Читать книгу The Disappearance Of Sloane Sullivan - Gia Cribbs - Страница 14

Seven

The next morning, I was up at the crack of dawn, ready to put some of my lesson-acquired special skills to use. I got dressed for school as silently as I could in my room, all the while listening to Mark getting ready for his early shift at work. When the smell of his coffee followed him out the front door, I snuck down the hall and opened the door to his room.

The what-was-now-becoming-all-too-familiar feeling of guilt made my neck hot as, for the first time ever, I stepped into one of Mark’s bedrooms. I’d never snooped through his things before. Our relationship was based on trust, and we didn’t keep secrets from each other. Well, except for the giant one I was keeping about Jason. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

My feet padded along the cool wood floor as I scanned the sparse furniture that came with the rental house: queen-size bed with a starfish-patterned bedspread, a single honey-colored wood nightstand and a matching wood dresser complete with a round seashell-appliqued mirror hanging above it. I shook my head. Every place we lived in came furnished, so it’s not like we picked the decor, but this room really didn’t look like Mark. The extreme level of organization was the only thing that made me think he lived there. My eyes darted around. Where would Mr. Neat Freak hide something?

I yanked on the cuffs of my black knit winter gloves to make sure they were snug—lesson number seven: everything you need to know about fingerprints—and started with the nightstand. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, only that I’d know it when I saw it. Other than a few books I wanted to read, there was nothing good on the nightstand. I tried the dresser but only found T-shirts, socks and underwear. Even a search of the closet, which was always the preferred hiding place in movies, turned up nothing.

I plopped on the bed, resting my elbows on my knees and staring down as I tried to think of whether there was anywhere else in the small house he could hide something. My eyes randomly followed grain patterns in the wood floor as I mentally surveyed the rooms, until I realized my gaze kept landing on a hitch in the white eyelet bed skirt surrounding the bed. One tiny section was folded over onto itself, like it had been scrunched up and not properly straightened out. I dropped to my knees and peeked under the bed. Bingo.

I pulled out a small black metal safe. It was slightly larger than a ream of paper and had a simple lock, like the kind on a filing cabinet. I ran to my room, grabbed a paper clip and a bobby pin to use as a pick and tension wrench and, thanks to lesson number nine, had the safe unlocked in less than a minute. My pulse raced as I opened the top.

I frowned. It was full of paper. A copy of the lease to our current house was on top. Underneath that were the printouts from the real estate website we’d used to pick the house. I remembered looking at several houses in the area with Mark when we decided to come to North Carolina, and I saw printouts for most of them in the stack. We’d chosen this house because it was the closest to the university, and we’d rented it a few months before we moved just to make sure it would still be available when we were ready to come. I sighed and flipped to the next group of papers.

They were also printouts from a real estate website, only for a different house. I could tell from the abundance of shells in the decor that it was a beach house. I studied the map on one of the sheets and realized it was in a town probably less than half an hour up the coast. I didn’t remember looking at this particular house with Mark, but that wasn’t strange. He’d narrowed our choices down before letting me help pick the winner. The charming porches and abundance of windows told me it was fancier than the one we were in now, and it was a bit more secluded—on a larger plot of land farther away from the neighbors—all of which would’ve been pluses. But as soon as I read that it was in a neighborhood called Avalon, I knew why it hadn’t been a finalist. I’d thought it was risky enough coming back to the East Coast for the first time, and I definitely would’ve questioned Mark’s sanity if he’d suggested renting a house in a neighborhood that shared a name with the town practically next door to the one I’d grown up in.

The alarm on my phone sounded, reminding me I had fifteen minutes to catch the bus. I couldn’t be late to school two days in a row. I took a quick look at the last piece of paper in the safe, a map of the Avalon neighborhood, and sighed. “For people on the run, we live very boring lives with very few secrets,” I muttered. I neatly stacked the papers back in the safe, relocked it with my makeshift tools, and slid it back into place. After smoothing the bedspread and propping up the bed skirt to erase any sign that I’d been in the room, I closed Mark’s door behind me.

As I brushed my teeth, I debated whether it would be worth trying to get a peek at the recent calls on Mark’s phone. But what good would a random Marshal’s number be? It’s not like I could call the person and demand to know whether Mark was suspicious of Jason. I’d pretty much dismissed the idea as pointless when I walked into the kitchen in search of breakfast and saw Mark’s phone lying on the middle of the island.

For half a second, excited butterflies filled my stomach, temptation making me reevaluate how quickly I shot down the idea of spying on his phone. Then fear crept up my spine.

“Mark?”

I tossed my backpack on the floor by the coffee table where Mark’s cell phone was resting next to an open book and followed the mouthwatering scent of chocolate into the kitchen. Light green walls and dark wood cabinets and a pan of brownies cooling on a rack greeted me—but no Mark.

I paused in front of the brownies. Mark had promised to make them for the eighth grade open house that evening, so they weren’t a surprise. But I frowned at the large knife sitting on the counter next to them, so close to the edge it was about to fall off. Mark was usually so anal about putting everything in its place, particularly his prized kitchen gadgets, that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a knife lying around. I pushed it more solidly onto the counter, one finger lingering on the handle. “Mark?”

No answer.

I turned into the hall leading to the bedrooms, slowing as I neared my room. I stepped inside, not knowing why. The air felt different somehow, cool and empty and unsettled. A chill passed over me. I needed to find Mark.

I knocked twice on his closed bedroom door. “Mark?”

No answer.

I knocked again, this time a little louder. Nothing.

I pivoted, pressing my back against the end of the hall, and held my breath. The wind blew, making shadows from the tree outside the window dance across the wood floor, but otherwise the house was quiet. Too quiet.

Other than my breath coming too fast, there wasn’t a single sound. No footsteps or pages turning or voices coming from a TV.

I moved back down the hall, unease pushing my feet to match the rhythm of my pounding heart. There was still one room to check, one room before I’d have to face whatever was behind Mark’s closed door. But when I reached the den, I hesitated.

I’d never liked this room, with its wood paneling and dark corners and lack of windows. The deer head mounted on the wall was disturbing on a normal day, but today its soulless eyes staring at me through the doorway were downright creepy.

Goose bumps trailed up my arms as I crept down the two steps into the room, purposefully avoiding the deer’s eyes as they followed me.

“Mark?” It came out as barely a whisper.

My gaze swept toward the couch, but landed on something lumpy sticking out from behind it. It was hard to tell what it was in the dim light, but it was large. Like a pile of blankets. Or a curled up body.

My heart plummeted into my stomach. I swallowed hard and took two steps forward to get a better look.

A hand clamped over my mouth.

I sucked in a sharp breath, ready to try to scream or bite or elbow the body behind me, when a quiet voice next to my ear stopped me cold. “If I was anyone else, it would already be too late.”

I spun around, easily slipping out of Mark’s grasp, and backed against the wall. Relief flooded through me as I studied him. He looked perfectly normal: work shirt slightly rumpled, black hair neatly in place, a hint of stubble across his jaw, but his green eyes were filled with a determined seriousness that could only mean one thing.

I cleared my throat, but my voice was still rough. “What number are we at again?”

Mark spread out his arms. “Welcome to lesson number eight: don’t get complacent.”

I nodded and took a deep breath, trying to force my heart to slow down.

Mark’s eyebrows pinched together. “Sorry for the dramatic set up. I just...”

“No, don’t be sorry. I obviously needed it.” I stood a little straighter and glanced around the room. “Because I just walked into a trap, didn’t I?”

His eyes lit up. “Yes. Can you tell me why?”

I pointed at the walls. “No windows. There’s only one exit, and I came far enough into the room for it to be blocked.”

“I saw you pause at the door. How come?”

“Because Bambi freaks me out.”

Mark smiled at my joke, but waited for the real reason.

“Because something felt off.” And I was afraid you were in here, hurt.

“You need to trust your instincts. Not being complacent means not falling into a routine, staying on your toes and not assuming everything that looks normal is normal.” He crossed the room and sat in an overstuffed leather chair. “If someone’s tossed one of our houses, it’s not always going to look trashed like in the movies. Sometimes, things might be just slightly out of place. But you have to notice.”

I fell onto the couch, annoyed at myself for not paying attention.

“What was the first thing that seemed off?”

“The knife in the kitchen.”

“Good. What else?”

I retraced my steps, remembering the inexplicable urge to go into my room, and sighed. “The door to my room. I closed it this morning and it was open now.”

“What about in here? You should’ve known before you even came down the stairs that something wasn’t right.”

I studied the wall opposite the door. I’d been so focused on Creepy Deer Head I missed the fact that the distressed wood bookcase normally centered beneath it had been shifted several feet to the right. I pointed at the bookcase and groaned.

Mark chuckled. “And you missed the most obvious one.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes holding mine. It was a challenge.

I pursed my lips. I’d walked in and put my bag down. Nothing was out of place at first, nothing missing, nothing unusual, except... “Your phone.”

He nodded. “You know that phone is our lifeline, our way of being able to reach each other within seconds any time of day. I always have it on me, even if I’m just going in the next room, especially when we’re not together.” His eyes turned serious again. “That should’ve been your first clue.”