Page 59 of 4th Silence
I have no idea where this is going, but my sister is giving us an Emmy-worthy performance.
“Yes,” she continues, “Alex has a signed Wayne Gretzky hockey stick. Can you imagine? It’s in the trophy room in the basement. He’s offered to show it to me.”
The basement.
I glance out the window at the cottage. “By all means,” I tell her. “Go. I’ll enjoy the Vermeer a little longer. Meet you back in the parlor. Take your time.”
Please. Take your time.
Translation: stall him. Make him think he’s got a shot. Maybe he’ll let the wrong body part do his thinking long enough for me to slip to the cottage.
If luck is on our side—not that it happens much—we’ll be out of here before anyone monitoring the security video catches on.
I hang up. Seconds later, I hear Charlie’s voice drifting from the hall, then Alex chimes in, their conversation fading as they move deeper into the house.
I glance back at the still-empty kitchen and slip out the back door, easing it shut behind me. The snick of the lock makes me flinch. If it auto-locks, I’m sunk. Checking it, I twist the knob easily and let out a relieved breath.
Then I sprint like hell toward the cottage.
Less than thirty seconds later, I duck around to the back, out of sight from the main house. There must be a back door.
I hope.
I slow, panting from the run. I really need to work on my cardio.
A door. Perfect. I jog over and test the handle. Locked.
Damn it.
I step back, scanning. Six windows line the rear wall. I press my fingers against the glass of the first, push up. Nothing. Not even a wiggle.
I try the next. And the next.
My fingerprints are everywhere, but whatever. I have Charlie and Matt to clean up my mess from breaking and entering.
Third window. Please, please?—
Unlocked.
I do my best, nudging the window up, my fingers sliding a couple times before I get enough of an opening to wedge my hand in and push it up.
I swing a leg over the sill and climb into a small bedroom with a full-sized bed and a dresser. A Rembrandt print hangs over the bed. Guess the cottage doesn’t rate an original.
Keep moving.
I shut the window behind me and head into a short hall that opens into a modest kitchen and living area. I make quick work of checking the hall closet, behind towels, and under blankets.
No purse.
That would have been way too easy. Mary is more brilliant than that. I move into the master bedroom, foregoing the closet and looking under the bed. I attempt to lift the mattress, but—yow—my muscles buckle under the weight. Way too heavy.
I peer around the room, my eyes locking on an air vent. Too small. A Sherman would never fit behind there.
Living room. Maybe it’s hidden in one of the chairs. I head that way. Just as I reach the end of the hallway, a knock sounds on the front door, and my insides curl.
“Hello?” a woman yells through the door. “Ms. Schock? Are you in there?”
Oh. Shit.
