“Yeah? Whattya want? I don’t work there no more.”
“Uh, that’s why I’m calling.” I transfer the phone to my other ear. “I don’t know if you remember me, but…”
“Lady,” he says impatiently, “is this about the key thing?”
The key thing? I chug the wine, and it dribbles down the side of my mouth. I swipe at it. “Yeah,” I lie. “It’s about that.”
Boom boom, pop.God, the music is terrible.
“Well, I didn’t do it,” he says with a violent edge to his voice. “Told them that already.”
I rack my brain for what he might be talking about. I swirl the wine in my glass as if looking for clues. The wind slams against the front door, and the doorknob rattles like someone’s trying to open it. And then I realize what he means, and my stomach drops to my feet.
“You were fired,” I say slowly, piecing it together, “because someone accused you of making copies of the keys.”
He says nothing. I set the glass down firmly on the coffee table, anger roaring through my blood. “You were in my office. You stole my keys while I was…asleep,” I say. “Didn’t you?”
He snorts. “Shots! Shots! Shots!” someone calls out in the background.
I wait for him to answer, but he doesn’t. I press my palm to my forehead. It’s sweaty and hot. I shouldn’t have lit the bloody fire. I’m burning up without it, thanks to this fucking illness that won’t cease. Here comes another feverish night of twisting sheets and early-morning vomiting.
I get the feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying his power over me. The only kicks he probably gets now is spitting in burgers at whatever fast-food restaurant he works at.
“Your cousin got you the job at Mercy, didn’t he? Jeff Johnson?”
“Why?”
“Did he ask you to search my office?”
Boom boom, pop.The noise is deafening. I have to pull the phone away from my ear. And then. He laughs. It’s low and cruel and makes my stomach cramp in fear. The wind surges against the house like it’s trying to push it over, and I really wish I wasn’t alone.
“Lady,” he says coldly, “why don’t you askhim?”
“I’m asking you.”
The music grows more distant, as if he’s walking away from it. I pull the phone closer, holding it painfully tight against my ear. On the other end of the phone, there’s a soft click of something, a lighter maybe. He breathes in raggedly, and I know he’s smoking.
“Maybe he was looking for something,” he says softly. “Maybe he checked you out, Sarah Slade. Maybe there’s no record of you before 2015.” He exhales loudly as if he’s blowing smoke into the phone. “Why is that?”
Mind your own fucking business,I want to say. But I’m scared now because they know something’s up. So, why hasn’t Jeff played his hand yet? Why hasn’t he confronted me with this?
I rub my temples. Because he’s waiting, that’s why. He’s going to dig right down into the dirt of my past, and when he finds out about my sister, it’s over. All of it. He’ll threaten me. He’ll say,If you don’t get out of Black Wood House, I’ll go public with what happened to your sister.And I’ll leave. I’ll have to.
I rest my forehead against my knee, wishing I could break down like a little child. Then I remember the note upstairs in the attic, and I raise my head. “Did you make a copy of my house keys?” I demand, wondering what I’ll do if he says yes.
He snorts into the phone, sounding like a pissed-off horse. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a long drag. “Been lovely chatting,” he says. “Stay safe, yeah?”
But before I can answer he adds threateningly, “If you can.”
He hangs up. For a long time I stare at the phone, listening to the wind scream outside. Reaper jumps into my lap, and I clutch him tight, but it makes no difference. I’ve never felt so alone.
I call Joe. Why not? The phone rings, and my stomach tenses.Ring, ring.Pick up, Joe, you coward.Ring, ring.
Voicemail. “Hi, this is Joe Cosgrove. Please—”
I don’t leave a message. Instead, I hang up and immediately call again.Ring, ring.I grip the phone so tight it hurts.Ring, ring.
Voicemail again.
