someone obviously lived here or it wouldn't have been kept clean at all. Michael shuddered as he thought of that little girl having to live in this dreary old place.
The girl.
He realized that he had not heard a single sound since he had entered. Now he took a deep breath and moved deeper into the house. He ought to call her name. He knew that. Yet he was reluctant to disturb the silence, as though doing so might awaken something better left sleeping.
He licked his lips to moisten them, the rich, earthy taste of stout still on his tongue and palate.
“Hello?” he ventured. His voice was a dry rasp, and the house seemed to swallow the sound.
Listing slightly to one side, as though trying to keep his balance on shipboard, he started down the corridor that ran beside the stairs. The air inside the house was crisp and unsettlingly odorless, so that when he caught just the whiff of a scent, it made him pause and blink his eyes several times, trying to determine what it was.
Cocoa. Hot cocoa.
Michael shook his head, knitting his brows. That made no sense. And anyway, the scent was gone almost the instant he had recognized it. He started forward again, only to stop himself at the realization that the arched entrance to the dining room was on his right. His head felt muddled again, worse than it had before. He peered into the grand old room, with its wide windows, its crystal chandelier, and the high-backed chairs around its long, elegant, claw-foot table.
Perfectly clean, yet the wallpaper here was just like elsewhere in the house, and the upholstery on the seats was faded.
How?
his mind ventured. Michael glanced back the way he had come and realized he had no memory of having walked the last dozen feet or so of that corridor. He glanced about him. The corridor continued straight ahead. To his left, beneath the stairs, was a heavy door that he felt sure led to the cellar.
Not there,
he told himself, shivering.
No way did that little girl go down there.
Ignoring the door under the stairs, he continued along the corridor. It was ridiculous, the way he swayed, as though he had continued drinking long after he knew he had stopped.
For the first time, Michael began to wonder if someone had doped him, or dropped something into his drink. Ecstasy, maybe. He had no experience with the drug, so he could not compare this light-headedness to its effects.
“Shit,” he said, pausing to bring a hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose. He sighed and dropped his hand away.
And discovered he was standing in the middle of the kitchen.
“Jesus,” Michael whispered. He flinched back from what his eyes saw, D'Artagnan boots heavy on the kitchen floor. Abruptly he felt absurd, standing there in the kitchen of strangers in his masquerade costume.
He should leave, he knew that. He was intruding. A drunken man—
and yes, you are drunk. No use denying it.
An idiot in a costume, wandering around a house that didn't belong to him. What would the girl's parents think if they found him there, now? Would anything he could say to them come out right? Thoughts of the police continued to plague him.
But the house . . . there's something not right about this place.
“Fuck it,” he whispered. He had seen her come in. Despite its outer appearance, the place was clean enough. Someone lived here. That meant there was someone here who was responsible for her.
Michael felt himself fading again. The alcohol.
Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's just this place. Maybe I'm fading just like the wallpaper. Just like the furniture.
A frisson of alarm went through him. What the hell had he been thinking, coming in here? An image of Jillian passed out on the backseat of the car swam up into his mind. His responsibility was to her.
Heels rapping on the kitchen floor, he turned in a circle as he got his bearings. One door probably led to a pantry. There was another tall, wide door that he assumed would take him back to the main corridor. And then there was a
The girl.
He realized that he had not heard a single sound since he had entered. Now he took a deep breath and moved deeper into the house. He ought to call her name. He knew that. Yet he was reluctant to disturb the silence, as though doing so might awaken something better left sleeping.
He licked his lips to moisten them, the rich, earthy taste of stout still on his tongue and palate.
“Hello?” he ventured. His voice was a dry rasp, and the house seemed to swallow the sound.
Listing slightly to one side, as though trying to keep his balance on shipboard, he started down the corridor that ran beside the stairs. The air inside the house was crisp and unsettlingly odorless, so that when he caught just the whiff of a scent, it made him pause and blink his eyes several times, trying to determine what it was.
Cocoa. Hot cocoa.
Michael shook his head, knitting his brows. That made no sense. And anyway, the scent was gone almost the instant he had recognized it. He started forward again, only to stop himself at the realization that the arched entrance to the dining room was on his right. His head felt muddled again, worse than it had before. He peered into the grand old room, with its wide windows, its crystal chandelier, and the high-backed chairs around its long, elegant, claw-foot table.
Perfectly clean, yet the wallpaper here was just like elsewhere in the house, and the upholstery on the seats was faded.
How?
his mind ventured. Michael glanced back the way he had come and realized he had no memory of having walked the last dozen feet or so of that corridor. He glanced about him. The corridor continued straight ahead. To his left, beneath the stairs, was a heavy door that he felt sure led to the cellar.
Not there,
he told himself, shivering.
No way did that little girl go down there.
Ignoring the door under the stairs, he continued along the corridor. It was ridiculous, the way he swayed, as though he had continued drinking long after he knew he had stopped.
For the first time, Michael began to wonder if someone had doped him, or dropped something into his drink. Ecstasy, maybe. He had no experience with the drug, so he could not compare this light-headedness to its effects.
“Shit,” he said, pausing to bring a hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose. He sighed and dropped his hand away.
And discovered he was standing in the middle of the kitchen.
“Jesus,” Michael whispered. He flinched back from what his eyes saw, D'Artagnan boots heavy on the kitchen floor. Abruptly he felt absurd, standing there in the kitchen of strangers in his masquerade costume.
He should leave, he knew that. He was intruding. A drunken man—
and yes, you are drunk. No use denying it.
An idiot in a costume, wandering around a house that didn't belong to him. What would the girl's parents think if they found him there, now? Would anything he could say to them come out right? Thoughts of the police continued to plague him.
But the house . . . there's something not right about this place.
“Fuck it,” he whispered. He had seen her come in. Despite its outer appearance, the place was clean enough. Someone lived here. That meant there was someone here who was responsible for her.
Michael felt himself fading again. The alcohol.
Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's just this place. Maybe I'm fading just like the wallpaper. Just like the furniture.
A frisson of alarm went through him. What the hell had he been thinking, coming in here? An image of Jillian passed out on the backseat of the car swam up into his mind. His responsibility was to her.
Heels rapping on the kitchen floor, he turned in a circle as he got his bearings. One door probably led to a pantry. There was another tall, wide door that he assumed would take him back to the main corridor. And then there was a
Similar Books
The Fourteen Day Soul Detox, Volume Two
Rita Stradling
Year of the Golden Dragon
B.L. Sauder
Gunning for the Groom
Debra Webb
44: Book Six
Jools Sinclair
If I Was Your Girl
Meredith Russo
The Lollipop Shoes
Joanne Harris
The Man With the Iron-On Badge
Lee Goldberg
CONVICTION (INTERFERENCE)
Kimberly Schwartzmiller
HEARTTHROB
Unknown
The Last Song of Orpheus
Robert Silverberg