“He’s completely fine. The background check came back clear. The auction’s legit too—apparently, he has a number ofassociates interested in historic preservation. They do a gala every year. Some of the proceeds go to preservation charities.”
“Guess we’re all good, then.”
“No red flags, no mistakes, no witchy woo-woo weirdness.” She nods her head firmly, as if she’s still trying to convince herself. Then, with that tight little laugh she does when she’s nervous, “Well, other than Helena’s conspiracy theories.” The laugh again. A quick jerk of her coat zipper. “Witches. Can you even imagine?”
“Um,” I say, and she laughs again and off she goes.
She doesn’t even notice that the door opens and closes for her of its own accord.
fourteen
LIZZY
The basement is giving absolute Hoarders, but left to my own devices, I’m making decent progress. I’ve already loaded up several big trash bags destined for the dump—broken baskets and moth-eaten clothes, unidentifiable foodstuffs likely jarred in the 1920s, mateless plastic garden clogs. I’ve got another set of boxes with collectables that might actually be worth something—some old art, figurines, various kitsch. The auction people will have to sort it out.
Calista’s hovering. She’s not much of a talker, but I like the company. Makes me feel less alone down here. And she doesn’t judge me for rocking out to my Wu-Tang playlist and drinking pinot noir through a straw. Faster delivery method, I always say. Plus, if you aim the straw right, you don’t end up looking like you spent the day going down on Barney the dinosaur. Win-win.
At lunchtime, I head upstairs for a wine refill and a quick lunch of leftover bacon and scones. I also pop in another online clothing order because the ol’ corporate card is still paying breakup dividends, and if I have to be stuck here learning Tarotand intuition and demon management 101 for the foreseeable future, the least I can do is look cute as fuck doing it.
I’m refreshed, refilled, and ready to head back to the basement when Calista pops up from the stairwell, her eyes wide, hands waving like she’s being attacked by bees.
“Calista! What iswrongwith you, girl?”
She keeps on waving and zooms down the stairs, trailing her lavender light. I try to catch up without tripping and busting some vital part of me, which is no easy feat considering the amount of wine I’ve already ingested and the amount I’m trying not to spill from my topped-off glass.
“Hold up a sec!” I pause at the bottom for a quick slurp. And before I’ve even swallowed, I sense it.
I’m not alone.
Someone is the basement. A human, corporeal someone. Aman—a stranger, at that. I can smell the try-hard, douche-bro cologne. Dr. Sutherland wouldnever.
The air shifts, the shadows rearranging, and suddenly, there he is, stepping out from behind an old artificial Christmas tree with the lights still on it.
He startles when he sees me, then plasters on a smile and comes closer. He’s an older man, late forties if I had to guess, trying to pass for thirties. He’s dressed in an expensive suit and his hair has too much gel.
I could try to turn and run, but he’d easily overpower me. I have no choice but to stand my ground.
“You have three seconds to convince me not to call the cops,” I announce, trying for threatening, though my words are a little wobbly on account of the wine, and my phone is clear across the room on a shelf, waiting for me to un-pause Wu-Tang.
His smile widens. I feel like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“Sorry,” he says with a small bow. The cologne is like some kind of nuclear fallout, mygod. “I didn’t realize anyone was down here.”
“Yes, I can see that. Why the fuck areyoudown here, pal?”
He looks at me as if I’m being rude or something. Like maybe I should be rolling out the red carpet. “I’m Nathan Killroy.”
The name rings a faint bell, a bell first rung many days and many drinks ago that has therefore become a distant memory teetering on the edge of already forgotten. I squint at him, like maybe that will help jog something loose in my mind.
“Attorney?” He prompts. He’s looking a tad annoyed now. Like,why haven’t you dropped to your knees to kiss my fancy Italian shoes, you insolent peasant?
When I still don’t respond, he huffs and adds, “I’m handling your family’s estate.”
Ohhh. It’s all coming back to me now. The mysterious background-check-approved lawyer.
If my guard wasn’t already up, that sure does the trick.
“Care to explain what you were doing down here snooping through my family’s belongings, Nathan Killroy, attorney?”
