Page 63 of 4th Silence
Alex shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “Similar, but with that room when it was being built. There was no working panel on the inside yet. My cousin thought it would be funny to lock me inside. The shrink my mother dragged me to called it ‘formative’—whatever that means.” The word feels strained. Makes me wonder if the shrink had any idea what kind of man was forming. “All I know is I’ve avoided small spaces when possible.”
Cousin? The panic room wasn’t finished, so possibly the incident occurred before Tiffany was killed.
We know Tiffany taunted him by hiding his hockey stick in there. That he’d asked Gordy to get it for him, suggesting he already had a fear of going in there. Had she humiliated him that night and then added insult to injury by taking his prized hockey stick and hiding it? Or had Alex suspected she was going to try and trap him, so he’d used Gordy to get the stick, then ended up stuck inside the room anyway? Had Tiffany poked fun at him, asking for Gordy’s help, and Alex had then tried to prove he wasn’t afraid of her?
His gaze drifts away from the door, a mixture of aversion and something else—shame, perhaps, or fear of vulnerability. Maybe guilt. The kind that doesn’t disappear, even under new carpet. He notices me watching him and recovers quickly. “It’s just a room.”
That’s when Crazy Train, the song I instantly recognize as the ringtone Meg gave Mom, sounds.
Alex’s head snaps toward the door. “What was that?”
My pulse jumps. What is she doing in there? She’s supposed to be checking the cottage for the Sherman purse. If she found something and used the tunnel…
Cottage.
Tunnel.
Oh hell.
I keep my voice steady despite the anxiety flooding my system. “Must be your housekeeper.”
Alex frowns, moving toward the door with commanding steps that belie his earlier claims of avoiding the space. “That sound came from inside. Elena is supposed to be preparing my lunch.”
My hand drifts to my pocket where my phone is, calculating how quickly I can call JJ if things go sideways. I type ‘help’ and hit send. “Are you sure it came from in there?” I scan the area for a weapon. The fireplace poker is a contender.
When the security system beeps, Alex twists the handle and yanks open the door with unexpected force. The heavy metal swings wide, revealing slices of the room. I peer over his shoulder and hold my breath.
Shelves, furniture, artwork. No plants or homey touches. A sparse but functional space.
The view finally shows me what I feared—Meg.
She’s frozen in front of a mahogany table, her phone clutched in her hand.
“What the hell?” Alex’s voice cracks, his confident façade disintegrating into alarm, then fury. A vein pulses visibly at his temple, and his breathing quickens—the claustrophobia he’d mentioned earlier already wrestling with his growing anger.
I catch Meg’s eye in a split-second of silent communication that only sisters who’ve spent a lifetime covering for each other can manage. Her wide-eyed look tells me everything. This wasn’t her plan, but she’s found something.
That’s my sister.
“Oh! Meg, there you are.” I infuse my voice with rehearsed surprise. “I was wondering where you’d wandered off to.”
“How did you get in here?” Alex demands.
Meg brushes a strand of hair from her face. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked permission, but when I noticed the charming cottage at the back of the property, I wanted to take a look. I’ve just taken up painting, and the light bouncing off the frost gave me chills. I mean, total inspiration. I had to get closer and take a look. Once I was out there, I got snow in my boots, and I wandered inside to dry them out. Your mother has done such a beautiful job of decorating it.” She’s totally rambling. Tone it down, I think, but she barrels on. “The paint, the furniture—it’s all marvelous. I hope you don’t mind that I looked around. I stumbled across a door, and it led to a tunnel. And as Charlie can tell you, I can’t resist a good tunnel. It harkens back to my Nancy Drew obsession.”
“It’s true,” I add smoothly. “Meg gets caught up in textures and colors and loses herself.”
Meg nods too enthusiastically. “Exactly! Even in here,”—she gestures at the room’s walls and furnishings—“The mix of textures and design is fascinating.”
Fascinating. Right. Because what else do you do when you stumble on evidence? You compliment the furnishings.
Alex crosses his arms. “Bullshit.” He motions for her to exit the room.
Her posture stiffens. “Can you tell me about this piece?” she asks, hitching a thumb over her shoulder. “Midcentury, right?”
His jaw clenches. The Sherman purse—that damned monstrosity at the center of this whole mess—is partially visible in the well where the extra table leaf resides.
“I’ll be damned.” Alex’s voice drops to a dangerous level. He grabs my arm and shoves me toward Meg. His grip is iron, his voice steel. “That’s what this is about. Framing my mother for murder, isn’t it?”
