by Snow, Nicole
Maybe the overprotective, frightened mother in me can’t stop thinking about someone snatching him away because he’s so special. What if they want to use that bright, wonderful brain of his for their own nefarious purposes? Just like his father.
I can’t breathe.
It’s not real, I know. For now, it’s just my imagination, but it was so real for Leo.
Even if I can’t go back in time and reverse what happened to him, it hurts.
I wish I had the superpower to save the child he’d once been, but since I can’t, now there’s just one thing on my mind.
I want to protect him, to cherish the man he’s become.
I’ll come clean with him as soon as we find Deanna. I will.
That’s my promise.
Once my little sister’s home, I’ll celebrate by telling Leo about Zach.
And then maybe one fine day I’ll finally be brave enough to admit Zach’s not the only one who needs this huge, snarly, hero-man in his life.
“Looks like you’ve got something on your mind, dear,” Ms. Wilma says, sitting on the little wire park bench at my side.
Her warm, gentle voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I glance over at her, biting my lip before offering a wan smile. “Guess I’m still thinking about those kids. You know, those old rumors, the ones who went missing? It hits me harder now that I have a kid of my own.”
“You don’t have anything to worry about with Zach.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. She’s so old I can feel the bones of her fingers through her papery skin, but there’s still a strength and warmth to her touch that’s comforting. “Between you, that strapping group of young lads, and me, there’s no one who’d dare look at him.”
“I hope so.” I squeeze her hand, grateful for the reassurance. “I really do.”
“I dare say young Leo wouldn’t even think of letting it happen, anyway. He was such a lost child himself.”
The way she says it is so offhand, so casual, it’s almost too deliberate. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry and sticky.
Does she know?
About Leo, about Zach, about everything?
There’s no telling with this town’s wise old owl. She’s always been too keen. People always just let things slip by her without even meaning to, until somehow she knows everything and often picks up on things way before anyone else.
I don’t know what to say.
I can’t talk about this, about Leo, about our son to someone else before I talk to Leo himself.
So I only squeeze her hand again and smile. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. But there haven’t been any disappearances for years, have there?”
“No, dear.” Her fingers tighten in mine. “And between us girls, we’ll make sure no one’s ever taken in this town again. Including your sister. My promise, Clarissa. Keep the faith and we’ll find her and bring her home safe.”
“I wish I could,” I murmur—before something hits me like a bolt from the blue.
Wait. If Leo was hidden beneath the mansion all those years...
What else could I find there?
Maybe, just maybe something that will point me to Deanna, or breaking into that hard drive.
I have to try. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.
And Ms. Wilma watches me with knowing, curious eyes as I stand up. “Would you mind keeping an eye on Zach for a few hours?” I ask, and she smiles.
“Darling, I was wondering when you’d finally ask. Take all the time you need.”
* * *
Getting into the museum is trickier this time.
Oh, it’s open, but that’s not the problem.
Trouble is, it’s the middle of the day. There’s a class of third-graders here for a school trip and way too many attendants and volunteers showing them around.
I can’t exactly blend in, not when my portrait’s in the main exhibit room. But I need to get belowground.
For a little bit I trail around after the kids, close enough so anyone who doesn’t know the group would assume I’m with them, but far enough away so the teachers won’t think I’m suspicious.
Keeping my head down to hide my too-recognizable face, I make a show of looking at the paintings, the exhibits, everything from old silver mining equipment to the broken plow that was said to belong to the very first settler who broke ground on farmland in Heart’s Edge.
Then comes the presentation about the famous cliffs.
Something stings my eyes. I remember standing on that cliff, watching pale-blue petals scatter in the breeze with the weight of his ring on my finger and the warmth of his hand in mine and our perfect start laid out before us. A future broken. A life shattered. A cruel fate that—no.
I shake my head.
Right. Focus. Focus.
There were stairs to the subterranean level, but they’re in the second floor hall, in sight of a little manned brochure stand. No way I can just sneak downstairs past the staff.
But what about that ancient dumbwaiter in my old bedroom?
That’ll work, if I can fit.
I see my chance as the tour group swarms upstairs with me in their wake. They shuffle from bedroom to bedroom, and as they leave my old room now dominated with a stuffed bear, I move.
Slipping behind the open door, I hide myself between it and the wall until I’m sure the room is clear and no one’s around to notice my snooping.
Then I head over to the dumbwaiter that used to be a portal to safety.
It’s easier to open than I expect. Almost like it’s been opened more than once over the years.
Probably just maintenance. Enough to keep it limbered up, the door slides up into its housing with barely a sound.
The little wooden box inside is smaller than I remember.
No, let’s be real. I’m a lot bigger.
An adult woman, all legs and curves, and fitting in there is going to hurt.
Sighing, I glance over my shoulder, then bend to stoop and ease myself into the box, folding myself up one leg at a time.
I end up contorted in a weird position with my shoulders against the roof and my head between my knees, crunched up in every spare bit of space, but I manage.
Barely.
Oh crap—someone’s coming.
I quickly slam the door shut.
Aaaaand accidentally hit the release with the heel of my palm.
Awesome. Next thing I know, I’m plummeting.
My stomach drops out and I scream. I bite it back, just barely.
It’s really not going that fast. I just wasn’t expecting it, and it scared the living crap out of me for half a second before I take a deep breath and tell myself to calm down.
It’s not like the rope isn’t already old.
It’s not like I weigh twice as much as I did the last time I crawled in here as a girl.
It’s not like the dumbwaiter isn’t old as hell.
Oh God, I’m gonna die down here, aren’t I? Then Leo will have to raise Zach alone.
My heart pounds a mile a minute as the thing creaks down an inch at a time. There’s a terrifying jolt when the rope goes slack and drops me several inches at once.
I slam my palms into the sides and brace. But it slows a second later and then after another minute or two of creaking and fitful stops and starts...
There’s a quiet bump under me. I feel solid ground, darkness opening up to one side of me.
I breathe in, and immediately choke on the musty, dusty scent of old places. It’s faintly wet down here, mildewy, and my nose stings. I unlimber myself and crawl out into blackness, dirt and cobwebs sticking to my hands, made ten times worse by touching them in the dark.
Ew.
Staggering to my feet, I fumble for my phone and finally fish it out of my jacket and flip on flashlight mode. It lights up bright enough to hurt my eyes, but as they adjust, I turn the phone over, letting its cool white beam sweep through the space.
It’s almost like I remember.
Just
a little darker, a little colder, a little more run down.
I’m in a narrow hallway with wood wainscoting, old Victorian-era wallpaper peeling away from walls littered with water stains and bleeding mildew. Several old paintings molder away, tilted in their frames, while dark squares on the walls show where others used to be.
The rafters are a mess of cobwebs, feathery strings of silk.
I shudder, moving on down the hall, creeping slowly.
This place would be a haunted house nightmare to anybody else, imagining terrible hollow-eyed things in the shadows. But for me and Deanna, the monsters in our imagination were a fun thrill, a relief compared to the real monster hiding behind our father’s fake smile.
And even now, I can’t help the warm nostalgia as I step down the tattered carpet runner in the hall, sweeping my light from side to side.
This old portion of the house has two levels.
One that used to be the cramped underground servants’ quarters, abandoned decades ago as seeping groundwater wrecked rooms that hadn’t been used since the mining days. The other level below this is the sub-basement, the place where we used to store household stuff that’s just a debris field now.
We’d mostly play in the halls of the living quarters. We never forgot Papa warning us once that the water damage undermined the foundation.
We had nightmares aplenty about hitting a support beam, making the entire building collapse.
Although sometimes, I think I wanted it to, with our father still inside.
There’s no sign anyone’s been down here in ages. So I make my way down the hall, peeking into the open rooms.
Nope, not even the museum staff have visited these parts. The dust is thick, choking. None of the ancient furniture or trinkets left in the bedrooms and communal bath were moved since I last saw them nearly a decade ago.
If there’s a clue...I don’t think it’s here.
But just to be sure, I take the rickety stairs at the foot of the hall, testing each step gingerly to see if it’ll hold my weight, heading deeper into the gloom.
My steps echo ominously.
I can’t help how my heart shudders, even if I know I’m alone.
It’s different down here alone.
This game isn’t like the old hide-and-go-seek we’d play when it’s Deanna’s life.
The sub-basement is one huge space. Its walls are carved right out of deep bedrock, glistening and wet with accumulated runoff water.
I beam my light over them. A few small hallways lead off into more storage rooms and a couple of locked doors I was never able to open as a child.
Now, it’s no different. The doors won’t budge.
I shove at the lock plate and handle on one, trying to get the rotting wood to give way, but it Just. Won’t. Move.
Frustrated, grunting, I smack against the door, then check the others.
No luck.
But as I check the heavy door at the end of the longest hall, there’s a sudden cold draft. It wafts over my neck and face, making the thin beads of sweat forming on my skin crystallize like ice drops.
I whirl around, whipping the light back and forth, my heart slamming my ribs.
No one there.
But then where did that draft come from?
I bite my lip. I swear I felt it on my right side, just as I was turning away.
The same side facing that thick slab of a door.
I creep closer to it, squinting. It’s solid oak, carefully reinforced with iron bands and bolts, no openings, and the padlock covering the latch looks rusted into an immovable lump.
Maybe the draft came from under the door?
But then there shouldn’t be a draft coming from a fully enclosed underground room at all.
Something doesn’t add up.
Frowning, I feel around the edges of the door, prying at the spot where it fits into the frame, but it’s seamless, practically swollen in place from repeated waterlogging.
Annoyed, I slam my shoulder into it, showering grit and cobwebs down on my head.
Nope, not even a fraction of movement.
All I’m getting is a bruised shoulder.
Frowning, I step back, eyeing the wall, then decide to call out.
“Helloooo?!”
My own voice is deafening. There’s no sound when the echo dies.
Nothing but a faint, far-off trickle of water, like there’s a stream running underground somewhere beyond the passageway. Something about that sound prickles a memory. Long buried.
But when I try to dig deeper, it’s just not there.
I’ve blanked out so much of my old life from before the night my father died. A clean razor cut separates the me before that night and the me after, leaving so much behind. Including these memories I can’t quite remember.
But there’s a whisper of my mom’s voice, for some reason.
I don’t know why.
And I can’t hear anything else, straining so hard to listen.
I know no one’s down here. It’s unthinkable.
But some scared, hopeful, needy part of me begs Deedee to answer anyway.
“Hello?”
I jump when I hear it. My entire body prickles, sizzling, hair standing on end.
It’s so faint it might be my own imagination.
Then I realize it has to be my voice. Just a faint, delayed echo coming back, falling down from the rafters.
I deflate, disappointment heavy as a stone inside me.
Ugh.
Deep down, I knew this was hopeless. But I had to try.
Though as I turn away, I can’t help glancing back, lingering on the door. There are so many secrets I still don’t know about this house. Does Leo know what’s on the other side of that passage since I don’t?
My pulse skips a little as I make my way back up. One step sagging under my weight sends me scurrying up faster.
But as I make my way through the hall toward the stairs, on an idle whim, I stop to check behind a painting. It’s an old Monet reprint. Deanna and I used to leave notes for each other in our little code language tucked behind the paintings, a different one every time.
Maybe we forgot one?
But when I lift the painting out, what falls out isn’t an old, yellowed bit of notepaper.
It’s clean. It’s new. It’s a business letterhead from Sweeter Things.
Holy hell.
I gasp, staring in disbelief as it falls to the floor. Tremors shoot electricity down my fingertips as I dive to catch it, then flip the folded sheet open.
But I don’t understand.
It’s just a series of black dots. All scattered over the page, bits of ink with letters and numbers written next to them in Deanna’s handwriting. One says HR2491, another HR2618, all the others the same—HR followed by four numbers.
This is something. Some kind of message.
I couldn’t even guess what it means.
But maybe it’s something that can help unlock that drive.
A thrill runs through me. I won’t quite call it excitement, but it’s definitely close to hope.
I double back and check the other paintings, but there’s nothing else to find. Then dashing for the stairs, I move by the bouncing, bobbing light of my phone, and clatter up into the public areas, bursting into the brightly lit hallway without even thinking.
Only to come face-to-face with a startled-looking girl in a museum uniform t-shirt, staring at me with wide eyes set above a freckled, snub nose.
Her surprise lasts only for a second before she frowns. “Hey, Miss, you’re not supposed to be in there!”
“S-sorry!” I throw back, stumbling over my words. I stuff the note into my jacket before she can see it, then offer a sheepish smile. “I was just looking for the bathroom and got lost. Can you point me in the right direction?”
She looks like she doesn’t believe me.
I wouldn’t believe me, either, considering I’m a frazzled mess, nearly bouncing to get out of here.
After a moment, though, she points me toward the first-floor level. “Down there, second hall, third door.”
“Thanks!” I chirp, trying not to break into a run as I stride quickly for the stairs and, the moment I’m sure she can’t see me, bolt for the door.
I’ve got to get to Leo.
Between us, we can figure this out. I just know it.
We can bring Deanna home.
* * *
I find Leo hunched over the laptop at the cabin, his hood flipped back for once.
The last few days, he tends to hide his face even around me, though he’s doing it less this morning, ever since he showed his face at the table.
Is it finally happening? The dawning realization that we all love him just as he is?
It was such a beautiful moment at Ms. Wilma’s.
But those eyes go wide as I come bursting in, nearly slamming the door open. He jerks his head up, on his feet in seconds.
“Clarissa?” he growls, striding toward me. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“What? No—no, I—” I shake my head and fish the note from inside my jacket, flattening it against his chest with a breathless, eager noise. “I found something. Look at this.”
His brows furrow. He looks at me oddly for a second before moving the note, his fingers grazing my hand in rough sparks before letting go as he peers down at the paper.
His mouth creases in a deep frown. He strokes his fingers over his beard and the whorls of scars lower on his neck.
“Where’d you find this?”
“The basement levels back at the old house. Remember I told you when Deanna and I were little, we’d play down there? We’d leave each other coded notes, too. I went looking for...I don’t even know. This turned up.”
“A clue,” he whispers, soft and understanding. “Hope.”
“Yeah.” I smile sheepishly. “Something like that.” I want to ask him about the padlocked room, too, but not yet. Not now. “Just for a nostalgia kick, I peeked behind a painting and it fell right out.”
He’s staring at the paper intently. I can almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He grunts, his frown deepening. “This was the only one?”
“Yeah. I checked the other paintings. Nothing else.” Biting my lip, I scrub one hand against my other arm. “What do you think it means?”