That was a cheery observation, Lucy thought, thanking the McGruders again and sending them on their way.
Not five minutes later, Lucy was zipping up her ancient jeans, then pulled a dark blue FBI sweatshirt over her turtleneck sweater and slipped sneakers over her thick socks. Out of habit she clipped her SIG to her jeans. She was hurrying because she didn’t want to be searching the attic after dark—it was that simple. She didn’t know why, but there was something about attics and basements after dark, when everything was quiet, that gave her the willies.
She needed to get a move on. The narrow door at the end of the corridor on the second floor had always been locked when she was a child, the attic out-of-bounds to her, and it still sported a Yale lock. She’d been in the attic only once, to see if she wanted any discarded furniture for her condo—three years ago, right after her grandmother had died. She pulled out her SIG and smacked the butt to the lock, once, twice, and it opened. She climbed the steps into the immense, shadowy attic. It seemed to Lucy that with every step she took, the air got colder and clammier. There was no heat up here, but why should it feel clammy? There’d been no rain for a while. She noticed the bare attic beams weren’t insulated. It had to be roasting hot in the summer up here, and now in the late fall, it was as cold as the outside air.
She flipped the switch, and the long shadows of the huge open area gave way to a burst of light, not from a naked one-hundred-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling but from a bank of fluorescent lights. She immediately felt better, and wasn’t that stupid and childish of her? Stop it, get a grip. It’s a ridiculous attic, and Ted Bundy doesn’t live here.
Lucy looked around and lost every drop of optimism she’d had about how easy looking through the attic might be. She’d forgotten how immense it was, overflowing with old furniture, a zillion taped boxes, and ancient luggage. She wondered if some of the stuff dated back even before her grandparents had bought the house fifty years ago. Well, it didn’t matter. She’d have to dig in.
Yeah, but dig in to find what, exactly?
She didn’t have a clue. Still, Lucy hoped to her sneakered feet that when she found it, she’d know instantly.
Lucky her—all the boxes were beautifully labeled as everything from kitchenwares to master-bedroom linens to books.
She found a box labeled LUCY—TEENAGER and dug into it, unable to help herself. She’d pulled out her sophomore yearbook when her cell rang. “Yes?”
“Lucy, my angel, it’s Uncle Alan. I’m downstairs, sitting on your doorbell, but you don’t answer. Where are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m up in the attic, Uncle Alan. I’ll be right down. Is Aunt Jennifer with you? Court and Miranda?”
“Nope, only me. Your Aunt Jennifer sends her love. Court and Miranda—well, it seems the less I know about what they’re doing, the better. Your Aunt Jennifer, ah, hopes you’re all right.”
All right? How could she be all right? “I’ll be right down, Uncle Alan.”
Alan Silverman, her grandmother’s youngest brother, was actually her great-uncle. He’d been in her life from her earliest memories. He was in his seventies now, having retired hurriedly after the bankers screwed the world, and she wondered cynically how many shaky derivatives and fancy bond packages he himself had conjured up. He’d married late, produced two children, Court and Miranda, who were, actually, her first cousins once removed, many years older than Lucy. Neither of them had ever married, and that seemed a bit odd to Lucy, both of them, well into their thirties and still out dating. Court was a gym rat and liked to think of himself as a stud, and maybe that explained it—he was too focused on himself to consider letting another person in. He was a successful retailer, owner of three vitamin stores in the D.C. area—LIFE MAX Natural Supplements—that were doing very well.
As for Miranda, she was a wannabe hippie, something of a resurrected flower child but without the usual freshness or color. Her clothes were all long and too loose, too depressing, really, all browns and grays and blacks. She always wore her hair straight, parted in the middle, and Lucy wished she’d wash her hair a bit more often. She played the French horn quite beautifully, though as far as Lucy could tell, that was the only thing on which she expended much effort. Once, she remembered, Miranda invited her to a séance in her condo before she’d moved back to her parents’ house some months before, after breaking it off with a guy her Aunt Jennifer had called The Louse. Lucy had politely declined the invitation.
She opened the door and was immediately pulled into Uncle Alan’s arms. He held her close and patted her back. “How are you, kiddo?”
She leaned back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I’m okay—well, as okay as can be expected. I miss Dad all the time, of course. But they’ve made me one of the leads on this whole deal with Ted Bundy’s daughter; talk about a major-league distraction.”
“But you’re not in any danger from her, are you? I know, I saw you and Agent McKnight on TV at the news conference with your boss, Agent Savich. It’s quite an accomplishment that they’ve made you such a big part of that, Lucy. If she was watching it, she knows who you are. You’ve got to promise me to be careful, sweetheart.”
“That’s a very easy promise to keep, Uncle Alan. Come in, come in.”
She led him into the lovely big living room, then stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed. It smelled musty, she thought, like no one lived there. She’d hardly come into this room at all since she’d moved in. But she would have to, since there were plenty of hidey-holes here where something could be stashed. She felt a chill through her FBI sweatshirt. “It’s too cold in here; let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee.”
Now, her kitchen smelled lived in, like a comfortable friend, in spite of all the intimidating stainless-steel gadgets, and she smiled as she bustled around to get milk and Splenda, both musts for Uncle Alan’s wuss coffee.
She said over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet, “How is Aunt Jennifer?”
“Sad, a bit depressed, as I am, as both Court and Miranda are. She loved your father as much as I did. We were all together for so very long.” He fell silent, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. “Josh was too young, Lucy, too young.”
She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly handed him a cup of coffee. Thankfully, his tears receded as he went about his ritual of adding milk and two Splendas.
He took a sip, sat back, and smiled at her. “When I think back—do you know I met Jennifer when I was nearly thirty-five years old?” His eyes twinkled. “Jennifer admits only that she was much younger than I. And then we had Court and Miranda. We wanted more children, but it wasn’t to be.” He took another drink of coffee. “Life,” he said. “It’s so damned uncertain, you know?”
She nodded. Oh, yes, she knew, knew too well. And so did Mr. McGruder.
“Why did you move back in here, Lucy?”
Because of what my father yelled out right before he died. But she didn’t say that; she couldn’t; it wasn’t fair to anyone if there was no proof, no reason for it. She said, “I always loved this house. I didn’t want to see it go to strangers. At least not yet.”
“Talk about rattling around. Your Aunt Jennifer doesn’t think it’s healthy for you, Lucy. She says too many ghosts live in the corners.”
“Ghosts?” She smiled. “I haven’t bumped shoulders with a single ghost yet. Listen, I’m fine. Do you know my old bedroom still looks like a teenage girl just walked out of it? Grandmother didn’t change a thing, not that she’d need to, since there are—what? Ten bedrooms in this place?