Page 41 of I'll Be Waiting

“Unless what you heard was him falling,” Jin says. “What if the key works from both sides? He goes in, shuts and locks it, and then falls down the stairs, where he’s knocked unconscious.”

“I really want to get that door open,” Shania says. “Does anyone know how to pick a lock?”

“The solution is simpler than that,” Cirillo says. “We contact the owner and ask for the key.”

“Which Mrs. Kilmer didn’t want,” I say. “Probably because theowner would fire Brodie if they even thought he might sneak in while guests are here.”

“I’ll handle it,” Cirillo says. “I’ll tell them we heard noises and fear some animal is trapped down there. I saw the contact number on the fridge.”

I considered insisting that I’ll contact the owner, but Cirillo is already marching off, and I leave him to it. Jin, Shania, and I grab a board game—Clue—and set up in the breakfast nook.

We’re still getting the board ready when Cirillo appears, phone in hand. “The owner is out of town until the weekend, and she is the only one with a key. She has assured me there is no way for an animal to get into the basement. No windows or other access points, as Nicola and Jin confirmed with their walkabout.”

“In other words,” I say, “she thinks we’re jumping at strange noises and, if there is another key, with the cleaner or such, she’s not bothering them to come and investigate.”

“No, I really do think there’s just one key. She said that with the main-floor washer and dryer, there’s nothing down there except extra chairs and outdoor equipment for summer, which she brings out as needed.”

“No yard tools?”

“Not from what I can tell.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmur.

After a moment of silence, Jin waves at the game board. “You in, Doc?”

Cirillo gives a tired smile. “As long as the answer isn’t ‘the gardener in the basement with pruning shears,’ yes.”

I want to go outside and watch the sunset. It’s even more brilliant than last night’s, and as everyone putters about, preparing for thefirst séance, I’m at the back door, working up the courage to brave the bugs.

They’re just bugs.

Harmless insects desperately trying to get laid before their brief life cycle comes to an end.

I should feel sorry for them, maybe even cheer on their buzzing and swarming dances.

You go, bugs. Dance your little hearts out. Catch her attention and win the chance to pass on your genes before you become bird food.

Win the chance to be a daddy.

A chance Anton never got.

Part of me wants to snap “Where did that come from” and get back to my lighthearted rumination on the life cycle of bugs.

But we’re all just bugs, aren’t we? A life cycle much shorter than we’d like, and only a fraction of it—at least for women—open to baby making. The barest sliver of time in our lives before that ship has sailed.

Anton and I had talked about kids. He’d even gotten tested to be sure he didn’t have the CF gene. He didn’t, which would have meant any child of ours couldn’t have cystic fibrosis. Still, adoption or surrogacy seemed the better option if we wanted to add that to our list.

Didwe want to add it? Would it be fair, knowing I almost certainly wouldn’t see our child graduate from high school? Would likely not even see them graduate from elementary school?

Had we gone through with it, I would now be raising a child alone when my own health began failing. Our child could very well have been orphaned by the age of ten.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you that died, Anton,” I say under my breath. “It was never supposed to be you.”

A whisper at my ear, and I swear I feel a touch on my shoulder, almost like a squeeze. I turn sharply. No one’s there.

My heart hammers, and I struggle to catch my breath. Then the scent of bergamot tickles past. Anton’s aftershave.

I wheel, sniffing to catch it. “Anton?”

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