Every Single Secret(12)

“You want me to come closer?” I asked. “Never say real quick.”

I bent to him, just so my hair fell over his face and my breasts brushed his chest. He moaned. He reached for me and I crawled up beside him. Cradling me with one arm, he pulled the white comforter over us, and I closed my eyes as he fitted the length of his body against my back and legs. He was already hard.

I spoke. “There was a woman when we came in. Kind of spying on us from downstairs. Did you see her?”

“No.” He nuzzled my neck.

“She was staring at us, like . . .”

He kissed my neck gently, reached around and removed my glasses.

“Like . . .”

He whispered in my ear. “Whatever happens—no matter what I do—don’t move.”

I didn’t, not when he unzipped my pants under the covers, then eased them down past my knees, ankles. Not when he did the same with my underwear. Not even when he ran his hand along the inside of my thigh.

I let him touch me for as long as I could stand it, then guided him into me, turning my face into the pillow. After it was over, he buried his head in the crook of my neck and whispered one last time, “Always us.”

Maybe it was the sex or just that I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months, but right after, I fell fast and hard into a dreamless sleep.



When I woke, the room was lit with the soft glow of the bathroom night-light, and Heath was sleeping beside me. The window was still open and I inhaled a lungful of cool, pungent air. I guessed the months of nightmares really had depleted both of us, more than I’d realized. If nothing else, the two of us might actually be able to catch up on all our lost sleep in this creepy house. I groped around on the nightstand for my phone. Right. I’d turned it over to Dr. Teague. Reggie. Crap.

I found my glasses under my pillow, then dug under the comforter for my pants. Easing out of bed, I crept to the fireplace, trying not to think about the fiery fiend’s grotesque, leering face. I ran my hands along the mantel. A small brass clock on it ticked softly: 9:40 p.m. I bit my lip. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept like that.

We’d missed our first meeting with Dr. Cerny. As well as the tour and the signing of the releases, which was not at all the way I’d planned to start things off. I was not usually one to oversleep, arrive late to an appointment, or forget details of clients’ orders. But then again, I usually had a phone glued to some part of me, pinging alerts right and left.

We’d also missed dinner. Damn. Scallops, I remembered with longing. Reggie had said it was scallops and wine. It was possible somebody had saved our meals in the fridge or something. Possible, but not for sure, and that was the thing that really got me, the not knowing. And right now, with the house spreading out like a maze around me, the worry that I wouldn’t be able to find anything to eat—I could feel the old food obsession dancing around the edges. Could feel myself close to panicking.

Daphne. Stop.

I went into the bathroom and dug in my makeup bag, pulling out a hair band and slipping it over my hand. I snapped it against my wrist—once, twice, three and four times. Then inhaled and exhaled, letting the pain pull me back to the physical room. I couldn’t panic. Not now. I needed to get organized, be thinking about my plan. How I was going to find the car and check my email. How I was going to deal with the information, if any, that Annalise Beard decided to share.

I peeked through the door at Heath and watched him breathe for a moment. It was a relief to see him like that—practically comatose, arms flung out and mouth open. How odd that he couldn’t sleep in our cozy little house, but here he conked out like an innocent babe. I had the feeling sleep wasn’t going to return so easily for me, not with my gnawing stomach and my nerves. But being up wasn’t such a bad thing. I might as well try to find where Reggie had put our car keys.

Out in the dark hallway, all the doors were shut. The McAdams and Siefferts must have turned in early too. The pocket door with tarnished brass fittings at the opposite end of the hall—the one leading to Dr. Cerny’s quarters—was open just a couple of inches.

I tiptoed to it and peered through the crack. Beyond it was a spacious landing area, as big itself as our bedroom. At the far end, I saw another closed door—Cerny’s suite, no doubt. On the left side of the landing, there was a set of stairs that probably led down to the kitchen. From the right, another set of stairs, narrower than the others, wound up to the next floor.

The attic.

I heard a noise, coming from the attic stairs. A clicking sound, then a low drone. I glanced at Cerny’s door at the opposite end of the landing. It was far enough away that I could probably slip in unheard, if I was careful. I pushed the pocket door open and eased through.

I crept to the attic stairs, put my foot on the first step. Waited. When nothing happened, I mounted the next step, then another and another, keeping to the edge so the boards wouldn’t creak. At the top of the stairs, I found a black fireproof door, cracked open just the slightest bit. The drone was louder; I had definitely found the source. I listened for any indication that I’d disturbed Cerny. When I heard nothing, I pushed open the door and walked in.

The tiny, hexagonal garret was crammed to bursting with all sorts of oversize metal hardware. Machinery and shelving ringing the room like a cabal of mechanical giants. Dozens of thick black cords snaked across the bare wood floor. To my right, a row of three boxy video monitors sat on a sagging plywood shelf. On the left were two enormous machines as big as refrigerators, covered with rows of multicolored buttons, dials, and gauges. And more unidentifiable machines next to those.