Heaving with fury, I molded my dust into a bat. Remo took a few steps back and crossed his arms. Apparently he wasn’t going to stop me. Good, because I might’ve whacked him if he’d tried. Ears ringing, elbow smarting, I swung it into the brain-shredding box. It didn’t break. Didn’t even chip. Unlike my eardrums.Andmy sanity.Andmy elbow.
Skies, my elbow . . .
Sweat trickled down the nape of my neck, bled into my still-damp suit. To think I’d been reveling in a bath an hour ago, wondering why my skin didn’t sparkle when wet. What petty,pettymusings.
Snarling like atigri, I took another swing. The bat flew out of my grip, hit the glass, and dropped before rolling toward Remo’s boots.
He stepped on it but didn’t bend over to pick it up. “Did you get it all out?”
I cradled my elbow. “No. Not even close. When I see Gregor—” I stopped talking.When. . . What a dangerous thing optimism was—it made you believe in miracles.
“Focus on that. On what you’ll do to himwhenyou see him.”
The jarring ring turned into a staccato trill again, each beat like a nail scraping down a smooth piece of slate.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“I swear, this is why we haven’t met any prisoners. They all went nuts and put an end to their miserable existences.”
“You forget that death doesn’t seem to be possible.”
“Maybe in this cell, it is.”
There was a bitter twist to his lips. “I say we don’t find out.”
I glared at the beeping box, then frowned when I noticed that over the dashes, letters had appeared. TRY. Then, LAST. Try last?Lastwhat? Last day of the—
“You’ve got to be shitting me.Last try?” Remo’s voice seemed amplified by the glass façade.
What happened if we failed? I didn’t dare voice my concern. I didn’t even want to speculate what could happen because knowing Gregor, it would be worse than death.
The rushing in my ears intensified, crashing against my temples. “I don’t think it’s a date.”
Remo frowned.
“Your grandfather loves sick games. I think this is just another one of them. I think the four digits correspond to something in the inn.” I was already behind the bar, lifting alcohol bottles, checking labels. “Look over the tables and chairs. Maybe a number’s carved into one of them.”
I wasn’t sure if Remo would do it. He wasn’t the type to take orders. Especially from me. He stared around the room at the dozen or so tables, and then, as though deciding my idea wasn’t completely ridiculous, he walked toward the nearest one. After we’d scoured the entire restaurant, Remo announced he was heading to the second floor. Before leaving, I stared around the room one last time, noticing the pie had dematerialized. Although no greasy track mark remained on the bricks, its sweet, buttery scent clung to the air like smoke from a grease fire.
My stomach churned. When it didn’t balloon outward, I breathed a little easier. Well, as easily as possible when the words LAST TRY kept flashing, punctuated by incessant beeping.
I tried the sink behind the bar before leaving, but not even a droplet of water splashed out. My mouth felt dry as the road in Frontier Land. I made a beeline for the kitchen, drank a few deep gulps from the bowl, thankful I’d had the foresight to fill it, then set it down carefully.
I’d already searched drawers and cupboards—all empty—but an etching by the cubby hole caught my attention. I walked over to it. Someone had carved a heart and placed the names BLAKE + CAT inside of it. A chill swept through me. Was this the Blake Geemee Kaji had absorbed when he rose from his grave? Had my mother and Blake been lovers? Had she drawn the heart? Had he? Was it even real?
My name sounded somewhere outside the kitchen. I left the markings on the wall and went up to find Remo. By the time I reached the landing, I was again out of breath.
“Found something?” I asked hopefully.
He walked out of the largest room toting the framed picture of two kids, one with black pigtails and black eyes, the other with light blue eyes and hair shorn so close to his scalp it was impossible to tell the color. The girl sat on the landing of a treehouse, stick-thin legs caught midswing, and the boy was climbing the ladder, looking over his shoulder at the camera.
“Is that my mother?”
“Possibly, but that’s not why I unhooked it from the wall. Look.” He pointed to the bottom of the picture where the date 2008 was scribbled in pen. “It’s the only one with a date. I checked them all.”
“Did you check every bedroom?”
“Yes.”
