Not One of Us(2)

There was no answer to my knock. No rush of footsteps from within or a familiar voice calling out, “I’m coming.”

My skin tightened with another prickle of unease.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the den. No one roamed inside. It was one of the few weekends they had no planned guests arriving. Mimi had only worked a couple of hours that morning before being dismissed. Naturally, she’d grumbled about the reduced hours, which meant even less money.

Had all three of the Cormiers decided to travel to their Mobile home for some reason? Perhaps Deacon’s dad had unexpected urgent business in the city and had asked his son and wife to go with him. That had happened on a few occasions since I’d met them.

But why leave all the lights on?

Maybe they hadn’t heard my knock. I strode back to the door and rang the doorbell. Its chime echoed forlornly inside. Pressing my nose to the pane of glass by the entrance, I craned my neck from side to side to see if anyone might be in the hallway or kitchen.

“Hey,” I called out, knocking sharply at the door again. “It’s Jori. Anybody home?”

No answer.

Gingerly, I tested the lock, and the knob twisted all the way around with a click. I pushed the heavy door open, and it creaked as loudly as thunder. I stuck my head inside. “Anyone here?” I called out again.

I pushed my shoulders through the opening, drew a deep breath, and then took a tentative step inside. They knew me; they liked me. It’d be okay.

The delicious aroma of roasted chicken wafted toward me—they were home, then, or they had been recently. Underlying the scent of dinner was a very faint trace of some kind of disinfectant cleanser. I kept calling out “Hello?” and “Anybody home?” as I stepped cautiously from the foyer to the den.

Two half-full glasses of iced tea sat on the coffee table, one of them rimmed with Mrs. Cormier’s ruby lip gloss. Nerves on edge, I entered the kitchen and found the table set for three. Bright cherry-red plates on gold chargers, glasses of melted ice, a bowl of salad greens already wilting. A casserole dish of potatoes sat on the granite counter, and I gingerly touched the baking dish. It was cold. I opened the oven and found a slightly overdone roasted chicken; the oven setting had been lowered to “warm.” I turned it completely off, not wanting their dinner to go to ruin. They must have had an emergency call and left the house quickly, expecting to return shortly.

My annoyance morphed to concern. Had something happened to Deacon’s dad? Had he and his mom rushed to the hospital in Mobile, where he’d been injured or taken ill? But why wasn’t Deacon answering his phone? Had he forgotten to bring it along?

When would they return? I couldn’t help it—I pictured my prom dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door. A beautiful peach tea-length dress that had cost me an entire week of the wages I’d earned as a cashier at Winn-Dixie. Were we still on for the prom tomorrow night?

I pulled out my cheap flip phone and called his number. Like before, it went straight to voice mail. His battery must be dead, I decided. I texted him again.

At ur house. Where are u? Turned off oven. Call me.

I strode across the polished walnut floors to the bay windows facing the back of the property and driveway. Mrs. Cormier’s Grand Prix was there, as well as Deacon’s black Mustang. A chill slid down my spine. They weren’t here in the house—or were they?

I punched down the dread churning my gut and slowly walked to the staircase, again calling out and again receiving no answer. The quiet felt ominous, choking and weighing me down. The stairs creaked as I slowly climbed. At the top of the stairs, I checked Deacon’s room—undisturbed. His bed was neatly made, and nothing appeared out of place. I headed out, then paused and slowly turned back around. Something wasn’t quite right. I scanned the room, stopping when I caught sight of his desk. Deacon’s laptop was gone. Had he taken it with him?

I left his room and then passed by the guest rooms before briefly glancing at the open door of the master bedroom. Nothing out of place there either. I relaxed slightly. What had I been expecting? Bloody corpses? I’d been watching too many true-crime shows. I clomped back down the stairs, rechecking my silent cell phone.

They had to have gone in Mr. Cormier’s car, then. Maybe after he’d returned home, he’d gotten a call that someone else in their family had fallen ill, and they’d all left in a hurry. Deacon hadn’t notified me because his battery was low. He was horrible at remembering to keep it charged.

Yes, that had to be the case. By the time the dance was over, Deacon would call and explain what had happened. No big deal.

And yet . . . it was weird. Creepy. Everything left out on the table like that. Wouldn’t Mrs. Cormier have taken five minutes to put up the food before leaving?

I’d do my good deed for the day and put up the chicken and casserole. It took a few tries, but I found the plastic wrap and covered the salad and potatoes and stashed them in the fridge. That done, I scanned the kitchen. Was there anything more I could do?

I strolled back to the den and glanced around. No clues there. I had started to turn when a small flash of something shiny on a coffee table caught my eye. Something I hadn’t noticed earlier. I edged over for a closer look.

A small cellophane package lay discarded by a stack of magazines. Gingerly, I picked it up, gasping as I recognized what it was. As I peeled back the cellophane, it made a crinkling sound that caused pink notes shaped like stars to dance in my mind. A single peach rose bloomed amid white carnations. Sprigs of baby’s breath poked underneath and around an apricot-colored ribbon. I caressed the rose’s smooth petals before lifting it to my nose and inhaling deeply. The scent momentarily soothed me.