The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,106

gleaming windows reflecting the setting sun, the clapboard painted white, the tall shutters black and gleaming on that hillock with its groomed and terraced lawns.

No longer.

And never again, she thought, pocketing her phone.

She kept on, close to the woods, and once she was close to the house, crossed the knee-high grass, bent now with the wind and rain. She, too, was wet, her hair dripping, her shoulders damp. Quickly she hurried across the dirty floorboards of the porch. The doors to the back living area, French doors now boarded over, were locked and she wasn’t surprised. She suspected that Tyson had secured the building the day she’d seen him at the front gate, but she also figured that old locks and windows would probably give way with a little pressure.

Walking along the wide wraparound porch, she eyed every possible way in. She checked a second door, a side entrance that she knew from her own exploration of the house as a child had been the servants’ entrance and led to the basement. It, along with the front door with its arched transom, was locked tight.

No surprise there.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

She tried several windows that weren’t boarded over. All were locked tight. “Terrific,” she muttered under her breath as she made her way to the back of the house again. Walking on the wraparound porch, she tried two kitchen windows that were secure and considered how hard it would be to remove the plywood over one near the corner.

Was she that desperate?

There has to be a way in.

She tried every window and door again, pushing harder.

The only one that gave at all was a smaller one over the sink in the kitchen that hadn’t been boarded over. It was high and she had to find an old bucket to turn over and stand on, but when she reached up and pushed, she felt the window give a little.

Maybe she could get in here.

The window wasn’t sealed as it was a bit crooked in its casing. But still. What did she have to lose?

Balancing on the overturned bucket, she jimmied the window, pushing up from the bottom, feeling it wiggle and give a bit.

Maybe?

Sweating, she pushed, getting her arms and weight into it. Slowly, with a noisy screech, it started to give. She pushed upward, straining, a jab of pain in her left shoulder reminding her she hadn’t completely healed from her last visit to this place. “Come on, come on,” she whispered, replanting her feet and pushing hard. Sweat beaded her brow and ran down her nose while rain pummeled the roof, water running in the old rusted gutters and seeping through rotting shingles.

Her fingers were beginning to ache, her back and shoulders straining.

The window budged again.

Another shove.

Bits of the old, swollen casing suddenly gave.

The window slipped upward a few more inches, just enough to allow her to wriggle through.

She didn’t think twice.

Disregarding the pain in her shoulder, she pushed herself through the opening and crawled into the sink, where dust and rust were visible on the ancient chipped porcelain and a brown spider scurried down the drain. She dragged her body through, her shoulder starting to throb. Once inside, she left the window open for her exit.

The interior was dim, only bits of light from the dark day slipping through the few grimy windows that hadn’t been boarded over. She walked carefully through the rooms, her ears straining. Using the camera on her cell phone, she took pictures of the interior, focusing on the tattered draperies, dusty tiles on the fireplace, and cobwebs draping the corners and balusters of the staircase. She climbed to the third floor, taking photos, shoving aside the feeling that she was walking on someone’s grave. Most of the rooms were bare and empty, but she caught images of peeling wallpaper, old, rusted bedsprings and a broken treadle sewing machine, all objects of a different era, all deteriorating. She caught several images of the crumbling ceiling tiles, broken chandelier and even an abandoned bird’s nest under the exposed eaves.

The house had a feeling of abandonment and with no air circulating, cobwebs and dust everywhere, it seemed dead inside.

Ridiculous, she told herself but couldn’t help feeling goose bumps rise as she finally took a few shots of the narrow back staircase to the basement.

The scent of rot filtered upward as she, bolstering her courage, descended. So what if bodies had been found down here? Using the flashlight’s beam, she stepped into what had so recently