I ran through the house in my head, the inventory taking longer than I wanted it to.
“Six. No—seven.” I pressed my fingers to my temples. “Two in the kitchen. One in the half bath on this floor. Two in the bedrooms on the second floor facing the back alley. One in the bathroom up there. And the small one in the basement laundry.”
He turned from the window. “How do you access the basement?”
“There’s a door in the hallway. Under the stairs.”
“Exterior entrance?”
“A bulkhead door. Old cellar doors that open onto the back garden. The garden has a gate, so they can’t just wander in.”
He ignored everything but the question he had asked. Who was this guy?
“Locked?”
“Padlock on the outside. Bolt on the inside.”
“When did you last check it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “A few months, maybe.”
He held my gaze for a beat.
“I need to see it,” he said. “Right now.”
He moved past me toward the hallway, and I caught it—sweat and gunpowder and something warm underneath both of those things, that I found myself leaning a half-inch toward before I caught myself.
Read the room, Libby. Read the fucking room.
I followed him.
Lily sat on the bottom step of the staircase with her knees pulled tight to her chest, watching everything with wide, unblinking eyes. Fiona had made it off the floor and leaned against the wall beside her, color slowly returning to her face, her breathing almost even again.
“What’s he doing?” Lily asked.
“Checking the house,” I told her.
“For what?”
“For ways those things can get in,” Finn answered without breaking stride or looking back.
Lily’s mouth closed. She pulled her knees tighter and said nothing else.
Finn located the basement door, pulled it open, and peered down the narrow wooden steps into the darkness. A cool, damp draft rose to meet him, carrying the scent of old concrete and laundry detergent.
“Light switch?” he asked.
“On the right. It sticks.”
He flicked it twice before the bare bulb at the bottom flickered to life, casting a weak yellow glow across the cluttered space. He descended without hesitation, each step deliberate.
I followed, one hand trailing along the wall, telling myself I was simply being attentive.
The basement was a single open room, containing a water heater, a washer and dryer, and stacked boxes. The ceiling was low enough that Finn had to duck, a sight that, under different circumstances, might have been amusing.
He moved directly to the bulkhead doors.
The old cellar doors rested against the far wall, their interior bolt drawn across them. He gripped it, tested its hold, thenpressed his ear flat against the metal and remained perfectly still.
