Page 19 of The Widow's Husband's Secret Lie
“Yeah?” He raises his thick black eyebrows. “I thought for sure it was blue and black.”
“I… I don’t know what to tell you…”
Mancini plucks the photo out of my fingers and tucks it back in his trench coat pocket. “Well, either way, we’re going to continue investigating. Your husband’s car might be a cube, but I won’t rest until I get to the bottom of this. Mark my words.”
I watch Detective Mancini get back in his police car and drive away. But even after the car is gone, I still can’t relax.
18
After the detective leaves,my head won’t stop spinning.
Who called the police to tip them off? Does Mancini suspect I’m the one responsible for Grant’s accident? I could see in his eyes that he will stop at nothing until he gets to the truth.
My head is throbbing. I go to the bathroom, in search of something to help dull the pain. I usually take a couple of Tylenol when I have a headache, but Grant has a stronger prescription medication that he used to take when he was having a bad headache. The pill bottle is on the second shelf of the medicine cabinet, and out of desperation, I pluck it off the shelf and unscrew the child safety cap. Then I dump the contents into my left hand.
But there aren’t any white pills in the bottle. Instead, the bottle contains something most unexpected. It’s a key.
I stare at the small key lying in the palm of my left hand. I’ve never seen this key before. It doesn’t look like the one to the front door. Or to the mailbox. It’s definitely not a car key.
Could it be the key to that room in the attic—the one that only locks from the outside?
Ever since I moved in here, I have wondered what is in that room. Grant insisted that it was just storage, nothing I would be interested in. At one point, he even told me he lost the key. When I suggested getting a locksmith, he snapped at me that there was no point and that I should stay out of the mysterious room in the attic.
But now Grant is dead. At least, I think he is. Either way, he isn’t here to stop me.
Gripping the key in my hand, I slowly make my way up the winding staircase to the second floor. I hold onto the banister, knowing that if I have a misstep and fall, it could be hours before anyone finds me. But these steps are nowhere near as steep as the splintery wooden ones leading up to the attic.
When I get to the second floor, another thump comes from above. I’ve heard it since I have lived here, but Grant always insisted it was nothing to worry about. “House sounds,” he said.
Now I will finally learn the truth. The light in the staircase leading to the attic blew out years ago, so I turn my phone flashlight on, holding it in one hand to illuminate my path to the top. The banister feels loose in my hand, but I grip it as I take the creaky stairs one at a time.
And then I reach the top.
I shine the flashlight beam on the lock on the doorknob. My hand is shaking as I fit the key into the lock. I swear I heard noises up there before, but now it is completely silent. Maybe Grant was telling the truth. Maybe this room is just a storage room, nothing more.
Or maybe there are dead bodies inside. Maybe Rebertha’s corpse is rotting in this room.
Or maybe… there is somebodyaliveinside, waiting to pounce the second I unlock the door.
Slowly, I turn the key.
19
My heart is doingsplit leaps. I hear a click—the door is unlocked. I can now enter this forbidden attic room and learn the truth about what is inside. I push the door open…
It’s a small space, about a quarter of the size of our bedroom, and very musty, like it hasn’t been cleaned or dusted in years. It has only a single window, which is cracked open. There are some boxes pushed against the wall and a mannequin with a half-finished dress sewn to its body. And now, for the first time, I realize why I have heard noises coming from this attic room. I understand what the source of the mysterious sounds has been.
It’s a Roomba. With a cat riding on it.
The cat lets out a surprised yowl when it sees me. It hops off the Roomba, which is still navigating its way between the boxes and sparse furniture. The cat rubs against my leg, looking at me expectantly, and when I don’t offer it food, it gives me a dirty look and leaps out the cracked open window.
Okay, then.
The Roomba is now stuck in a corner of the room, making frustrated whirring noises. I shift my attention to the center of the room, where there is a rocking chair facing away from me,overlooking that one tiny window. The chair keeps rocking, back and forth, back and forth. It must be moving because of the breeze from the window. Unless…
Is somebody sitting in that chair?
I quickly walk around the side of the rocking chair, and when I see that it is empty, I let out a sigh of relief. There is nobody in the rocking chair. The room is entirely empty except for the Roomba, which is now banging against the wall repeatedly. No live people, no dead people—only the Roomba and I guess sometimes a cat who likes to ride it.
