Page 24 of Sirens
“In case I need to create a diversion,” Myrtle said with a wink.
Considering Myrtle was pretty much a walking diversion, Maggie was reasonably confident she’d excel on this score.
“Ready?” Gabe asked.
Maggie nodded.
“I’m going to try the windows first.” He worked his way down the back of the building, trying each one in turn. Finally, he grinned triumphantly when one slid open with a soft creak. “Bingo,” he declared, motioning for Maggie to follow.
She approached the narrow opening, her stomach tightening into a cold ball. “Unless you’ve got some Crisco and a crowbar, there’s no way you’re getting this ass through that narrow gap. Or your shoulders, for that matter,” she pointed out.
“Ahem.” Myrtle stood behind them, fingerless gloved hands perched on her narrow hips. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
“I think maybe Gabe should just try picking the door lock,” Maggie suggested, catching Gabe’s eye with a pleading look.
“Why do that when I could justopenthe door from the inside?” Myrtle asked.
“She does have a point,” Gabe said. “I’d probably have better luck disarming the security system that way too.”
“All right,” Maggie acquiesced. “Just be careful.”
Myrtle merely grinned, her eyes twinkling in the dim light. She stepped up onto a precariously wobbly milk crate, and for a moment, Maggie was certain the elderly woman was going to tumble off and break something vital. Like her neck.
But then, in one fluid movement, the older woman gracefully somersaulted through the narrow opening, leaving a flabbergasted Maggie and Gabe gaping at each other in stunned silence.
Moments later, the door creaked open and there stood Myrtle, fingerless gloves gripping the doorframe, beaming at them like she’d just done an encore at Madison Square Garden.
“Used to be a gymnast.” Myrtle flashed a smug smirk over her shoulder as she stepped aside to grant them access. “Couldn’t roundoff worth a damn, but my Full-Twisting Shaposhnikova once made one of the judges weep.”
“Thanks, Myrtle,” Maggie said gratefully as she stepped into the darkened hallway.
She paused for a moment, as much to let her eyes adjust as to steady herself against a powerful wave of déjà vu.
The air was thick with the scent of dust and mildew, the old wood floor groaning its protest underfoot. Maggie flicked on her camera as they approached the stairs, determined to capture every detail—the layers of peeling wallpaper, the dilapidated curtains and antiques.
“Watch your step,” Gabe warned as they reached the third floor, where the boards seemed even more precarious. “Last thing we need is to fall through.”
“Amen,” Maggie whispered, her heart pounding in her chest.
Reading about this place and seeing pictures online had been one thing. Being here was a whole-ass other.
It was a feeling she knew well, fascinated with historical sites ever since sixth grade, when she’d talked (translation: whined) her parents into stopping in Salem, Massachusetts on their way to visit her grandmother in Danvers.
Despite the touristy veneer that had since been layered over the old homes and cobblestone streets, Maggie had practicallyfeltthe vibration of all that had happened there radiating from the very walls.
Just as she was now.
The fine hairs on her arms lifted as she reached for the brass doorknob, a frisson of adrenaline shooting through her as she turned it.
The door to Madame Katz’s boudoir swung open with a creak. Through the camera’s eye, Maggie drank in the grayscale-moon-silvered details. The ornate canopy bed, the stately armoire.
The secret passage.
“That’s got to be it,” she breathed, floating over to the closet where the historic building schematic had shown a connecting corridor.
“Let me look first,” Gabe said, shouldering in front of her in the pushy, brotherly way she’d come to secretly love when she first met the Kelly boys after her move to Boston.
Maggie hung back, allowing him to open the narrow door and disappear into the pocket of inky dark behind it.
