Every Single Secret(57)

In the kitchen, Luca was bustling around, chopping, mixing, sliding pans into ovens. He turned when I came in, and at the sight of him, my stomach executed a flip-flop. He reciprocated my smile—the spontaneous, easy grin filled his eyes with light and the space around us with electricity. He handed me an apple from a bowl on the counter.

“Thanks,” I said. “I guess you saw I slept through lunch.”

He shook his head. His face had turned somber and he was watching me intently, like he expected me to say something.

“I know, I know, no hablas, although I can’t help wondering if it’s just a put-on.”

His gaze didn’t waver, his eyes that shade of hazel that looked green in one light, gray in another. It was strange. It was as if he was trying to send me a message, but I was too boneheaded to decipher it.

“Or you really can’t speak English,” I forged on. “And I’m just being an utter asshole. In which case, my sincerest apologies, and thank you again for the apple. I’ll try not to miss dinner.”

He nodded once, then moved to the sink and started to clear the dishes. I beat a hasty exit.

The backyard matched my mood—serene and golden in the afternoon sun. From my vantage point, it looked like the birdhouses down in the garden were deserted and the lawn clear. The air around me was sharp with a smell of smoke, though, and I wondered if there was a fire on the mountain.

Or one started in the woods behind the house, maybe, to dispose of the birds’ bodies.

Feeling unsettled, I turned and headed for the mountain trail. The cold air burned my lungs, but I welcomed the pain. The faster I went, the more alive I felt. I was bursting with the endorphins and the anticipation of seeing Glenys. If I hurried, I wouldn’t be late.

I wiped my fogged lenses and checked my watch. Two thirty on the dot. I walked to the edge of the limestone slab where the cliff dropped away and breathed in the clean, cold air. No trace of Glenys up here, nor of any smoke. Maybe the smell had come from a campfire or someone’s chimney.

I stretched, did a couple of yoga poses, which would’ve cracked Lenny up if she could’ve witnessed it—me, the dedicated runner who couldn’t even be bothered with more than a cursory stretch before I started off. I checked my watch again. Twelve minutes had passed and still no Glenys. She could’ve forgotten, but it seemed unlikely. It wasn’t as if there was a schedule of activities to get swept up in.

After another twenty minutes or so, I headed back down the mountain, trying not to worry. I ticked through the possible reasons she hadn’t shown up. Maybe I’d inadvertently offended her. Maybe she’d had a particularly rough therapy session, and it had wiped her out. I remembered how distraught she’d looked outside the barn yesterday. I wondered what she’d seen in there that had set her off. Or maybe she hadn’t seen anything. Maybe it had just been a private spot where she could grieve, away from the camera in her room.

But suddenly it occurred to me—she’d obviously unlocked the chain on the barn doors. There’d been a huge padlock on it, for God’s sake.

I caught a sapling, stopping myself midstride.

How did she manage to open it?

The question was a valid one, even if I didn’t want to ask it. Even if it made me uncomfortable. As much as I wanted to deny it, none of what I’d experienced this week was normal. Not the locked Nissan, the Sinatra song, the arguing voices, the dead birds. The list of strange, unexplained things was getting longer by the minute. And now this: the barn-door chain, roped and padlocked for me, but not for Glenys.

I’d read enough self-help books to know what I was doing was called catastrophizing. But what if this was an actual, real-life catastrophe? Sometimes they did happen. Sometimes the signs were all there, right before something went terribly wrong. And the people who didn’t heed the warnings—who didn’t evacuate or board up their windows or brace themselves for the storm—were usually the ones who got swept away.

“This is not normal,” I said aloud. And broke into a run.

At the bottom of the trail, I charged toward the barn. On the doors, the chain hung limp. Unlocked. I ducked inside, waited for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. There were a couple of grimy, cobwebby windows up high in a loft area that let in what light was left of the day. It made the space look extra spooky—the set of a play, before the actors walked onstage and brought it to life. I wrapped my arms around my torso and surveyed the space.

The collection of sheet-draped furniture I’d seen, the day I’d first peeked through the cracked doors, filled the far-left corner of the barn. I approached it and gingerly lifted the corner of one sheet. A small bed, twin size. I pulled at the sheet and let it settle to the dirt floor. The bed was a simple light-wood four-poster with a chipped headboard. A set of old-fashioned springs rested on the slats.

I drew the sheet back over the bed, then moved to the next piece of furniture. A school desk, one of those old-fashioned all-in-ones, with a green metal seat and wood desktop that lifted up. It had a narrow groove at the top, for a pencil. I ran my fingers over the surface. It was scratched up pretty good. Maybe it had been Cerny’s. He had mentioned growing up here. How the fiery fiends had frightened him. How much mischief they’d kept him from.

The light through the high windows was fading fast. It was getting late. I dragged the desk over to the nearest one, angling it so the beam of light hit it at just the right angle. The surface of the wood was scarred over its entire surface. Someone had been busy . . . and not with their lessons. I squinted. I picked out the letter H. Then an A and a V. An E and N.