Page 15 of Bitter House

He reads over it, his dark eyes zipping from one line to the next, and when he looks up, all traces of the smile previously there have been washed away from his mouth.

“When did you find this?”

“A few minutes ago.”

His eyes flick to the wall behind me. “And you think there’s something behind the wall.”

“Only one way to find out.”

He walks past me, cautiously, moving as if he thinks he’s being pranked. As he nears the wall, he gives me an uncertain look and leans down, pressing his ear to the drywall as he raps against it. Then, an inch to the right. Farther down. Back to the left.

He scours the wall, searching left and right, up and down with his ear to it, knuckles knocking every few inches.

He’s down near the bottom of the wall, knees in between two pairs of Vera’s favorite boots, when he stops. Knocks again. His eyes light up, and he looks at me.

“What is it? Did you find something?”

He leans back on his heels, studying the wall. “I’m not sure, but it sounds…” His voice trails off as he presses in on the wall in the space where his ear was just placed. There’s nothing on the wall to indicate anything abnormal. To my eyes, it looks exactly like the rest of the space.

At first, he doesn’t seem to press hard enough because nothing happens, but when he tries again, a piece of the wall caves in, opening at the bottom like a door on a hinge. The rectangular piece is about a foot wide and six inches tall. It leans back with the pressure he’s applying, and when he releases, it bounces forward in an instant, as if it’s on a spring.

His eyes lift to mine, jaw slack, and for a moment, time stands still.

What is happening?

Until this moment, I’m not sure I actually expected us to find anything. For this to work.

“The letter was right…” I whisper, dropping to my knees next to him and picking it up from where he placed it on the floor. “Do you see anything? Is there anything behind there?”

Slowly, he pushes the wall in again, harder this time, and I see the faint edge of what looks like an open drawer underneath it. Shadows hide anything inside until Cole uses his free hand to pull his phone from his pocket and shines the light into the darkness.

He jerks his hand back at the same time as I gasp.

Our eyes meet, both of us confused by what we just saw.

Drawing in a deep breath, he pushes the piece of wall back once more and eases his hand down into the drawer, retrieving the black metal and holding it out as if it were a snake.

His eyes meet mine again. “Did you know Vera had a gun?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

BRIDGET

With a lump in my throat, I stare at the handgun resting in Cole’s palm. What use could my prim and proper and perfectly put together grandmother have for a handgun hidden in a false wall in her closet?

Lots of people have guns, I try to reason with myself. This doesn’t prove anything. It doesn’t make her dangerous.

I swallow and stand, running my hands over my thighs. “Put it back.” My voice is barely above a whisper, but Cole does as I’ve instructed him to, sliding the gun back in place and standing up. He runs a hand through his raven hair. “You didn’t know that was in there?”

“Maybe it wasn’t hers,” I say softly, talking to myself more than him. “Maybe it was my grandfather’s. Maybe she didn’t know about it. Even if it was hers, so what? It proves nothing.”

“It might not have been hers, sure.” He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. “But regardless of whose it was, how would whoever wrote this letter have known about it? Why would they think it means she’s dangerous? Maybe she just had it for protection. She was a wealthy woman living relatively alone. She had employees and us, of course, but it would’ve been up to her to protect the house.”

I nod. It makes sense. It’s not as if finding a gun in the house is too much of a reason to be afraid, but it feels so out of place here. It’s as if I’ve been doused with ice water in the middle of the street. Everything feels wrong. Off.

“She was by herself,” I repeat, mostly to myself. “It was probably just for protection. Whoever wrote the note is just trying to scare us, like with the lock-your-door thing before.” I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek. “But you’re right, who else would’ve known about the gun?” My eyes find his. “Your mom?”

“Maybe,” he mutters, “or…” He pauses. Swallows.

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