The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,118

saw her. I’ll testify to that in court. But we have got to go.”

They put the suitcase back and Kitty helped Patricia out of the attic. But it wasn’t until they’d closed the attic, made their way through the upstairs hall, and reached the bottom of the front stairs that Patricia had a sudden sinking thought and turned. She was filthy from the attic. The carpeted stairs were white.

“Oh, no,” she moaned, and the strength went out of her legs and she sank to the floor.

“We don’t have time for this,” Kitty said. “He’s going to be back any minute.”

“Look!” Patricia said, and pointed to the carpet.

It showed the dirt clearly. They weren’t footprints, but they were close. There was one on every step, leading all the way up and, Patricia knew, right back to where the attic door opened.

“He’s going to know it was me, and that I’ve been in his attic,” she said. “He’ll get rid of the suitcase before we can get back here with the police. It’ll all be for nothing.”

“We don’t have time,” Kitty said, pulling her toward the kitchen and the back door.

Patricia imagined hearing a key in the front door, the door swinging open, and the frozen moment while they all looked at each other before James Harris rushed down the hall at them. She imagined the three empty suitcases in the attic next to the one holding Francine, waiting for their broken bodies, and she let Kitty drag her to the back door.

But what if the police wouldn’t search his attic? What if Kitty was too scared to back up her story? What if breaking into his house violated some technicality and no one could get a search warrant because of that? It happened all the time in true crime books. What if it cost Mrs. Greene her job? There had to be a better way.

Her mind flipped through one idea after another and then stopped on a pattern that looked familiar. She tested it, quickly, and it held. She knew what they had to do.

“Wait,” Patricia said, and dug in her heels.

Kitty kept pulling her arm, but Patricia twisted out of her grip and stood her ground right outside the kitchen.

“I’m not fooling,” Kitty said. “We got to go.”

“Get the broom, and the vacuum cleaner,” Patricia said, heading for the stairs. “I think they’re in the closet under the stairs. We need carpet shampoo, too. I’m going back up.”

“For what???” Kitty asked.

“If he comes back and sees that someone’s been in his attic he’s going to take that suitcase, drive it out to Francis Marion National Forest, and bury it where it will never be found,” Patricia said. “We need someone to find it in his attic and that means we have to cover our tracks. We have to clean the stairs.”

“Nuh-uh,” Kitty said, shaking her head furiously, waving her hands back and forth, shaking her bracelets. “No, sir. We are gone.”

Patricia came back down the hall until she stood in Kitty’s face.

“We both saw what was in that attic,” she said.

“Don’t make me do this,” Kitty begged. “Please, please, please.”

Patricia squeezed her eyes shut. She felt a headache try to claw its way out through her forehead.

“He murdered her,” she said. “We need to stop him. This is the only way.”

Without giving Kitty a chance to protest, she turned and went back upstairs.

“Patricia,” Kitty whined from the downstairs hall.

“The cleaning closet is under the stairs,” Patricia called over the banister.

She pulled the attic steps down again and went up. The more she did this the more it didn’t bother her when she opened the suitcase. She rustled around in the sticky plastic, occasionally feeling the back of her hand brush against something light, or her fingers grip an emaciated leg or forearm, but after a minute she found what she was looking for: Francine’s pocketbook. She worked it out of the plastic, smelling cinnamon and old leather.

She took out Francine’s wallet, removed her driver’s license, and carefully packed everything