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