drawled. “Now that I know what—” He stopped himself.
“Yes, Mr. Mountford?”
Tyler lifted his hands insolently, but said nothing as he slouched out through the archway, toward the main staircase. Katrina drifted out after him, clearly reluctant to leave Brendan and Laurel alone.
Laurel barely waited until she heard their steps on the stairs before she turned on Brendan, keeping her voice low. “You don’t for a second believe any of that?”
“Why not?” Brendan said defensively.
“You know why not. The first night we’re here she has a bedcovers incident? No, I’m sorry: three bedcovers incidents? If you Google ‘poltergeist’ that’s probably the first thing that comes up.”
“Let’s not dismiss things out of hand, all right?” Brendan began. “Maybe she exaggerated—”
“Exaggerated? She’s looking for attention. We’re not supposed to be jumping to conclusions—”
“That’s right, we’re not supposed to be jumping to conclusions—any conclusions. You’re already judging her—”
“Because it’s perfectly obvious what she’s doing,” Laurel said. Her voice sounded raw.
Brendan paced on the long bare floor, and Laurel was aware of the cloudy mirrors on the walls reflecting them, the monitors reflecting them, dimension upon dimension. She had a sudden, unnerving feeling of being watched. She shook her head, trying to focus on what Brendan was saying.
“We don’t know that she knows anything about reports of bedcovers being pulled. We don’t know anything. We observe, we listen, we record—without preconception.” He paused, and then without looking straight at her added, “If you have issues with Katrina I hope you’ll be able to rise above them for the purposes of the experiment. Remember that you’re the adult and she’s the student.”
The barb hit home; Laurel flinched as if he’d struck her.
Brendan turned his back on her, sat in front of the monitors, and cued the recordings back to the beginning of the evening. He pressed a button to start the playback.
All right, then, Laurel thought, and moved for the archway leading to the front stairs. Brendan didn’t look at her, didn’t speak.
She hesitated just before the door. As she stepped through, she felt the slightest shock, like the buzz of static electricity. She stiffened … then moved forward.
She walked numbly past the stairs, into the entry with the bench and the family portrait with its crude, simian figures. Her face burned with Brendan’s accusation.
It’s not true, I don’t have “issues” with Katrina. Why would I? She’s a spoiled little rich girl, but the only real “issue” I have with her is that she’s plain lying. And you, Dr. Cody—you’re just grabbing at straws.
“Talk about losing objectivity … ,” she muttered aloud.
She felt eyes on her neck and turned sharply. She saw only the portrait above the hearth … and needed to be away from it.
She hurtled out of the room, through the small library, through the garden room, and out the back door.
The “Spanish” part of the house had its own walkway, not brick but red clay tile. Laurel felt a pressure instantly lifting from her chest as she closed the garden room door behind her and stepped outside. She closed her eyes and lifted her head to feel the air on her face.
The wind was soft and cool, instantly both clearing and lulling … all around her was a silky rustling that she realized was the sound of the long pine needles. I could live with that, she thought suddenly, surprised.
She opened her eyes and looked out on the garden. The sky was crystal blue after the rain, with billowy fast-moving clouds. I want a walk, she decided. If there’s anyone out there, I guess I’m going to find out.
She walked down the brick stairs, past a fountain with a fish statue with bulbous eyes.
The bed nearest the house was enclosed in river rock, and she recognized enough of the plants to realize it was a culinary garden, with rosemary still thriving amidst long dead tomatoes and squash vines. The first steps she came to were river rock as well, and they descended to several branches of paths paved with the same gray-stone chips as the front drive.
Even choked with what must have been years of overgrowth, the gravel paths were still accessible. Laurel chose a path and meandered, past a huge bed of roses, all the vines now entangled, going wild, but still with brilliant spots of red and white and orange among the brambles. Wary and keyed up as she had been, as she walked she found herself relaxing, breathing, beginning to enjoy the design of the garden around her.