Time protracted, seconds becoming eons of escalating misery as his radiocarpal joint approached its limit. A power surge illuminated the staircase for one burning second, and then everything was enveloped in darkness.
Jude released him.
Grant collapsed onto his side, cradling his hand against his chest as Jude’s footsteps continued down the stairs.
“Get back here,” he said, but neither his voice nor his heart was in it.
The front door opened and slammed shut, Dr. Jude vanishing into the rainy night.
Chapter 13
“Paige!”
Grant pounded on her door.
“Can you hear me?”
He grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, straining with his good wrist until it popped, but nothing happened.
“Paige!”
His voice raced through the second-floor halls that wrapped around the stairwell.
Grant turned and felt his way through the darkness to the hallway table. There was nothing of use on the surface, but a brief exploration along its side revealed a drawer handle.
He yanked it open, blindly rummaging.
Mostly unidentifiable junk.
Couldn’t believe his luck when he found a small flashlight.
Please.
He twisted the end and a narrow circle of light shone on the floor beneath him.
Grant returned to the door and dropped to his knees.
Put the side of his head on the hardwood and shined the weak light underneath the crack.
Nothing.
He stood, took several steps back, and accelerated at the door, his shoulder lowered, bracing for impact.
There was as much give as if he’d run straight into a brick wall, a bright shudder of agony exploding in his shoulder and screaming down through his arm to the tips of his fingers.
But a fear that tore his guts out overrode the pain.
Something had happened to Paige and he couldn’t get to her.
He sprinted down the hall, around the corner, and shot down the stairs as fast as he could safely travel in the dark.
Need an ax, a sledgehammer, a bowling ball—something with heft.
Failing that, find a toolbox. Physically remove the doorknob.
Grant stopped at the hearth and made a cursory examination of the fireplace toolset. The heaviest thing on the rack was the cast-iron poker, but it wouldn’t stand a chance of breaking through Paige’s door.
He threw it down and ran into the kitchen.
Pulled open the door to the pantry.
The half-bundle of plastic-wrapped firewood still sat on the floor. He frantically searched the shelves, hoping for a toolbox, a hatchet, something, but the heaviest object he spotted was a thirty-two-ounce can of whole cherry tomatoes.
Think. Think. Think.
As he’d first approached the brownstone after opening the wrought-iron gate, he’d walked up a set of stairs to reach the first level.
Which means—
—there’s probably a basement.
Grant shut the pantry door and spun around.
The shock of seeing Paige standing two feet away buckled his knees as if someone had cut his ligaments.
Grant stumbled back against the door.
His sister stared at him—reeking of sex, lingerie badly wrinkled, and looking as bleary and confused as if she’d just woken out of REM sleep.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She blinked several times without answering, as if the connections between thought and speech were rebooting.
Said finally, “Did you see Jude?”
Grant nodded.
“He left my room?”
“He did a lot more than that.”
“Tell me everything.”
Chapter 14
The temperature inside the brownstone was diving.
Grant built up the fire with the remaining logs, and with Paige’s help, dragged over the leather sofa and the mattress she’d been sleeping on.
He took the flashlight upstairs, stripped the guest bed.
Hauled the pile of blankets and covers downstairs.
It was long past midnight when Grant finally eased down onto the sofa, and as his head hit the pillow, the sheer exhaustion swept through with such intensity he could’ve mainlined it.
He wrapped two blankets around himself and turned over to face the fire.
The heat felt good, and it came at him in waves.
Paige lay on the mattress several inches below.
“You getting warm?” he asked.
“Not yet. Has it been worse than this?” she asked.
“No, I think we have a winner.”
Without the central heat running, it was quiet enough in the powerless house to hear the rain and the occasional hiss of a car going through a puddle on the street, though they were driving by with greater infrequency at this late hour.
Grant pulled his arm out from under the covers and touched Paige’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe you’ve been living with this for weeks,” he said.
Tears had begun to shine in the corners of her eyes.
“Before,” Paige said, “when it was just me, I kept thinking maybe this wasn’t real. Maybe I was imagining it. Losing my mind. But now you’re here. And don’t get me wrong—I’m so glad you are—but it means this is actually happening.”
“There’s an explanation.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out.”
“You’re a detective. It’s your job to believe there are answers to everything.”
“There are answers to everything. Also, I’m very good at my job if that makes you feel any better.”
“No offense, but I think haunted houses are a step above your pay grade.”
The room undulated in the firelight, Grant so tired his eyes were lingering on the blinks.
“Do you really think this place is haunted?” he asked. “Whatever that even means.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot, and I don’t know. But if this isn’t haunted, I’d hate to see what it takes to qualify.”
“How do you sleep knowing what’s up there? Or rather, not knowing?”
“I only sleep when my body shuts down and my eyes refuse to stay open. The dreams are awful.”
“You have a gun in the house?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where is it?”
“My coat pocket. The gray one hanging by the door.”
“Loaded?”
“Yes. Why? Planning to shoot a ghost?”
“Never know.”
“You know you can’t ever go into my bedroom. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Promise me you won’t.”
“Cross my heart.”
For a moment, Grant considered trying to leave again, but just the threat of that all-encompassing pain put a shudder through him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Paige said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re thinking when you wake up in the morning, it’ll be different. That there will be light outside and people driving around, and we’ll have somehow slept this off.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
She reorganized the covers and tucked them under her feet.
Shut her eyes.
“Don’t get your hopes up. You don’t wake up from this.”
Chapter 15
Two years ago on Thanksgiving night, Grant had questioned a man charged with manslaughter in the death of his wife and children. He’d driven them home drunk from a family dinner and veered head-on into a tow truck. Somehow managed to escape without a scratch.
Grant never forgot how the man had sat in the hard, remorseless light of Interview 3, his head buried in his hands, still fragrant with booze. He wasn’t a bad guy. No priors. Had only been moderately drunk. And up until that evening, he’d always been a model family man.
He’d just happened to make a bad choice, catch a tough piece of luck, and ruin his life.