The House in the Cerulean Sea(94)

Life before had been mundane and ordinary. He had known his place in the world, though every now and then, the dark clouds parted with a ray of sunshine in the form of a question he barely allowed himself to ponder.

Don’t you wish you were here?

More than anything.

And then another thought struck him, one so foreign that he was barely able to grasp onto it. It was so outside the realm of what he thought possible that it boggled the mind.

What if, he thought, it’s not Arthur who is lying? What if it’s not the children?

What if it’s DICOMY?

There would be a way to prove that.

One way.

“No,” he said, lying back down on the bed. “Absolutely not.”

Calliope purred.

“I’ll just go to sleep, and in six days, we’ll go home, and all of this won’t matter. What did the letter call me? Susceptible? Bah. Why, the very idea is ridiculous.”

He felt better.

He closed his eyes.

And saw how Chauncey had hid under his bed the first morning, how Talia had looked sitting on the floor of a record shop with her tools, how Theodore took the buttons as if they were the greatest gift, how Phee had lifted a trembling Sal from a pile of clothes, how Lucy had cried after breaking his music, how Zoe had welcomed him into her home.

And, of course, Arthur’s smile. That quiet, beautiful smile that felt like seeing the ocean for the first time.

Linus Baker opened his eyes.

“Oh dear,” he whispered.



* * *



The night air was cold, much colder than it’d been since he arrived. The stars were like ice in the black sky above. The moon was barely a sliver. He shivered as he pulled his coat tighter over his pajamas. He reached down to his pocket, making sure the key was still there.

It was.

He stepped off the porch.

The main house was dark, as it should have been at this late hour. The children would be asleep in their beds.

He barely made a sound as he walked toward the garden. For a man his size, he could be light on his feet when he needed to be. The air smelled of salt and felt heavy against his skin.

He followed the path through the garden. He wondered what Helen would think when she came. He thought she’d be impressed. He hoped so. Talia deserved it. She’d worked hard.

He rounded the back of the house. He stumbled over a thick root, but managed to stay upright.

There, in front of him, was the cellar door.

The scorch marks made a terrible amount of sense now.

His throat clicked as he swallowed. He could, Linus knew, turn around right now and forget about all of this. He could go back to his bed, and for the next six days, keep a professional distance and do what he’d been sent here to do. Then he would board the ferry for the last time, and a train would be waiting to take him home. The sunlight would fade behind dark clouds, and eventually, it would start to rain. He knew that life. That was the life for a man like Linus. It was dreary and gray, but it was the life he’d led for many, many years. This last month, this bright flash of color, would be nothing but a memory.

He took the key from his pocket.

“It probably won’t even fit the lock,” he muttered. “It’s most likely been changed.”

It hadn’t. The key slid into the rusted padlock perfectly.

He turned it.

The lock popped open with the smallest of sounds.

It fell to the weeds.

“Last chance,” he told himself. “Last chance to forget all this foolishness.”

The door was heavier than he expected, so much so that he could barely lift it. He grunted as he pulled it open, arms straining at the weight. It took him a moment to figure out why. Though the outside of the cellar doors were wooden, the inside was a sheet of thick metal, as if it’d been reinforced.

And in the starlight, he could see shallow grooves carved into the metal.

He raised his hand and pressed his fingers against the grooves. There were five of them, close together. As if someone with small hands had scraped them from the inside.

That caused a cold chill to run down Linus’s spine.

Before him, disappearing into a thick darkness, were a set of stone stairs. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust, wishing he’d remembered to bring a flashlight. Or he could wait for daylight.

He entered the cellar.

Linus kept a hand pressed against the wall to keep his balance. The wall was made of smooth stone. He counted each step he took. He was at thirteen when the stairs ended. He couldn’t see a thing. He felt along the wall, hoping to find a light switch. He bumped into something, a bright snarl of pain rolling up his shin and into his thigh. He grimaced and felt for— There.

A switch.

He flicked it up.

A single bulb flared to life in the middle of the room.

Linus blinked against the dull light.

The cellar was smaller than he expected. The room in the guest house where he’d spent the last three weeks was bigger, though not by much. The walls and ceiling were made of stone, and almost every inch of them were covered in what appeared to be soot. He looked down at his hands and saw they were black. He rubbed his fingers together, and the soot fell away to the floor.

He’d bumped his knee into a desk set against the wall near the light switch. It had been partially burned, the wood blackened and cracked. There was a twin bed, the metal frame broken. There was no mattress, though Linus supposed that made sense. It would be too easy to burn. Instead, there were thick tarps that Linus expected to be flame retardant.