The Unknown Beloved(69)

“You want to go exploring?” he asked softly. It was almost midnight, but he was antsy, and he didn’t want to wait any longer to see what clues the apartment turned up.

Her mouth was still full, but she immediately stood.

He stood too, feeling suddenly cheerful. He told himself it was because he’d always enjoyed breaking and entering. It probably had more to do with spending another hour or two with Dani, but he didn’t think about it too hard.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in five. And wear something dark,” he said.



Nothing remained in the space but a single wooden chair and a sofa with a torn cushion, frayed arms, and a missing leg. It had been propped on a medical book to keep it from listing to the side. Dark curtains hung at the window in the sitting area, but the bedrooms, two of them, held nothing but empty springs on bed frames and dust balls that scurried like spiders when Malone caught them in the beam of his light.

He’d had no trouble jimmying the lock, and they’d slipped into the apartment almost as quickly as if they’d had a key. But there wasn’t much to see.

It smelled like sour socks and bacon grease, and the only light in the place was a bulb hanging on a long, stringy wire above the shallow basin in the bathroom. Malone pulled the little chain, giving them a bit of light to search by, but used his flashlight to study the other rooms.

“I don’t suppose you could run your hands along the walls and tell us this was the lair of a killer at one point?” he asked, grim.

“No. Hard surfaces don’t speak to me.”

They walked back into the sitting room, his light pinging from corner to corner, and Dani walked to the old sofa. It was soiled and sad, but it was cloth.

“I might be able to get something from the curtains or even the couch. It’s upholstered, and it’s never been washed. That will make it easier . . . and harder, depending on use.”

“Why harder?”

“Everyone who has lived here most likely sat here. It didn’t belong to just one person, wasn’t worn or held or touched by a single hand.”

“Like fingerprints on a door handle.”

“Yes. Exactly. Hard to tell the layers apart. The curtains have probably been washed, though not often. But the same problem exists. The couch would have absorbed more. No one wraps themselves in the curtains.”

He shrugged and pointed his beam at the sofa. “Give it a try.”

She started by running her hands in a grid-like pattern, up and down, up and down, working her way across the length of the old couch. Images flashed, but they were blurred and indecipherable. A watercolor painting smeared with grime. When she hissed and swayed, yanking her hands back, Malone took her arm, steadying her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It’s like being jostled by a crowd. Or spun in circles. It’s making me dizzy,” she said, sheepish, but she tried again, moving her hands more slowly, trying to make sense of the colors and shapes.

“Diagrams. Anatomy. Da Vinci’s proportions of the human body,” she reported, but the man in the circle spun away and a sobbing intern—Jacob?—took his place. Jacob didn’t want to be a doctor. He dreamed of blood, dripping limbs, and pustules oozing with terms he—Jacob?—repeated in monotone, as though he studied for an exam.

“Jacob lived here last,” she said. “Isn’t that what Sybil said?”

“Yeah. Jacob Bartunek.”

“He’s . . . miserable.” She slid her hands to the left, but there was nothing else to see but the muddied wash of too many memories. Her stomach lurched again, and she clutched at it.

“What do you see?” Malone asked.

“This isn’t going to work, I’m afraid.” She closed her eyes, trying to settle the spinning wheel in her head. “Will you let me hold on to you for a minute?”

“Hold on to me?”

“I need a clean slate,” she whispered. “Let me hold your hands . . . just until my mind clears.”

He shoved his flashlight in his trouser pocket and did as she asked, enveloping her palms in his. His hands were rough and raw-boned, his father’s hands, he’d said. He’d seemed proud of that, maybe because he resembled his father in so few ways.

His hands anchored her instantly, and the murky miasma dissipated, as if he’d wiped it away. She’d never had someone to hold her hands after a bad spell before. She’d always had to recenter herself.

“Is that better?” he asked, as though he thought he might be doing it wrong.

“Yes. Much better,” she whispered, but she tightened her fingers so he wouldn’t let go. Just a minute more. “I know you think when I touch you, I’m divining all your secrets,” she said.

“You are.” His voice was mild, but she could feel the tension in his grip.

“I’m not. I don’t read skin, and I don’t hear your clothes when you’re wearing them. I tried to explain when . . . when we argued.” Better to say “argued” than “kissed.” “You said I was touching your shirt, so I knew everything.”

“And you don’t?” he murmured.

“I can’t hear the cloth against . . . living . . . flesh. It’s like the warmth and heat of the real thing—of life—is too loud. It’s rather nice, really.” It made fittings a pleasure when every other aspect of her profession was fraught with snags and the pinpricks of private thoughts.