“I’ll say.” Penelope hesitates. “No worries, I’ll clean it up.”
This is my chance to see inside the broom closet.“I can do it.”
“No.” Her tone is final. “Go outside with Nelle. I’ll take care of this.”
James considers insisting, but if she is working with Quill, he doesn’t want to mess with her. She could be as dangerous as her grandson.
Out of politeness, he offers again, “I really can clean it up.”
Penelope shakes her head. “You’re my guests. I’ll take care of it.”
James wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and hurries outside. He beelines toward Nelle, and she must see the shock and fear on his face because she leaves Clifford, even as he bleats at her.
“What is it?” She grabs his arm.
Maybe she doesn’t have to know. She can live in peace, believing that Penelope cares for her, that her great-grandmother is honest, trustworthy.
“James, talk to me.” She gives him a nudge. “What’s wrong?”
Inside the squat house, Penelope’s white head bobs past the window, sweeping.
“I was in the kitchen just now, and I overheard Penelope on the phone ...” He recounts what he heard, as close to verbatim as he can remember. At Quill’s name, Nelle’s face goes ashen.
“You’re sure that’s what you heard?” She watches the house over his shoulder.
“Without a doubt.”
“Maybe Penelope knows another Wallace?”
“Then why would she need to bring up thatyoutrust her?”
“She said my name?”
“Well, no, but—”
“It could be completely misconstrued,” Nelle says, hope visibly flickering.
“I don’t think so,” James says. “I think Penelope’s working with Quill. The last thing I want is for you to distrust her, but I know what I heard. I like Penelope, I do, but I won’t letanythinghappen to you, Nelle. I can’t.”
Clutching his shirt, Nelle watches Clifford mope along the fence line.
“Tonight,” she says, looking back at James. “Tonight, let’s break into the broom closet.”
Nelle’s chest winds up like a jack-in-the-box, her heartbeat ticking like a crank. Any second, she will explode, either in tears or projectile vomit.
James jiggles a hairpin in the lock. His brows are furrowed, tongue poked between lips. Then, with a slip of his fingers, he drops the pin. Nelle squeaks, her nerves getting the better of her, but James keeps his cool. With a glance down the hall to ensure Penelope’s not coming, he goes back to work.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” Nelle whispers.
“Scouts,” he says. “Not an actual sanctioned lesson, but one of the older guys knew how to do it and showed me on a camping trip.” He fiddles with the lock. “Been a while, though, so I’m a little ...”
Click.So soft, Nelle nearly misses the sound.
“Rusty.” James pockets the hairpin. “You ready?”
It’s 12:00 a.m. Penelope should be well into her deep sleep cycle by now, and she has no reason to suspect them. Nevertheless, Nelle feels like she is standing at the lip of a crumbling ninety-foot cliff,wondering if the view is worth the risk. She twists the glass knob, and the door opens, thankfully, without a creak. The room beyond swims in darkness. She paws at the wall until she finds the switch, flips it on, and lets her vision adjust.
Amber light flickers through the room. A tasseled shade on the mantel, an iron lantern hung above a blue velvet chaise, a green banker’s lamp with a pull chain on the desk. All wired to the switch that Nelle’s finger lingers on.
