“Sophie—”
“I understand that I don’t understand what it’s like.”
“The things she does to herself,” he said. “That she lets these men do to her for money.”
“I know.”
“I remember when she was six years old. When she had nothing in the world but me.”
“I know.”
“And now this?”
“Grant—”
“I love her so much.”
He wiped his eyes, piled more wood onto the fire.
Grant took Sophie to the bathroom and then set her up in a leather recliner. He cuffed her right ankle to the metal framework under the footrest and buried her under a mass of blankets.
Her phone vibrated in his pocket.
He tugged it out, swiped the screen.
Art had sent another text, this one carrying an attachment.
It was a photo of the interior of a diner.
Four men seated at a booth.
“What is it?” Sophie asked.
He showed her the pic and pointed to the frumpy-looking man seated next to Jude Grazer.
“Steve Vincent,” she said.
“Yep. The gang’s all there.”
A local number appeared on the screen.
“Recognize it?” Grant asked.
“That’s Frances.”
He answered with, “That was fast.”
“I aim to please.”
“You got something?”
“Mr. Flowers has a couple of DUIs.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. No ViCAP hits. No NCIC. But … I did run everyone through the Social Security Death Index on our Ancestry.com account.”
“Good thinking, and?”
“Williams, Janice D., died March 2, 2007. She was forty-one. I don’t know if that’s helpful. I don’t have any other information.”
“The other tenants are still warm and breathing?”
“Yes.”
“This is super helpful, Frances. Thank you.”
“I’ve got another call coming in—”
“Take it. I owe you big time.”
Grant ended the call.
Sophie looked up at him, eyebrows raised.
“One second,” he said.
He hurried out of the living room, through the foyer, and into the dining room, where he grabbed Stu’s manila folder off the table.
Through the open doorway, he caught a glimpse of Paige still at the kitchen sink.
He jogged back to Sophie and sat down in proximity to the only decent light in the house—the roaring fire—and opened the folder.
“Talk to me, Grant. What are you suddenly cranked up about?”
“No meaningful hits on any database, but Frances ran all the names to see if anyone had died. One did, five years ago.”
“Do you know how old they were at time of death?”
“Only forty-one.”
He scrolled the list.
Four names down from the top, he found Janice Williams.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?”
“Ms. Williams died while she was still living here.”
“So? People die. It happens.”
“You aren’t a little bit curious for more details?”
“Is there contact info on the spreadsheet?”
“Just a phone number. Must be next-of-kin.”
“Call ’em up.”
Grant dialed. “Five-oh-nine area code,” he said. “Recognize it?”
“Spokane.”
It rang five times, and then went to the voice mail of a gruff, tired-sounding man with a blue-collar twang. Grant pictured a mechanic.
You reached Robert. I can’t get to the phone right at this moment. Leave your name and number and I will call you back.
After the beep, Grant left his name and Sophie’s cell.
“You warm yet?” he asked her.
“Getting there. What now?”
“We sleep. Then first thing tomorrow, we’ll call every resident on that list. We’ll find out what happened to Ms. Williams, have Stu dig up her death certificate, whatever it takes.”
“And Rachel.”
“What?”
“We call Don’s wife. No matter what.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Her skin was beautiful in the firelight, and in that moment, if Sophie had asked him to let her go, he probably would have done it.
• • •
Grant crawled onto the sofa and under a blanket.
He took out Sophie’s phone—the battery charge had dropped to thirty percent—and powered it off.
Then he rolled onto his side, faced the fire.
The movement of the flames was mesmerizing.
He shut his eyes for a minute, and the next time he opened them, the fire was low and Paige was lying on the mattress below him, staring up at the ceiling.
“What if she’s right, Grant?” she said.
“Who?”
“Sophie.”
“About?”
“About me.”
He wasn’t following. He’d been sleeping too hard.
“What are you talking about, Paige?”
“About all of this having to do with me. What if it’s not the house that’s haunted?”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Because you don’t want to?”
“Look, I don’t know what this thing is, but I do know you, Paige.”
“Do you really?”
Chapter 32
It is the strangest sensation, the closest thing to a lucid dream she’s ever experienced.
She is aware of herself asleep on the recliner.
She feels the leather cushions beneath her but also the sensation of existing outside of herself. Like being in the audience of a play while she’s also onstage.
There is another, more ominous sensation.
Someone standing over her.
She can feel their presence.
Hovering.
Watching.
She wants to turn her head but won’t, thinking that whatever is standing next to the chair is waiting for her to look, and that as soon as she does, it will do the thing it wants to do so badly.
This must be limbo, she thinks.
This is what forever is going to be like for me.
But that idea is somehow worse, and she’s already turning her head.
Sophie looks up and opens her eyes.
The fire is so low that the room stands in virtual darkness.
Rain drums against the windows.
It stands beside the chair, staring down into her face.
Not Paige. Not Grant.
Just a pure black shadow shorter than either of them, with long, skinny arms that nearly touch the floor.
She tries to speak, but her mouth won’t open.
Tries to turn away, but she has lost the mobility of her lucid dream, now locked in a stare with the shadow.
That she cannot see a single detail of its face is somehow worse.
Her mind runs in terrible directions.
The next time she blinks, the shadow has changed.
Replaced by a profile she knows.
The dying fire even lends this face a glimmer of color.
Paige Moreton says, “Why won’t you talk to me?”
Her eyes are shining, and she is smiling.
Chapter 33
Grant woke from a troubled sleep to the sound of someone whispering his name.
It was still night.
The fire had burned itself down to a bed of embers, and despite the blankets that covered him, he was shivering violently.
“Grant.”
It was Sophie.
He pulled the covers tighter around his neck.
“What’s up?” he whispered.
“Come here.”
“Something wrong?”
“Just come here.”
Grant kicked back the covers and swung his legs off the sofa.
The hardwood floor was ice under his feet.
He moved quietly over to Sophie’s chair which he’d positioned at the foot of Paige’s mattress.
Knelt down beside her.
“I had a dream,” she said.
“A nightmare?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I was sleeping in this chair, and there was this presence beside me. I could feel it so clearly. It’s like I was half-awake. I tried not to look, because I knew that’s what it wanted me to do, but I finally gave in. It was just a shadow and I couldn’t see its face. Then suddenly Paige was standing there instead.”