Chương 3
“Yes.”
“You don’t get to use Claire every time you want permission to be an asshole.”
My jaw tightened.
“I didn’t mention Claire.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She left the room.
I stayed by the window long enough to feel ashamed without becoming ready to apologize.
That was another ugly thing grief had taught me.
Regret did not automatically make me better.
Sometimes it merely made me quieter.
Downstairs, Rachel was standing at the kitchen counter when I finally joined her.
She had opened the refrigerator and was drinking orange juice directly from the carton.
“Seriously?”
She wiped her mouth.
“You yelled at me upstairs, so I’m contaminating your juice.”
“That’s fair.”
It was the closest either of us could manage to an apology.
She handed me the carton.
I put it back.
Then her eyes moved toward the hallway.
“What time is it?”
I checked.
“Five eleven.”
We both looked at the stairs.
At 5:14, Ethan woke.
Not gradually.
One second he was asleep, and the next he was standing in the playpen gripping the rail.
He did not cry.
He pointed upstairs.
Rachel whispered, “Jesus.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t react.”
“I’m standing here.”
“You said his name.”
“Whose name?”
I stared at her.
She frowned.
“Oh, come on.”
Ethan began bouncing impatiently.
“Up.”
I lifted him from the playpen.
Rachel followed us without being asked.
In the bedroom, Ethan crossed the rug and went directly to the corner.
Rachel remained beside the door.
I opened the recording app again.
Ethan pressed his forehead against the wall.
For twenty seconds, he said nothing.
Then a faint hum started inside the drywall.
Rachel heard it.
I knew because her shoulders rose.
The hum became a vibration.
It was steadier than before, almost electrical, but low enough that I felt it more through the soles of my feet than through my ears.
Ethan patted the wall.
“Baby.”
My throat tightened.
Rachel took one involuntary step forward.
Ethan turned his head slightly.
“Baby sleep.”
The vibration stopped.
No knocking followed.
Rachel and I looked at each other.
She whispered, “Did Claire ever call him that?”
“Everybody calls babies babies.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
Ethan sat down.
The episode was over as abruptly as it had begun.
He picked lint from his pajama leg and examined it with deep concentration.
Rachel walked to the corner and put her palm against the wall.
“Cut it open.”
“Ray said the same thing.”
“Then maybe the plumber and I have finally found common ground.”
“I’m not taking a hammer to the wall with Ethan in here.”
“Then move him.”
I hesitated.
Rachel’s face changed.
“You’re afraid.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re afraid there’s nothing there.”
The accuracy annoyed me.
Then she added, “I am too.”
That took the fight out of me.
We carried Ethan downstairs.
Rachel sat with him while I went into the garage.
Claire’s old toolbox was still on the second shelf above the workbench.
Calling it Claire’s was inaccurate because I had bought most of the tools.
She had simply been the one who used them.
I found the drywall saw beneath a set of hex keys.
The yellow handle had a streak of green paint from the nursery dresser she had refinished during her seventh month of pregnancy despite my repeated warnings about fumes.
I stood holding it longer than I should have.
Then I took it upstairs.
Rachel met me in the hallway.
“You want me to do it?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
I shut off the electricity to the upstairs circuit anyway.
Neither of us knew what might be hidden behind the drywall.
I used the stud finder to mark the hollow section Ray had identified.
Then I cut a small rectangle near the baseboard.
Drywall dust coated my fingers.
Rachel stood behind me holding a flashlight.
The first piece came free.
Behind it was not insulation.
There was another surface.
Wood.
Old, dark, unfinished wood stood less than two inches behind the drywall.
“What is that?” Rachel asked.
I widened the opening.
The smell reached us before we could see more.
Not decay.
Not mold.
Something stale and medicinal.
Rachel covered her nose.
“That smells like a hospital.”
“No.”
“It does.”
“It smells like old wood.”
I kept cutting.
The hidden surface became clearer.
It was a narrow wooden panel, vertical, with several layers of paint along one edge.
Near the bottom was a metal plate.
Rachel crouched.
“Is that a hinge?”
I brushed away dust.
It was.
Someone had drywalled over a door.
We removed enough wall to expose most of it.
The door was only about twenty inches wide, far too narrow for a normal doorway.
Near shoulder height, beneath flakes of old paint, I found a recessed brass latch.
My fingers stopped.
Rachel whispered, “Dan.”
“I see it.”
There was no reason to open it immediately.
We could have called a contractor.
We could have called the previous owner.
We could have waited until morning.
Instead, I pulled the latch.
The hidden door resisted at first.
Then something released with a dry crack.
A current of cold air passed over my hands.
Rachel backed away.
I opened the door six inches.
Darkness filled the space beyond it.
I aimed my phone flashlight through the gap.
There was no room behind the wall.
There was a passage.
Narrow wooden steps descended between the walls at an angle I had never imagined the house could contain.
Rachel said my name again.
I opened the door wider.
Dust covered the first step except for one place near the edge.
A clean crescent interrupted the gray surface.
It looked exactly like the mark left by the toe of a small shoe.
I crouched closer.
Rachel grabbed my shoulder.
“Don’t touch it.”
“I’m not.”
“That isn’t old.”
“I know.”
From downstairs, Ethan began screaming.
We both ran.
He was standing inside the playpen with both hands stretched toward us.
May you like
Rachel reached him first.
The instant she lifted him, he twisted and pointed upward.
