Could I possibly have imagined it in my worked-up state? No, it was strong enough to wake me, so clearly it’s not only in my mind. The house must be giving off an old scent trapped in the walls, perhaps because of that one rainy morning.
I troop back upstairs, almost bleary-eyed with fatigue. But as soon as I step into the bedroom, I realize I’m bound to spend the rest of the night worried that somewhere below there are oily rags trying their damnedest to spontaneously combust or that an electrical fire is gaining ground in the walls of the kitchen. Wanting to be closer to an exit, I grab my phone, a pillow, and the cotton spread and return to the living room, tossing the bedding onto the couch. I switch off the overhead light but leave the light on in the dining room so I’m not in complete darkness. As I flop onto the couch, I notice that the smell is completely gone, like it was never here. But I know for sure it was.
