Eerie - Crouch Blake - Страница 27
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Chapter 25
Paige stood waiting for him at the kitchen island, her face grim in the candlelight.
“How bad is this?” she asked.
“We need to leave.”
“And how are we supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, but more people will come.”
“From your work?”
“Yes.”
“What’s going to happen when they …” She cut her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Nothing good.”
“Your face is swollen.”
“She hit me.” Grant glanced back down the hallway. “I should talk to her.”
“About what?”
“Make her understand what’s—”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why would you tell her about any of this?”
“Does it not look bad enough already? I just handcuffed my own partner to a staircase and took her gun.”
“How’d she even find you?”
“The private investigator I called this afternoon. My phone died, he couldn’t reach me, so he called her.”
“Does this mean she talked to your PI?”
“I would assume.”
“So maybe she has some info on the house.”
“I’ll find out. I’m going to tell her everything, Paige.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because maybe she believes me, and then it’s three of us against whatever’s upstairs.”
“You didn’t believe me until you saw your friend cut his neck open with a piece of glass.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe she won’t believe me. But she will listen.”
• • •
Grant sat down a foot outside of Sophie’s reach.
She glared at him, dark eyes ablaze with equal parts sadness, anger, and fear. In the thousands of hours they’d spent together, he’d never seen this look before. A new level of intimacy reached under the worst possible conditions. It felt unnatural, impossible that he might be the object of that intensity. That he had hurt her. In the back of his mind, he’d always thought it would be the other way around.
“I need you to do something, Sophie.”
With her free hand, she pushed her straight black hair out of her face. “What?”
“Try and remember what it felt like to trust me.”
“Are you joking?”
“Three months ago, when you had your biopsy—”
“Don’t do that.”
“Hear me out. You know I would have been sitting in that waiting room when you came out, whether you asked me to be there or not.”
Grant thought he saw the hardness in her eyes give just a little.
He went on, “Now imagine the kind of situation the guy sitting in that doctor’s office would have to be in to physically disarm you and chain you to a banister. Imagine how scared out of his mind he’d have to be.”
“I can’t if you don’t tell me.”
“I’m going to. And I hope you think about all the things you love, or used to love, about me. I hope you’ll give me the benefit of all the doubts you have.”
“Why should I?”
“Because no one in their right mind would believe what I’m about to tell you.”
It was raining again. Grant could hear it pattering on the windows. A good, rich smell wafted in from the kitchen. The soft crackle of browning butter. Paige making grilled cheese sandwiches, he hoped.
The modest heat of the day had fled and a damp, merciless chill had begun to overtake the brownstone.
“Those Facebook profiles you sent me last night?”
“Yeah?”
“One of them was just a pair of eyes, but I recognized them. They were my sister’s. What I said about the concierge was true. He told me about this place. I showed up last night, and sure enough, Paige was living here.”
“Your sister, the one you hadn’t seen in years, is living in Queen Anne and working as a prostitute?”
Grant nodded. “Maybe you can understand why I came here alone.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“She let me in, and right off, I noticed she didn’t look well. Strung out, I figured. She’s always struggled with addiction, so I’ve seen it before. But nothing like this. She looked emaciated. Pale as a ghost.”
“You should’ve called me.”
“Be glad I didn’t.”
“Why?”
Grant glanced up the staircase.
His stomach churned.
“I need to show you something. If I uncuff you, am I going to regret it?”
“No.”
Grant walked into the living room, grabbed the flashlight from the coffee table, and then retrieved Sophie’s Glock from beneath a tufted wingback chair that sat in the corner. He pocketed the magazine, racked the slide, and caught the semi-jacketed .40 cal hollowpoint in midair.
“You think I’d shoot you?” she asked.
“You ever think I’d cuff you to a banister?”
Grant dug her keys out of his pocket as he walked back over to the stairs. Unlocking the bracelet from the balustrade, he cuffed it around his own wrist and helped Sophie onto her feet.
“Can I see your hand?” he asked.
She held it up, the swelling already begun along the ring and pinkie fingers below the knuckles, Sophie’s light brown skin flashing the darkening blush of a bruise.
“Next time you hit someone,” Grant said, “keep your fist closed.”
“Your jaw’s an asshole,” she said.
“You hit like a girl.” He motioned toward the steps. “We’re headed up.”
“Why?”
“To show you something.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“Remember what they say about seeing?”
“No.”
“It’s believing.”
They climbed in tandem, Grant’s right hand bound to Sophie’s left. Halfway up, they lost the morsels of light from the candles down below. Grant switched on the flashlight, its beam striking the landing above them with a circle of illumination that seemed much weaker than the last time he’d used it.
He was suddenly aware of the shudder of his heart, like something shaking manically inside his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Sophie asked.
“I don’t like it up here.”
They reached the second floor and Grant led them to the foot of the corridor that accessed Paige’s bedroom.
He passed the beam over the table, the lamp, the peeling wallpaper.
“What are we doing up here?” Sophie asked.
Grant shone his flashlight on the bedroom door.
Still closed.
“We’re almost there,” he said.
They moved down the corridor. As they neared Paige’s room, Grant felt himself struggling against the same fear he’d known as a child—staring down the hall from his bedroom in the middle of the night, weighing his thirst for a drink of water from the kitchen against the knowledge that he’d have to walk past the yawning black mouth of the bathroom to get it.
As they passed Paige’s door, Grant felt that magnetic pull he’d dreamt of.
A burning desire crystallized in the back of his mind which contained all the fatal allure of a suicidal question …
What would the barrel of this gun taste like?
What would it feel like to jump?
What if I stepped in front of that bus?
What if I just opened the door?
It would be the simplest action, one he’d done tens of thousands of times in his life.
Just turn the knob and push.
“Grant, you okay?”
He realized he’d stopped walking.
Was standing with the tip of his nose several inches from Paige’s door, his flashlight pointed at the carpet.
“Yeah, this way,” he said, pulling himself away from the door.
They moved together to the end of the hall.
Turning the corner, they came to the guestroom.
Grant stopped at the closed door.
“What now?” Sophie asked.
In all the turmoil, Grant realized he’d overlooked the fact that this wasn’t just going to shock Sophie, it was going to hurt her as much as it had hurt him. She’d known Don too, and not only in a professional capacity. During her cancer scare, Don had availed himself to her. His wife had gone through a similar ordeal the year before. His insight, coupled with an uncanny ability to demystify fear and help people stare it right in the face, had gone a long way toward getting Sophie through those excruciating days between the biopsy and the results. He had become as much a fixture in her life as he had been in Grant’s. Don was a healer, and he had touched them both in their darkest moments.
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