Page 26 of What Happens at Nightfall

Chapter Eight

“Sorry. What did you say?”

The winch pulling up the monument that had fallen last night let out a particularly obnoxious beep.

Adam put a hand over his other ear to try to muffle the sound. “If this is about the battery pack, there’s no rush, you can keep it as long as you need.”

Last night had been devastating, stressful, a major parenting fail—and yet strangely enjoyable. Adam had half hoped that Jess would get in touch about returning the battery pack. Only half, because the other half had a lot of mixed feelings that he hadn’t quite sorted out, but they had a little to do with vague feelings of disloyalty to Kate—what was that Richard III line? Was every woman in this humor wooed? He hadn’t exactly flirted with her over his wife’s tomb, but he’d flirted with her over his wife’s ancestors’ tomb, which was almost the same thing.

And then there was the fear that if he saw her again in daylight, they would be totally different people, and he should appreciate it for what it was and be grateful that that chance encounter had made him feel like there might be someone out there again, if not necessarily this someone.

Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from rehearsing half a dozen phone calls.

“I said there’s something you need to see.” Jess’s voice was taut with tension. “I went to what I thought was the tour office—she has pictures, everywhere. Of your tomb and—I’ll just send it to you. Hold on.”

There was a muffled sound as she moved the phone from her ear to use her phone camera.

Adam squinted at his own phone. None of the conversations he’d had in his head had gone anything like this. “Who has pictures?”

“The tour guide.” Jess’s voice was crisp, businesslike. “Did you get them?”

“Reception isn’t always great around here. Hang on.” Adam walked briskly to his favorite phone bench. “Hey there,” he murmured to the stone statue that lived on the bench. It was silly—she was stone—but he still always liked to say hi. It was her bench, after all.

“Are they there?”

The ping of an incoming message sounded in Adam’s ear. “Yep. Looking now.”

The first picture was of a wall, covered with pictures linked with red thread. It looked like something from a TV set. “Where did you say you are again?”

If this was Jess’s apartment, he was deleting her number.

“The tour guide’s apartment. I think it’s her apartment. The closet is full of Edwardian dresses and what look like some sort of ceremonial robes.” There was a pause. “Have you looked at the pictures?”

“Some more just came in.” A chorus of pings assaulted his ear. He kept the volume on his phone high in case the kids’ schools called.

Adam pushed the speaker button and clicked on Messages. A sheaf of pictures, one on top of the other. The sun cast a glare, making it hard to see. He shifted, swiping rapidly through, first the Vanderwilt tomb, then what looked like a weird out-of-proportion sketch of the tomb, then . . .

Melinda?

Not just one photo of Melinda. A dozen. Inside the cemetery and out. Walking to school. Walking home from school. With friends. Alone. On the phone next to the window of her room, totally unaware someone was crouching outside, zooming in to take a picture of her.

“What the hell.”

“Hell is right.” The woman on the other phone sounded rattled. “There are pictures of demons all over. And paintings that look like Hieronymus Bosch.”

And Melinda. Picture after picture of Melinda.

Adam didn’t remember standing, but he was on his feet. “Where are you? I’m headed over. I can be there in—forty minutes.” He’d take the subway; it would be faster than trying to find parking.

“I’ll meet you—there’s a Bouchon in Rockefeller Plaza. I’ll meet you there. I’d rather not stay here if it’s all the same.”

“See you there.” Adam clicked off the phone, texting rapidly as he walked. There was nothing he was supposed to do today that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. His under-gardeners could handle putting in bulbs without him.

On the subway, he pulled up the first picture, the picture of the wall. His phone would let him zoom only so far. He didn’t see any pictures of Ben, just Melinda.

The school. He’d have to let her school know. If this was some sort of stalker . . .

But why would anyone stalk Melinda?