Every Single Secret(64)

He was quiet for a moment. “She’s confused. And she’s sad,” he said.

The idea of Omega being sad felt like the world being folded up with me inside of it. I couldn’t bear it.

“We should go get her in your car,” I said. “She’ll miss the funeral.” And the food afterward, in the fellowship hall, I was thinking too.

Mr. Al let out a heavy sigh. “Mrs. Bobbie has the keys.”

It was the last thing I wanted to do, tear out of his embrace, but somebody had to go after Omega. Somebody had to cheer her up. So I did. I wove my way through the cars in the parking lot and, when I got to the road, kicked off the clogs and started running as fast as I could in the direction I’d seen Omega go.



Chapter Twenty-Four

Friday, October 19

Morning

I was peering through the crack in our door, hoping to catch sight of Jerry McAdam, when I heard Heath roll over in bed.

“You showered already?” He squinted at me though sleep-swollen eyes.

“I woke up early,” I said, glancing at the clock. It was six forty-five now, but I’d been wide awake since around five, snapping the band on my wrist. My head throbbed dully.

Obviously, McAdam hadn’t called 911 last night; it was possible he hadn’t even seen my note. The hallway was deserted and silent, and no sign of Luca. Breakfast wouldn’t be ready yet. There was no certainty that even if McAdam got the note this morning, he’d do anything. He could think it was a joke and throw it away. He could tell Dr. Cerny and get us thrown out.

Not that I’d mind going home. In fact, that would be hunky-dory with me.

Heath groaned behind me. “Daphne, leave it. She’s a grown woman. She can stay in her room if she wants to. Cerny’s therapy is really intense. She may not want to talk to you. You should respect that. Give her space.”

“And if something happened to her, if she’s lost somewhere up on the mountain—”

“Or at the bottom of a cliff . . .” he said.

I glared at him, then turned my back.

“She’s not Chantal,” he said gently.

“I know.” A rustling sound and a couple of thumps rose from the foot of the far stairs. Luca, bringing up the breakfast trays. I closed the door a fraction of an inch more and positioned my eye at the crack.

“Good God,” Heath sighed. But I didn’t care. I was going to stay at the door until I saw something. Anything—McAdam or Glenys or anyone—and then I would make my move. From the bathroom, I heard the squeak of the faucet and the shower start to run. Fine, Heath. Take a leisurely shower even though a woman’s gone missing. Wouldn’t want your day inconvenienced in any way.

At last I spied Luca rounding the corner, bearing a single tray. Poor guy. He had to make three separate trips, three times a day, up those endless stairs. I was surprised the doc had the place wired up like the CIA, but he couldn’t manage to rig up some kind of dumbwaiter for poor Luca.

He stopped when he saw me, then pivoted, depositing the tray in front of the McAdams’ door, giving it a light rap. He nodded at me, then headed back down the hall to the back stairs. I thought of all the cameras, whirring away from the safety of their hiding places. I was just going to have to risk Dr. Cerny diagnosing me as a voyeur or paranoid or some other type of mentally ill person. I wasn’t leaving my post.

But the McAdams’ door never opened, and the tray sat untouched outside the room. When Luca returned with the next tray, he seemed to hesitate at the top of the stairs. I lifted my hand in greeting, and he deposited the tray in front of the Siefferts’ door. Before heading down again, he glanced back at me. I withdrew, leaving the door cracked wide enough to spot Glenys or her husband, if either one happened to retrieve their tray. Which they didn’t.

Presently Luca was back at the top of the stairs with our food. I hurriedly pushed the door closed and scuttled backward farther into the room, which was a ridiculous move, seeing as I’d obviously been watching him throughout the whole process. Still, when he rapped, I lunged forward, swung the door open, and smiled like I was astonished to find him there. He froze, bent halfway to the floor.

“Hi,” I said.

He straightened and gave me a look, but it wasn’t a friendly one like we’d shared in the kitchen. He seemed annoyed, maybe even angry. I stared back at him, either waiting to understand the hidden meaning behind his eyes, or daring him to speak—which he eventually did.

“Café da manh?.”

“Come in.” I beckoned him into the room, but he didn’t move. I stepped back, gestured to the table. He entered tentatively, like he thought Heath—or an angry bear—might come crashing in at any minute. “You can put it on the table,” I offered, and he did, as quickly as I’d ever seen any hotel room-service waiter do.

He started to back away, but then stopped. Slid his eyes toward the closed bathroom door.

I took a deep breath. Plunged right into the deep end. “He’s in the shower. And the cameras don’t record sound, I don’t think.” I held my breath. “I know you want to tell me something.”

His eyes flashed for a brief second, then he moved to the open door.

He spoke in heavily accented English, then melted back into the dark hallway.

“Look behind the mirror,” was all he said.