The Book of Cold Cases(18)

Beth’s gaze moved past me again, and I had the uncanny feeling that someone was behind me. But I turned and no one was there. There was just the heavy furniture, the cold light from the windows, the old print on the wall next to the doorway to the corridor. I walked down the hall.

The bathroom had a beige tile floor and a heavy sink, the taps inlaid with turquoise. It was spotlessly clean, not a hint of clutter. I glanced at myself in the mirror, also framed with turquoise. I didn’t look any different than I normally did. I was tempted to open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and snoop through it, but I didn’t. I dried my hands and left the bathroom, wandering to the kitchen.

This was also unchanged from the late seventies, though like the bathroom it was perfectly clean. The cupboards were pale blue, and the counters were dark brown. The laminate floor was cream. The windows over the sink looked to the side of the house, which was crowded with trees. From here you couldn’t see that end-of-the-world view, or the ocean, or the road. Just thick trees, as if you were isolated in the woods somewhere. I put the glass down on the counter and realized that this was where Beth’s father had been murdered, where a maid had found his body when she came to clean the house.

My spine went cold, and behind me I heard a noise.

A squeak, and then rushing. Water. Someone had turned on a tap.

Maybe Beth was in the bathroom, though I hadn’t heard her get up and follow me. I stepped back to the kitchen entrance and looked down the hall.

The bathroom door was open, the sound of the running water coming from inside. I walked into the hall and looked. The water was running in the bathroom sink, both taps turned on. But there was no one there.

“Beth?” I said.

“Are you getting my drink?” Beth’s voice came from the living room.

I hadn’t turned those taps on, and neither had she.

Steeling myself, I walked briskly into the bathroom, turned the taps off, and went back to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, poured Beth’s grapefruit juice. Added soda, then opened the freezer and added ice. There was almost no food in the fridge except for a few take-out containers and premade meals. No wine or other alcohol, either. The fridge must have been on some ultrahigh setting, because I was struck with an icy blast that I imagined I could even feel on my back. My fingers were so cold they were clumsy, though I moved as fast as I could, my stomach turning uneasily as I put everything in Beth’s glass.

I finished with the drink, closed the freezer, picked up the glass, and turned around. Then I stood still, my breath in my throat.

All of the cupboards behind my back were open. Four doors above the kitchen counter that hadn’t been open when I walked in. Four more doors on the lower level beneath the counter. They had all swung open to the same precise degree, the doors aligned like soldiers. The entire room was silent, and nothing moved.

It wasn’t Beth. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t anyone.

A cold draft hit me again, this time a breeze. As if a window had been left open somewhere. But why would the air be so cold? It wasn’t that cold outside. And yet the wind was so distinct I felt it lift the tendrils of hair that weren’t tied back in my ponytail.

In the bathroom, the taps turned on again. I stood frozen, holding the drink forgotten in my hand, listening to that sound as my heart hammered in my chest. For a second, I felt like I had gone back in time to the seventies, to the house’s heyday. I would walk out of this kitchen and find a different world, one filled with Jell-O salads and The Waltons on TV.

Except the Greer mansion wasn’t a house of rosy brown and orange nostalgia. A man had been murdered here. Right where I was standing.

I put the drink on the counter and walked to the bathroom again, my feet moving mechanically. I almost expected to see Beth in there—except a teenage Beth, slim and youthful, wearing a T-shirt and jeans with embroidery on the pockets, her hair long down her back. But just like before, there was no one there.

I put my hand on the tap, and blood splashed into the bowl of the sink. It mixed with the water, red and rancid, swirling down the drain. I jerked my hand away. I wasn’t bleeding. Yet the blood still ran, as if someone were dumping it into the water, or rinsing bloody hands. The cold air hit the back of my neck, along with a rotten metallic smell, and I nearly gagged.

In one quick motion, I twisted the taps off. Then I went back to the kitchen, grabbed the drink with a numb hand, and walked back to the living room. Beth was still on the sofa, waiting. She looked at me curiously. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” I said, trying not to think about what I’d just seen. The living room was stuffy, with no sign of a breeze. I handed Beth her drink. “This house . . .”

“It’s horrible, I know.” Beth took the glass and put it next to her. “Let’s continue. What else did you want to ask me?”

My phone was still sitting on the table. I hadn’t stopped the recording when I left the room. I picked it up and saw that it was paused. “Did you stop this?” I asked her.

“No,” Beth said. Her expression was calm as she looked at me. “You look pale, Shea. What’s the matter?”





CHAPTER TWELVE


October 1977





BETH


The Greer mansion, Beth thought, must be worth a lot of money. Her father had spared no expense when he’d renovated the place. Her mother had bought expensive furniture and decor. It was supposed to be the nicest, most beautiful house in the city.