And dusty and dank. The steps creaked underfoot, but at least no rats gleamed out with red eyes.
Eli paused when his light played over another panel. “Let me think.” And orient himself. “This should come out on the second-floor landing. See how it forks here? That one should come out in my grandmother’s bedroom. That’s always been the master, as far as I know. God, we’d have killed to have these open when we were kids. I could’ve snuck around, jumped out and scared the shit out of my sister.”
“Which is exactly why your grandmother sealed up the doors.”
“Yeah.”
“Thinking of opening them again?”
“Yeah. No reason to, but yeah.”
“Cool is its own reason.”
They followed the passage, going down or taking a turn. From the blueprint in his head, Eli judged the panels had once opened in strategic places throughout the house, into parlors, the kitchen, a sitting room, a hallway and down to the depths of the basement.
“Hell. Should’ve moved the shelves barricading the other side first.” But he found the lever, drew the door to him so he and Mike peered through old pots and rusted tools and into the basement.
“You’ve got to unseal this, man. Think of the Halloween parties.”
But he was thinking of something else. “I could set him up,” he murmured.
“Huh?”
“The asshole breaking in here, digging down here. I’ve got to think about this.”
“Stake yourself out in here, lure him in. Classic ambush,” Mike agreed. “Then what?”
“I’m thinking about it.” He closed the door, vowing to move the shelves, formulate a plan.
“Let me know. I wouldn’t mind being in on catching that guy. Maureen’s still pretty freaked,” Mike said as they started back up. “I don’t know if she’ll really relax until they catch the guy, especially when most of us figure he’s the same one who plugged the PI. Stands to reason.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“And when she found out he planted that gun in Abra’s place, she super freaked.”
“Can’t blame her for— What? What gun? What are you talking about?”
“The gun Abra found in her . . . Oh.” After a pained wince, Mike stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Well, shit, she didn’t tell you.”
“No, she damn well didn’t tell me. But you’re going to.”
“Get me another beer and my guts are spilled.”
Twenty-one
AT THE END OF A LONG DAY—TWO CLASSES, A MASSIVE cleaning job and a pair of massages—Abra pulled up to her cottage.
And just sat.
She didn’t want to go in. She hated knowing she didn’t want to go inside her own home, tend to her own things, use her own shower.
She loved Laughing Gull, and had from the first instant she’d seen it. She wanted that feeling back, the pride, the comfort, the rightness of it, and all she felt was dread.
He’d spoiled it, whoever the hell he was, coming into her home, leaving his violence and death behind. A monster in the closet, in the form of a gun.
It left her two choices, she told herself. Let the monster win—give up, sit and brood. Or fight back and fix it.
Put that way, she decided, there wasn’t a choice at all.
She shoved out of the car, muscled out her table, her bag, carted them both to the door. Inside, she leaned her table against the wall before carrying her bag into the living room.
Driving nearly twenty miles up the coast to buy the smudge stick had added onto her already crowded day, but when she took it out of her bag it felt like a positive action.
She’d burn the sage, cleanse her house. If she felt her house was cleansed, it was cleansed. And once she’d reclaimed her place, she’d get serious about adding a little greenhouse so she could grow her own herbs in bigger quantities. She’d make her own damn smudge sticks, and have fresh herbs year-round for cooking.
Maybe she’d sell them, too. Another enterprise. Create her own potpourri and sachets.
Something to think about.
But for now she did her best to clear her mind, to think only clean, positive thoughts as she lit the sage, held it over an abalone shell for safety and blew out the flame to encourage the smoke. Her home, she thought. The floors, the ceilings, the corners belonged to her.
The process, walking from room to room with the scent of white sage and lavender, calmed her, as did reminding herself what she’d made there, for herself, for others.
Faith, she thought, hope, and the symbols of them forged strength.