Page 30 of Finding Silence
Most of the day the simmering chemistry between us has been tangible. So much so that when I pulled up to her place and she asked me in for a nightcap, I couldn’t wait to get her inside.
When she abruptly stops in the hallway, her hand on the light switch, I can tell something is wrong.
“What is it?”
She appears to sniff the air.
“Do you smell that?”
I get a whiff of something unpleasant. “Skunk?”
You encounter the occasional one, usually a carcass on the road signaled by their familiar pervasive, acrid stench.
But Phil shakes her head.
“Pot,” she corrects me.
She could be right.
“Do you smoke?”
“I haven’t since I moved here,” she shares, fear showing in her eyes.
My reaction is instinctive as I grab her arm and pull her behind me. I would feel a lot better if I had my gun on me, but unfortunately, it is in the glove compartment of my truck. I reach for the light switch and flick it on.
“Was the alarm set?” I ask quietly as I take my time scanning the space.
I can see the dining and living areas, and most of the kitchen from where I’m standing.
“Yes, I disarmed it from my phone when we drove up,” she answers.
“Stay right here,” I instruct her, easing my way farther into the house.
As soon as I’m convinced nobody is crouched behind the kitchen counter, I duck into the small hallway leading to the extra bedrooms on the right side of the house. I flick on lights as I go, not finding anyone or anything obvious out of order.
I’m pleased to see Phil still waiting by the front door, but she appears to have armed herself with what looks like one of those Nordic hiking poles. This time, however, when I move through the main living space to the other hallway behind the kitchen, she is right behind me.
The bedroom, walk-in closet, and bathroom are all clear, but the smell of pot is stronger here.
“Garage?” I mouth at her, pointing at the door on the other side of the hallway, and she nods in response.
“Light switch around the corner on the left,” she whispers behind me.
I ease open the door and immediately reach for the switch, bathing the roomy, two-car garage in light. Phil’s SUV is parked in the bay to my left, and I drop down to a knee to look underneath to make sure someone isn’t hiding on the other side, but no one is there.
When I turn to go back in the house, I notice an open tool box, a hammer on top. I grab it, knowing there is only one place left where someone might be hiding. Phil is already standing at the bottom of a set of stairs leading to the bonus room over the garage. She is staring up, a look of concern on her face.
“What do you have up there?”
Her eyes briefly meet mine before they’re aimed back at the loft space.
“My entire life to date.”
I’m not sure what it means, but it sounds important to her.
I move ahead of her and I can tell, about halfway up the stairs, this is where the smell of pot came from, but there’s something else my nose picks up on. The unpleasant scent of human waste. I’m worried about what we might find up there.
Not sure how much good it will do me if someone is up there waiting, but I’m sure glad for the weight of the hammer in my hand.
