Every Single Secret(33)

Friday, October 19

Evening

It feels like forever that I’ve been staggering down the rutted gravel road to Dunfree when suddenly, I hear something. The faint rumble of a car engine. It is behind me.

I stop, all my senses ratcheting up. The car sounds like it’s a good half mile back up the mountain, and my brain clicks through the possibilities of who it could be.

A vacationer from one of the cabins on the road, maybe. I’ve passed seven mailboxes, all with carved wood signs: “Pete’s Peak” or “The Bear’s Lair” or “Set a Spell.”

Or someone else. Someone who means to do me harm.

The rumble grows louder, and I speed up to a fast walk. This stretch of the road is cut into a crevice, the gradient rising steeply on either side. But there’s a stand of bronze-leafed beech trees and a handful of huge boulders dotting the slopes that I can hide behind, if I have to. I strain my ears. At first I don’t hear the car, and I wonder if it turned off somewhere. But then . . . no. There it is—a low revving.

I break into a jog. Cut right, slide into the shallow ditch, then scramble back out, bear-crawling up the hill. I’m heading for some boulders a couple of yards ahead of me, clawing frantically at the leaves and moss. The engine growls louder just as I dive behind the rock. With the approaching car and the thundering of my heart, time seems to stand still. But when my breath finally levels out I realize I have to pee in the worst way.

It doesn’t matter. There’s no time. I edge sideways, positioning myself so I can see between the V of the two boulders. The car rolls into view, then slows and idles. It’s a truck, a dark, early-model green truck, with a long scratch near the right bumper.

I pull my big coat around me and scrunch down, making myself part of the stone. Was that one of the vehicles from Baskens? I picture the line of cars. A minivan, a Mercedes. A truck, I think. But was it old or new, blue or black or green? I don’t know. I can’t remember. But it could be from anywhere, and anyone could be driving it, so I need to stay out of sight.

The engine revs again, and the truck continues down the road, the deep rumble diminishing as it gets farther and farther down the mountain from me. When everything is quiet again, I lie back against the rock, wilting in relief, not even caring that I’ve just soaked my pants.



Chapter Eleven

Wednesday, October 17

Two Days Before

I woke to the creak and slam of a screen door. A man’s voice said something in what sounded like Spanish, and I squinted through the early-morning gray and my gluey eyes. I had fallen asleep outside on an old metal patio chaise. Then last night came back to me in a rush.

Glenys on the monitor, leaning out her window. Me running outside to stop her. The closed window.

Now, as my eyes focused, I saw something—black, plastic—wedged between two patio stones just below me. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and picked it up. The fragment of a cut zip tie.

I saw boots then and looked up, dropping the zip tie. Luca, the phantom cook and butler, was standing in front of me, hands planted on his hips. He was young, early twenties, maybe, with a compact body and short-cropped, light-brown hair. He wore a faded plaid flannel with the shirtsleeves rolled to his biceps. His forearms looked like they might be attached to a bear, but he had a kind face with high cheekbones and a cleft chin that would probably drive a sculptor wild.

I sat up and swung my legs around so fast, I felt dizzy. I made an attempt to rub my eyes, put on my glasses, and smooth my hair all at the same time. It was a move a woman did when the guy who woke her up happened to be attractive, and I was instantly mortified. I tried to cover by acting like I wasn’t doing exactly what I was very clearly doing—the result being, I wound up poking my eyes and garbling something incoherent.

In reply, he said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand and disappeared back through the screen door. I took a quick inventory. I was in my pajamas but covered by a quilt. Luca’s contribution, maybe. Last night, I had waited and waited below Glenys’s window, but when nothing happened, I had to conclude that I’d overreacted, read too much into what I’d seen on the monitor. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to leave, and even after the chill in the air had turned icy and the dew had started to form, I’d stayed, curling up on the chaise.

I pulled the quilt around me, shivering in the cold dawn. A few minutes later Luca returned with a mug of steaming coffee and a cinnamon roll. I accepted them gratefully and bit into the roll. I could feel him watching, arms folded.

“Daphne,” I said, covering my mouth and swallowing. I took a gulp of the coffee. It burned the back of my throat. “Ah, that’s hot. But good. Thank you.”

“Luca.”

“Luca. Nice to meet you.” We did a quick shake, then I slurped the coffee again. I couldn’t help it. It was perfect. A pinch of sugar, even less cream. Just the way I liked it. Luca said something and nodded up at the house, but I was lost. And not so certain what he was speaking was actually Spanish. It had an odd twist to it. But that look on his face. Was he judging me? Pegging me for some rich, crazy white woman who liked the idea of her every move being recorded for a doctor’s viewing enjoyment?

“Everything’s okay,” I said around the delicious cinnamon roll. “I came out here last night and fell asleep. I was . . .” I paused. “I fell asleep.”

He didn’t answer. Either he didn’t understand, or he didn’t care.