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I start to swing the door closed, but I look up just in time.
Not to the left side with Deacon and Conor’s measurements, though. I spot something on the door frame, but this time to the right. I open the door wide and take out my phone, bringing up my flashlight.
“Ready whenever you are,” Hunter says, coming up to my side.
I scan the list of markings, same as on the left. Another record of measurements. Another sibling?
Hunter moves in. “What’s this?”
“I think we missed something,” I tell him.
I read the name in jagged, slanted script. “Manas?”
He studies it closer. “He was older.”
“How do you know?”
“Extra layer of paint,” he replies. “Or two. Look.”
He takes my phone, pointing it lower in the inside of the frame, and I see the earlier markings look like they were barely dug into the wood, but the carving gets deeperand deeper the more Manas aged. I glance at Deacon and Conor’s grooves that appear more pronounced. They have one or two less layers of paint covering them.
I look at Hunter. “Threebrothers?”
He shakes his head. “Not necessarily. Could be a previous inhabitant.”
But something starts unraveling in my head.
“You said ‘them.’”
Bastien looked up at me.
“You said ‘a few of us like to think she escaped them.’”
If Conor is really dead, and it’s just Deacon, then who else…
I blink rapidly, staring at the kitchen floor as this feeling starts to puzzle itself together, and I’m not sure where my thoughts are leading, but I know it’s right.
I drop my backpack and run upstairs with my phone.
“Dylan!” Hunter yells.
He runs after me, following as I open the attic door and race up the wooden steps, onto the third floor.
I don’t look for a lamp or light switch, the sunny fall day outside streaming through the windows.
There’s a bed—rather large, perfectly made with sheets, pillows, and a blanket, neatly tucked in under the mattress. I see the rocking chair near the window, the varnish on the wood long since worn away and faded, and the rope tied to a spoke on the back, the other end disappearing out the window.
There’s a bedside table, and I walk over, opening it, but all I see is a padlock. The shackle is closed, and there’s no key.
Remembering the key from the grave, I pull it out of my pocket and try the lock. It doesn’t fit.
I stuff the key back into my jeans and drop the lock into the drawer.
There’s nothing else in the attic.
No empty liquor bottles, no condoms, no pizza boxes, no graffiti. Aro was right. The Rebels don’t disrespect this house.
A whine sounds behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see Hunter checking a window to make sure it’s locked. The floorboard underneath him creaks again as he shifts on his feet.
