Grant gave one of the halves a kick, hoping the wood might be soft enough to split with his foot.
The particleboard barely flexed.
A tremor of pain shot up his leg.
He turned and scanned the rest of the room for something he could use to break it up.
In the corner beneath the stairs, a cluster of long-handled tools rested against the wall.
He walked over and picked through the pile, finally selecting a sledgehammer which he hoisted and carried back to the workbench.
Grant set the candle on the floor beside him, and with his free hand, pulled both halves of the table away from the wall.
On the exposed brick in front of him, the unsteady light made his shadow tremble and curl onto the ceiling, the sledgehammer grotesquely elongated like a malformed limb.
The silhouette moved when he moved but it didn’t feel like it belonged to him.
He threw an impulsive look back over his shoulder at the piano, but it was lost somewhere in darkness behind him.
He squared himself up in front of the bench.
Got a solid, two-handed grip—right hand under the head, left down toward the end of the handle—and raised the sledgehammer over his head.
The blow fell with such force that he didn’t even feel it pass through the bench, splinters of wood exploding as the head crushed into the stone floor and sent a jarring shockwave up through his arms that rattled the fillings in his molars.
Eight more swings and the workbench had been reduced to a pile of kindling.
Panting, he leaned on the handle of the sledgehammer and examined the damage.
A good start, but not enough to burn through the night.
More importantly, not enough resistance to fill his need to destroy something.
Grant picked the candle up, threw the sledgehammer over his shoulder, and approached the corner where the piano sulked.
Up close, it was a gorgeous instrument. An upright Steinway of mahogany construction with brass gilding on the bass and treble ends. Must have been exquisite in its youth. Now, decades of exposure to the elements had stripped away most of the varnish and rusted its fixtures.
He propped the sledgehammer against one of its legs and ran his hand across the keyboard.
It was rough where the lacquered ivory had worn down to the wood beneath.
His index finger came to rest on middle C.
He pressed it.
The key sank with a gritty resistance, and for the first time in what Grant guessed might be decades, a single, decrepit note moaned from somewhere deep inside the old piano. It filled the basement, taking so long to dissipate that he began to feel unnerved at its continued presence.
It was still hanging in the air when the basement door opened and Paige’s voice came to him from the top of the steps.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Just getting some firewood.”
Silence for a beat.
The door slammed.
Grant gave the piano one last look.
The note was gone, leaving only the hush of rain creeping in through the broken window.
He lifted the sledgehammer, heaved it above his head, and sent it crashing through the wooden lid, down into the guts where it severed the remaining strings in a horrible twanging cacophony.
The resistance was glorious.
He drank it in.
Ripped the head out, swung again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Chapter 31
It took him three trips to carry up all the fruits of his rage.
As he sat on the hearth arranging balls of newsprint and kindling under the grate, Sophie said, “You’re drenched with sweat. Everything okay?”
“Not so much.”
“Paige has been crying in the kitchen.”
“We had words.”
“Yeah, I heard some of them.”
He laid two legs of the piano bench across the grate and grabbed the box of matches.
Struck a light, held it to the paper.
As the flame spread, it suddenly hit him—exhaustion.
Total, mind-melting exhaustion.
The kindling ignited.
“I’m gonna be turning in soon,” he said. “You need to use the bathroom or anything?”
“You just destroyed her in there. You know that, right?”
He looked at Sophie.
Dishes clanged in the kitchen sink.
“I know she’s hurt you,” Sophie said. “I know she’s disappointed you. I know she’s been a pain in your ass since the two of you were on your own. I get all of that. But for whatever reason, you got one sister in your life, and there won’t be anymore. I got none. I envy you.”
“Sophie—”
“I understand that I don’t understand what it’s like.”
“The things she does to herself,” he said. “That she lets these men do to her for money.”
“I know.”
“I remember when she was six years old. When she had nothing in the world but me.”
“I know.”
“And now this?”
“Grant—”
“I love her so much.”
He wiped his eyes, piled more wood onto the fire.
Grant took Sophie to the bathroom and then set her up in a leather recliner. He cuffed her right ankle to the metal framework under the footrest and buried her under a mass of blankets.
Her phone vibrated in his pocket.
He tugged it out, swiped the screen.
Art had sent another text, this one carrying an attachment.
It was a photo of the interior of a diner.
Four men seated at a booth.
“What is it?” Sophie asked.
He showed her the pic and pointed to the frumpy-looking man seated next to Jude Grazer.
“Steve Vincent,” she said.
“Yep. The gang’s all there.”
A local number appeared on the screen.
“Recognize it?” Grant asked.
“That’s Frances.”
He answered with, “That was fast.”
“I aim to please.”
“You got something?”
“Mr. Flowers has a couple of DUIs.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. No ViCAP hits. No NCIC. But ... I did run everyone through the Social Security Death Index on our Ancestry.com account.”
“Good thinking, and?”
“Williams, Janice D., died March 2, 2007. She was forty-one. I don’t know if that’s helpful. I don’t have any other information.”
“The other tenants are still warm and breathing?”
“Yes.”
“This is super helpful, Frances. Thank you.”
“I’ve got another call coming in—”
“Take it. I owe you big time.”
Grant ended the call.
Sophie looked up at him, eyebrows raised.
“One second,” he said.
He hurried out of the living room, through the foyer, and into the dining room, where he grabbed Stu’s manila folder off the table.
Through the open doorway, he caught a glimpse of Paige still at the kitchen sink.
He jogged back to Sophie and sat down in proximity to the only decent light in the house—the roaring fire—and opened the folder.
“Talk to me, Grant. What are you suddenly cranked up about?”
“No meaningful hits on any database, but Frances ran all the names to see if anyone had died. One did, five years ago.”
“Do you know how old they were at time of death?”
“Only forty-one.”
He scrolled the list.
Four names down from the top, he found Janice Williams.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?”
“Ms. Williams died while she was still living here.”
“So? People die. It happens.”
“You aren’t a little bit curious for more details?”
“Is there contact info on the spreadsheet?”
“Just a phone number. Must be next-of-kin.”
“Call ‘em up.”
Grant dialed. “Five-oh-nine area code,” he said. “Recognize it?”
“Spokane.”
It rang five times, and then went to the voice mail of a gruff, tired-sounding man with a blue-collar twang. Grant pictured a mechanic.
You reached Robert. I can’t get to the phone right at this moment. Leave your name and number and I will call you back.