Every Single Secret(65)

Friday, October 19

Night

The police receptionist—if that’s what they call her—is sitting at a small desk right inside the front door. The waiting area is lined with plastic chairs, and one of those huge, chainsaw-carved wood bears stands guard in the corner. When I tell her I need to speak to an officer because of something that’s happened up at Baskens, she gestures at the chairs.

“I’ll have an officer out to talk to you soon as I can. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yes, please,” I say. I’m starting to feel light headed. Nauseated from the water I gulped down earlier. In my fog, I notice yet another TV, this one a flat-screen affixed to the wall beside the reception desk. No football game playing on this one, it’s the local Atlanta news.

“Co-cola? Sprite? Diet?”

I try to concentrate on what the woman is saying. “A Coke, please. Thanks.”

When she returns from the back—and presumably telling one of the officers I have a crime to report—she hands me a cold can. I pop the top and tip it up.

She slips behind her desk again.

“Oh. One more thing.” I hold up the iPad. It’s fogged and slick from being tucked against my sweaty back. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of earbuds, would you?” She can’t disguise a quick furrow of her brow, but she produces a pair of black earbuds from one of the desk drawers and hands them over.

“Thanks.”

She nods, but she doesn’t make eye contact. I wonder how long it’s going to be. There can’t be that much going on in Dunfree, Georgia, on a Friday night.

I return to my seat, plug in the earbuds, and tap in the numbers 5353. In the Notes section, I find the patient folders and click on Heath’s. When his voice fills my ears, goose bumps cover my body.



Chapter Twenty-Five

Friday, October 19

Morning

By the time Heath emerged from the shower, I was already well into breakfast. He joined me, digging energetically into the stack of pancakes. A lock of wet hair fell over his eye as he ate.

But all I could think of were Luca’s hazel eyes fastened onto mine, his voice in my ears.

Look behind the mirror.

Behind the mirror above the dresser in our room? Or some other mirror? I didn’t know. It was all he’d said.

My pulse was racing so fast now it felt like I was about to kick into a panic attack. I played with my food, pretending to eat, pushing the pancakes and bacon around. I’d broken into a sweat despite the frigid room.

I leapt up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you going?” Heath said, working his way through the pancakes.

“I left the book I was reading downstairs.”

“There you go, read a book. Much healthier than worrying about everybody else around here.”

“Back in a sec,” I chirped and scooted out of the room.

In the hallway both trays were still untouched. I still had a chance to make contact with Jerry McAdam. I tapped on the Siefferts’ door, but there was no answer. I moved on to the McAdams’ and knocked quietly.

“Mr. McAdam, it’s Daphne Amos.” There was no answer. I bounced on the balls of my feet. “Jerry, I really need to talk to you. I know you have a phone. So I need you to call the police for me. For Glenys Sieffert, okay? That’s her name. Glenys Sieffert. She and her husband are staying right next door to you. Just call 911, please.”

At the end of the hall, the pocket door was open. Beyond it, I could see that Dr. Cerny’s bedroom door was shut. He was either still inside or he was already downstairs in his office getting ready for the day. In either case, I had a chance to get up to the attic without him hearing me. I gauged the time. Soon Heath would be done eating, and Luca would be back up to collect everyone’s trays. I had to go now.

I made it up the stairs in seconds. The monitors were on, but the Sieffert screen showed nothing. No people. No activity. The room was empty.

The McAdams were eating breakfast.

But how was that possible? I’d just seen both trays still sitting by the respective doors.

I leaned closer. Their faces were hidden, but I could see the meal clearly enough. Soft-boiled eggs in old-fashioned cups and what looked like grapefruit halves. Which was strange, because back in our room, Heath was shoveling down pancakes and bacon.

“What the hell . . .” I said softly.

So Luca cooked different breakfasts for different guests? That was an extraordinary amount of work for one person, and above and beyond providing dietary substitutions. Something about this felt off. Way off. I backed out of the room, headed down the stairs, but stopped dead at the pocket door.

Both breakfast trays still sat outside the McAdams’ and Siefferts’ doors. They looked exactly like they had when Luca had dropped them off, like they hadn’t been touched at all. I hesitated. I knew what I’d just seen—the McAdams eating their made-to-order eggs and grapefruit. Was it possible that in the time it had taken me to climb down the stairs, they’d put the tray back out?

I crept toward the McAdams’ door and the tray, knelt, and lifted one of the metal lids. The plate underneath was empty. Not just cleared of food but absolutely clean, like it had just come out of the cupboard. I lifted the cover off the other plate, and it was the same. A perfectly pristine plate. No food. Nothing.