Her fingers went numb and the flashlight went dark as she dropped it into the plastic. She stepped back, missed the edge where the plywood flooring ended, and her foot came down on the empty space between two of the joists. She started to fall backward, arms pinwheeling, and only just managed to grab a rough beam on the ceiling and catch herself.

Reaching into the suitcase, barely controlling her panic, her fingers found the flashlight and squeezed. She saw the eyes again, and now she made out the face around them. It was wrapped in a clear, plastic dry-cleaning bag and Patricia saw white grains in it that had turned yellow and brown over time. She realized they were salt. The mothballs were there to kill the smell. The salt was to preserve the body. The skin on the face of the corpse was dark brown and stretched tight, pulling the lips away from the teeth in a terrible grin. But even then, Patricia recognized Francine.

Heart cracking hard inside her chest, hands tingling with blood, she forced herself to let the penlight go out. She slid it into her pocket and struggled with the Samsonite until she had it closed again. She twisted the stiff latches, grabbed the handle with both hands, and dragged it toward the stairs. It made a loud, gritty sound as she slid it across the floor.

She pulled on the suitcase, took a step, pulled it again, took a step, and step by step she dragged it halfway to the attic stairs. Her shoulders burned, the base of her spine felt broken, but eventually she got it to the lip of the trapdoor and felt relief course through her body when she saw the clean room down below.

She’d leave the bag here, get Mrs. Greene, and they’d get this out of the house together. She wouldn’t hesitate. She’d drive it right to the police station. She turned around and stepped onto the first step down. That was when she heard voices downstairs and automatically pulled her foot back.

“Mrs. Greene,” a distant man’s voice said. She missed the next part and then: “…a surprise.”

She heard Mrs. Greene say something she couldn’t make out, and then she heard the end of James Harris’s reply: “…come home early.”

CHAPTER 30

Electricity raced down Patricia’s arms and legs, rooting her to the spot.

“…can wrap up,” she heard James Harris say. “…want to go upstairs and get some rest.”

A horrible thought gripped Patricia’s brain: any minute Slick was going to stroll up to the back door and knock. Slick couldn’t lie to save her life. She’d say she was there to meet Patricia.

A voice she couldn’t hear spoke, and then James Harris said, “Lora here today?”

Patricia looked down and her heart banged so hard it left a bruise against her ribs. Lora stood in the door of the guest room, a dust rag in one hand, looking up at Patricia.

“Lora,” Patricia whispered.

Lora blinked, slowly.

“Close the stairs,” Patricia begged. Lora just stared. “Please. Close the stairs.”

James Harris was saying something to Mrs. Greene that Patricia couldn’t hear because everything in her body was directed at Lora, willing her to understand. Then Lora moved: she held out one yellow gloved hand, palm up in a universal gesture. Patricia remembered the other ten-dollar bill. She jammed her hand into her pocket, bending the nail of her forefinger backward, and pulled it out. She dropped it and it fluttered down slowly, right into Lora’s hand.

Downstairs, she heard James Harris say, “Has anyone stopped by?”

Lora leaned down, grabbed the bottom of the stairs, and pushed them up. The springs didn’t groan this time but they were closing too fast and she squatted, extending her hands, catching the trapdoor, bringing it to a gentle close with a quiet bump.

She had to replace the suitcase before he came upstairs. She stood and wedged her right foot beneath it, feeling its weight crush her bones, and lifted, stepping her foot forward, using her shoe as a bumper when she brought the suitcase down, swinging it forward a step at a time. It was loud, but not as loud as dragging. Limping wildly, bruising her shin with every step, her pulse snapping in her wrists, the suitcase scraping the top of her foot raw, she slowly made it to the end of the attic and slid the Samsonite back into place. Then she saw that there were mothballs scattered all over the floor, glowing like pearls in the dim attic light.

She scooped them up and, with nowhere else to put them, dropped them into her pockets. Her head spun; she thought she might faint. She had to know where he was. Stepping from joist to joist, she made her way back to the trapdoor, brushed three dead cockroaches out of her way and knelt on the floor, bringing her ear close to the gritty plywood.

She heard the muffled thumps of bedroom doors opening and closing. She prayed that Lora had closed the one with the attic stairs in it, and then she heard it open, and footsteps right beneath her, and her heart clenched. She wondered if the marks from the ladder could be seen in the carpet’s pile. Then more footsteps and the door closed.

Everything went quiet. She pushed herself up. Every joint in her body ached. How could she get out of here? And why had he traveled in daylight? She knew he was capable of doing it but would only take the risk in desperation. What had happened to make him hurry home? Did he know she was here? And what was going to happen when Slick showed up?

She heard faint voices floating up from downstairs:

“…come again next…”

He was sending them home. She heard a distant, final thump and realized it was the front door closing. She was in the house alone. With James Harris. Everything was silent for a few minutes and then, from right beneath the trapdoor, a singsong voice drifted up.

“Patricia,” James Harris sang. “I know you’re in here.”

She froze. He was going to come up. She wanted to scream but caught it before it could slip out between her lips.

“I’m going to find you, Patricia,” he singsonged.

He would come up the ladder. Any second she would hear the springs stretch and see the light around the edges get brighter, she’d hear his heavy steps on the rungs, and she’d see his head and shoulders emerge into the attic, looking right at her, mouth splitting wide into a grin, and that thing, that long black thing boiling up out of his throat. She was trapped.

Below her, a bedroom door opened, then another. She heard closet doors rattling open and shut, nearer and farther away, and then a bedroom door slammed with a bang and she jumped a little inside her skin. Another bedroom door opened.

It was only a matter of time before he remembered the attic. She had to find a hiding place.

She squeezed the penlight and looked at the floor, trying to see if she’d given herself away. The white cockroach poison had her tracks all through it as well as drag marks from the suitcase. Squatting, forcing herself to move slowly and carefully, she used her palms to whisk the poison smooth, leaving the gritty white layer thinner, but undisturbed. She walked backward, hunched over, brushing the floor lightly, the small of her back on fire until she reached the suitcases and stood. She used the penlight to check her work and was pleased.

She examined the suitcase and realized the one with Francine’s body in it was rubbed clean. She scooped up roach powder and mouse droppings and used them to dirty the suitcase. It would do the job if he didn’t look closely.

Standing made her feel exposed, so she forced herself to lie down behind the draped mound of Mrs. Savage’s things. With her ear pressed to the filthy plywood floor, she heard the house vibrating beneath her. She heard doors opening and closing. She heard footsteps. Then she heard nothing. The silence made her nervous.

She checked her wristwatch: 4:56. The silence lulled her into a trance. She could stay here, he wouldn’t look for her here, she’d wait as long as she needed, and she’d listen, and when it got dark he’d leave the house and she could sneak out. She would be strong. She would be smart. She would be safe.

She heard the springs groan as the trapdoor opened, and light flooded the far end of the attic.

“Patricia,” James Harris said loudly, coming up the steps, springs screaming crazily beneath his feet. “I know you’re up here.”

She looked at the filthy blankets draped over the boxes and realized that even getting under them wouldn’t help. The furniture was too sparse to hide her. If he walked around to this side of the stacks he’d see her. There was nowhere to go.

“I’m coming for you, Patricia,” he called, happily, as he got to the top of the ladder.

Then she saw the pile of clothes on the edge of the attic where the plywood flooring ended. Several boxes had split open and disgorged their contents into a huge mound.

If she could burrow into that pile she would be hidden. She crawled closer, staying low, the reeking stench of rotting fabric scraping her sinuses raw. Her gorge slapped against the back of her throat. The footsteps coming up the ladder stopped.

“Patty,” James’s voice said from the middle of the attic. “We need to talk.”