Page 130 of Rules to Love By

“What do you think will happen?”

Ozzy was a hazy shadow against the white wall behind him, indistinct in the low light. “I have my theories.”

“Which are?”

The shadow shook its head. “Better you try without my theories in your head.”

“I don’t know about that. Forewarned and all that, right?”

“Trust me. She’s restless. Scared. But I don’t think violent.”

“Yet.”

“It feels like she’s waiting. Holding her breath.”

“He’s the house whisperer, right?” Tris said.

“Feels like he’s right, son,” the locksmith agreed, and Marcus started because he’d forgotten the old man was there. “She didn’t let anyone open that door at the bottom of the stairs until you, so there’s that.”

Pulling the chair forwards with his feet, Marcus got close enough to the desk to reach a drawer handle, but hesitated. Under cover of the darkness, he glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if anyone but him could hear the slow clump of footsteps that would have been comforting, if they’d been possible.

“Just remember who’d been doing repairs around here,” he muttered and reached for the drawer. “Let’s just say”—he dropped his hand as he raised his voice for the others to hear—“she doesn’t want anyone going in this desk. What’s the worst-case scenario?” He looked over at Ozzy expectantly.

“Anyone but you,” the contractor agreed.

“Why me, though?”

“Seriously?” The squeak of Vans—probably Tris’s—accompanied a soft snort. “If anyone, you.”

Marcus shook his head. “So you say.” But before he could second—or third—guess himself, he shot out a hand, clawed at the drawer handle and yanked.

The lights came back on.

No one, he noted, stood within reach of the switch.

The shades snickered at him as they fell free, then hung motionless, exactly as shades should hang. All the house noises stilled.

No one spoke into the silence.

Tris and Ozzy remained perfectly still.

The locksmith chewed on a toothpick.

Marcus tried opening the drawer again, but it remained firmly shut.

“So.” He flopped down in the chair. “Not me, then. It was a nice thought.” And he realized it had been nice to think the house wanted him, trusted him to look after it. He tried not to let the disappointment crack his shell.

“What do you mean?” Tris leaned across the desk to get in his face.

“The drawer didn’t open, did it?” he snapped.

“Well, it’s not magic.” Tris picked up a stone planter with marble feet and a fake cactus Iris used as a paperweight when she opened the window for a breeze. “The desk is just furniture. Not like the house can control it. Just people’s access to it.” He ran his fingers along the underside of the planter, lips pursed.

“So your theory is the house did all this to itself?” Marcus asked.

“Oh no. I think that was one hundo Johna-jerk.” He put the planter back and poked through the pens in the Best Aunt Ever mug Marcus had painted for her in grade four. “But you saw how she reacted to Ozzy, and he’s the house whisperer. Imagine what she did to Johnathan.”

Ozzy stepped forwards too. “If she could scare you, and you’ve lived here for decades and been allowed to work on her, then I expect Johnathan would have been angry enough to wreak some havoc when he got over whatever she did to him.”

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