She stares out at the rain, frowning. “Maybe if she’d stayed with me, she’d still be here today.”
“Did you go to the police?”
She opens her mouth as if she wants to say something. But she changes her mind and shakes her head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?” My voice is harsh, judgmental. I don’t mean it to be, but I’m freaking out. Kay ignores my question, stares sadly at the falling rain.
“When she got that final note and came to see you,” I shout over the rain, “was that the last time you saw her?”
Something flashes in her eyes. Her teeth clamp down hard on her lower lip. “Yes, it was,” she says shortly, left hand reaching for the door. “I didn’t see her again after that.”
I wait there on her doorstep, momentarily forgetting about the cold.
Because we both know she’s lying.
Chapter 14
After Kay’s, I wander the neighborhood in the drizzling rain, hands thrust into my pockets, thinking. I end up on a wet park bench, staring at the gray sky and googlingAmanda+missing+Black Woodbut coming up with nothing.
I slink back home and nod at the builders, who stand around not even trying to look busy. Half of me wants them to go home and not touch a thing here. The other half of me wants them to finish the renovationsright now.The sooner I get them done, the sooner we can sell it. The sooner I don’t have to think about the missing girl who lived here before me. Fuck. I knew that living in Black Wood was going to be creepy. Part of me was excited by it,delightedeven. I’ve spent my life watching true-crime shows and reading crappy two-dollar thriller books in the darkest part of night. The prospect of living in an actual crime scene and making money off it was too good to pass up. But, God. I didn’t expect this Amanda shit. Black Wood has an appalling track record with its owners. What if I’m the next person to disappear or die in this bloody house?
I walk slowly up the stairs, clutching the black banister. The first bedroom in Black Wood House is left at the top of the stairs. My room is two doors down, tucked at the end of the dark hallway to the far right.
I lean against the doorframe of the first room and peer in. The peeling wallpaper is the color of overripe apricots, and the floorboards areso dark brown they’re almost black. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling like gray crepe paper, and half-hidden in the top right corner behind a thick spiderweb is a large black spider that I’m not quite sure is dead.
Silently, I step in, feeling like an intruder and batting away low-hanging cobwebs with the back of my hand. The heels of my shoes click softly across the filthy floorboards littered with mouse poo.
It’s windowless, bare, and silent in here except for the hammering downstairs. And God, it’s dark. The lightbulb’s blown, and we haven’t bothered replacing it. I eye the room critically and get the feeling it’s appraising me too.
Who are you? What are you doing here? Get out.
It’s like some dormant monster that hasn’t been disturbed in centuries. The last time I was in this room was when we inspected the house. I stood in the center, side by side with Joe, eyeing the wallpaper critically and breathing shallowly through my mouth to avoid the sour smell.
It has that echoey, cold stillness of a garage, and I’m certain that Amanda wouldn’t have chosen it for her bedroom. I creep out of the room and close the door behind me, grateful to leave.
The second bedroom is next door on the left. I turn the handle, step inside, and the first thing that hits me is the smell. Even the realtor remarked on it when he ushered us inside. He crinkled his nose, waved his hand in front of his face to waft it away, and made no attempt to hide his disgust.
“Smells like bleach in here,” he muttered before quickly pointing out the built-in wardrobe and high ceilings.
I cup my hand over my nose and mouth, peer inside, and remain at the door, unwilling to go in. The second bedroom is as painfully bare as the first. There are fewer cobwebs dangling from the ceiling and no mouse poo on the splintered floorboards. Maybe the smell put the rodents off. There’s a sterile clinical quality to this room. Like a laundry. I doubt Amanda would have slept here either.
I back out, shut the door, and continue down the hallway. Night or day it’s dimly lit, and by the time the sun goes down, you have to keepyour eyes on your feet and take small steps forward in the darkness lest you miss the staircase and tumble to your death. We really need to plug in a nightlight up here.
For now, I creep forward. I throw open the second-to-last bedroom door. This has to be where Amanda slept.
I step inside, looking for any signs of disturbance. Any sign that a young woman lived in here for a few weeks. The baseboards are faded petal pink, and the drooping wallpaper is lemony brown and hideous. Still, the smell in here is tolerable, and out of the four bedrooms, it’s the obvious choice.
I roll up my sleeves. I’m going to look over every damn inch of this room for any sign of Amanda and what happened to her.
I’m gingerly pulling back a floorboard when my phone rings in my pocket. It’s a number I vaguely recognize. I hesitate, afraid to answer it, afraid not to. It might be one of the builders from downstairs. Probably found a leaking pipe or some shit that’ll set us back another five grand.
Warily, I answer it.
“Sarah speaking,” I say brightly.
A passive-aggressive voice answers back, “Hi Sarah, just wanting to check—are you still coming in for your appointment today?”
It’s a voice I’ve used on clients who haven’t shown up.Hi there, are you fucking coming in or not?
