I’ve got to admit, I like this new, forceful Cooper.
He leads the way. Jack and I follow past the landing then down the hall to the master bedroom.
At the door, Cooper draws a deep breath, then raps his knuckles against the solid core panel. “Missy! You in there? We’ve got to talk.” His voice echoes around the ceiling above the foyer.
There’s no answer. He knocks again, this time with more force. The door slips the latch, creaking open a sliver.
Missy’s strawberry-scented perfume slips past us and dances around our heads.
Cooper pushes on the knob, widening the opening. “This is your last chance. You can either come talk to us, or we’re coming in.” After a long pause, he wrenches his neck to look inside.
I peek under his outstretched arm. The vast room is empty. And just like the rest of the house, it’s eerily quiet. I’ve never been inside the master suite, but from what I can tell, nothing looks out of place. The antique cherry bed is made, the matching wooden furniture is upright and unbroken, and nothing is strewn across the floor. In other words, it’s the complete opposite of Cooper’s room.
But even though all appears to be fine, the nagging sensation at the back of my scalp tells me something isn’t right. Though I can’t say what.
“She’s obviously not here,” Jack says. “Let’s see if we can find the knife.”
Cooper nods as he steps over the threshold and points to the door at the near end of the room. “The safe is in the wall behind the mirror. Let’s start there.” It’s a good thing Beau made him memorize the combination last summer. Otherwise we’d be out of luck.
Shivering, I follow them in, my flip-flops sinking into the plush, stark-white carpet. The soft, natural fibers tickle my feet. It seems crazy, but the air feels denser and colder in here than any other room in the house. It’s probably just because the air-conditioning is blaring and the room was closed off.
While Cooper and Jack get to work removing the wall mirror and opening the safe, I look for other good hiding places. Rubbing my goose-bump-covered arms, I peek into the open walk-in closet. Nothing’s awry. Then I glance at the vanity table beyond, which is covered with makeup tubes, lipstick barrels, nail polish bottles, and an assortment of creams and lotions. If I was going to stash something really valuable, that’s probably where I’d put it. Not in a safe, which is the first place burglars are likely to look. Pulling open the center drawer, I scan its contents. There’s nothing more interesting than some foundation bottles, press-on nail kits, and wrinkle creams. Jeez. How many of these does one woman need? Especially someone in their early twenties who doesn’t have a line on her face? Shutting it closed, I sift through the side drawers and find more of the same, plus a half-dozen bottles of platinum hair dye.
A couple minutes later, Jack and Cooper set the mirror back in place, scowls on their faces.
“No luck?” Though I can already guess the answer.
Cooper shakes his head. “No, it’s filled with her jewelry but there’s no knife.”
Jack rubs his chin. “Is there anywhere else we could look?”
Cooper shrugs. “Maybe her bathroom?” He thumbs his hand toward a door on the opposite side of the room, past the four-poster bed and sitting area.
I glance in that direction. Something catches my eye. A tiny black drop mars the pristine carpet. The sinking sensation returns full force, repelling me even while it urges me toward the spot.
Forcing my feet forward, I head toward the other side of the room. Another, slightly bigger drop lies just beyond it, closer to the four-poster bed. Drawing near, a few more spots lie off to the side. “Guys…” My voice trails off as a smattering of black spots previously concealed by the bed come into view. I follow the trail that leads toward the sitting area. A biting, bitter scent pierces my nostrils, forcing me to breathe through my mouth. It’s like rancid garbage, decaying mulch, and a filthy aquarium all rolled into one. Something deep inside my mind demands that I run from the room, but I can’t stop my feet from moving forward. Rounding the corner into the sitting area, I gasp, sucking in a mouthful of the hideous scent. “Cooper, Jack, come quick.”
A swath of thick, black goop puddles on the carpet, then trails toward the bathroom door on the far wall. It almost looks like motor oil except it’s grainer and looks like it contains a few handfuls of coffee grinds.
Cooper and Jack race toward me.
Cooper stops short. “What the heck is that?
Jack winces. “Ugh, what is that smell?” He covers his nose and mouth with his palm.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. But it leads straight to the bathroom.” I point toward the closed door.
Cooper swallows hard. “Maybe we should leave.”
“Dude, I’m totally with you. But what if the knife’s in there? We have to look.”
As much as I want to race out of here, my feet refuse to move. My spirit guide clearly wants me to stay put, for what I’m not sure, but I’m guessing I’m about to find out. Deep inside my gut, confidence surges. Even though I don’t want to, I can do this. Drawing a deep breath, I force my right foot forward, careful to avoid the black, sludgy substance.
Cooper’s hand grips my shoulder. “Let me do this, Emmaline.” His voice is grave and resigned.
Pacing toward the door, he steers clear of the goop. “Missy? Are you in there?” When no answer comes, he knocks and repeats her name. After a moment of silence, he tries the knob. It turns. Swallowing hard, he pushes the door open. His skin turns as gray as a dolphin in St. Helena Sound. Gagging, he covers his mouth and bolts from the room. A moment later I hear him retch in the hall bath, tossing his breakfast.
Jack’s eyes are as big as saucers. “What’s in there?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Grabbing his hand, as much to support him as myself, I lead him toward Missy’s bathroom, careful not to step in the tar-like muck. At the threshold, we exchange glances, our twin sense wordlessly guiding us toward what to do next.
“One…” Jack says.
“Two…” I add.
“Three,” we say together, then duck our heads inside the door.
Jack’s scream bounces off the tile walls, filling my ears, and echoing through my head.
Chapter Nine
Missy is lying on the black-and-white tile floor, rigid and stiff, her skin the exact medium purple shade as a morning glory bloom. Her mouth is stretched wide and her lids are pried open over glossy, cloudy eyeballs.
Racing to her, I kneel at her body and futilely call her name.
Jack rushes to my side. “Don’t!”
But I reach out anyway, grasping her violet shoulder beneath the skimpy strap of her magenta negligee, but it does no good. She’s in full rigor, unresponsive to my touch. And her skin is as dry and unyielding as saddle leather.
There’s no mistaking it. She’s dead.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” Jack leaps to his feet and races from the room before I can tell him not to bother. We need the sheriff. Or an undertaker.
For a moment, it feels as if time stops and the oxygen has been sucked from the room. Her clownish makeup—candy-apple-red lipstick, sky-blue shadow, and shocking pink blush—contrasts with her navy-blue gums, bright white teeth, and riot of white-blond hair.
Suddenly, the world gushes back and all my senses are on fire. The putrid scent of decay soaks the air, entwined with the lingering fragrance of her strawberry perfume. Water drips from the faucet, slamming into the sink with the force of a missile, then echoes down the drainpipe. A burning, sour taste works its way up my throat. Trembling as my pulse rages, I peel my eyes away from her awful purple skin and scan the room. Aside from her nightie, which is smeared with black sludge, nothing else appears out of place. The knife is nowhere in sight. Out of nowhere, the dark, dank smells of waste, deprivation, and evil shoot straight up my nose and into my brain, jabbing a sharp, wicked pain behind my eyes. Shrieking, I clutch my head, then reel back and stumble out of the bathroom, careful not to touch anything.