Part 13 (1/2)

Then, just as she was about to close the drawer, she noticed something odd.

The drawer's face seemed to be a few inches taller than the drawer was deep.

She closed the drawer and looked at the front of it, measuring its depth with her fingers, hand, and forearm. Then she opened it again and repeated the exercise. Sure enough, the bottom of the drawer was nearly three inches higher than it needed to be.

And when she felt the exterior bottom of the drawer, it was nearly even with the bottom of the drawer's face.

The drawer had a false bottom.

Bettina lifted the files out of the drawer, stacking them on the desk.

Barely visible at the back of the drawer, she found a small notch in the drawer's bottom. Taking a paper clip from the top drawer, she straightened it out, bent it so it formed a right angle, then fit it into the notch.

It came up without so much as a squeal.

And there, hidden away in the secret compartment that had been built into the desk, was a sheaf of handwritten pages.

A ma.n.u.script?

Bettina carefully pulled the papers out of the drawer.

AN HOMAGE TO E. A. POE.

BY BOONE PHILIPS.

Her thrice-great-grandfather was a writer? What had he written?

She quickly replaced the false bottom, put the files back where they'd originally been, and closed the drawer.

The house plans-even if they were here-could wait.

Leaving Sarah Crane's drawing on the desk, she took the ma.n.u.script back to her studio, curled up on the chaise with a thick wool throw, and began to read.

With her coat b.u.t.toned up tight, her scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose, and the knit cap pulled well down over her ears, Sarah made her way slowly down the last few yards of the driveway, feeling each step out carefully.

The last thing she needed to do was trip in the dark.

And with her hands plunged deep in the warmth of her pockets, she might not be able to pull them out in time to catch herself if she fell. Then what would she do? There was no way Bettina Philips could hear her from here, and even if a car pa.s.sed on the road, its windows would be closed. But if she pulled her hands out now, her fingers would freeze.

At last she came to the road, turned left, and started down into the village. For the first part of the long walk back to the Garveys', all she'd been able to think about was the macabre drawing she'd made at Shutters. Where had it come from? And why couldn't she remember drawing it? Was it possible that she hadn't hadn't drawn it? That was certainly how it felt: like some strange force had just taken over, moving the charcoal all by itself. But as she came to the bright streetlight across from the town square, her mind s.h.i.+fted from where she'd been to where she was going. drawn it? That was certainly how it felt: like some strange force had just taken over, moving the charcoal all by itself. But as she came to the bright streetlight across from the town square, her mind s.h.i.+fted from where she'd been to where she was going.

What would it to be like to face the wrath of Angie Garvey?

A cold that was different from the icy chill in the air penetrated deep into her, making the night seem almost warm by comparison.

What was she going to say when her foster mother demanded to know where she'd been?

Should she try to lie and say she was at the library?

But she wasn't very good at lying, and Angie would know right away that she wasn't telling the truth.

Just walking out had been bad enough; if she lied about where she'd been- She didn't even want to think about what Angie might do. Not letting her visit her father would only be the beginning of it.

Five minutes later she turned the corner onto Quail Run, and stopped for a moment, still trying to think what she might say. The Garvey house was dark except for the bluish cast from the big-screen television that showed through the draperies. Still uncertain what she was going to say, Sarah took a deep breath and crossed the street. A moment later she climbed the three steps to the front porch, steeled herself, and opened the storm door.

The front door was locked.

Sarah moved to the window, peered through the sheer curtains, and saw Mitch Garvey's foot propped up on the coffee table as he lay sprawled on the sofa that faced the television.

She knocked on the gla.s.s, but his foot didn't even twitch.

She rang the bell and waited, s.h.i.+vering in the cold, but there were no answering lights, no sound, no movement of any kind.

Maybe they'd left the back door open for her.

Sarah closed the storm door, went around to the back of the house, and was about to try the back door when she saw a rolled up sleeping bag standing on its end right next to the dog door. Sitting on top of it was a small plate-not even covered-that held half a sandwich.

There was a note pinned to the bread with a toothpick.

Sarah's heart faltered as she began to understand her punishment.

She unpinned the note and held it up to the glow of the porch light.

You don't storm out in a temper tantrum and come back whenever you want to. Good night.

She read the note again, barely believing that someone would lock her out of the house, leaving her to sleep on a porch in November.

Even the dog got to sleep in the laundry room.

But what else could she do?

Maybe she should go back to Shutters. Bettina would let her sleep there-she'd already offered.

But the cold was penetrating deeper and deeper into her, and her hip was throbbing and her leg aching so badly she'd barely made it the last couple of blocks before she got back to the Garveys'.

She'd never make it all the way back to Shutters.

Sighing, she unrolled the heavy down sleeping bag and kicked off her shoes. Then, still wearing her coat, knit cap, and scarf, she wriggled into the sleeping bag and pulled it close around her.

She reached out a hand into the cold and picked up the sandwich from the plate.

She nibbled at it, and then, as the cold began to ebb out of her body, quickly finished the rest of it.

She stretched out flat on her back, and felt the throbbing in her hip begin to ease, despite the hardness of the porch. As her body warmed, exhaustion flowed through her, and suddenly even the wooden floor of the porch didn't seem so bad.

Better, anyway, than trying to keep on walking through the cold and darkness. Letting the last piece of bread crust fall from her fingers, Sarah gave herself up to sleep.