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I slump against the wall when Jude’s yawning face comes into view. “What’s up?”
Swallowing my nerves, I gesture vaguely at the closet. “So this is probably me being crazy, but there are two holes near the ceiling in the bedroom. And I think they correspond to that crawl space up there?”
Jude is awake now. “Like peepholes?”
“Yeah?” I wince. “Or I could just be imagining things?”
“Better to be safe,” he murmurs, passing me into the bedroom. Hands on hips, he observes the holes for a long moment, before meeting my eyes. And that’s when cold licks down my spine. His expression is suspicious. Not teasing, like I was hoping for. “What the fuck?”
“Okay.” I let out a slightly unsteady breath. “You’re not laughing and pointing out some flaw in the construction, like I was hoping you would.”
“No, but let’s take stock, T. If those are peepholes, there’s no one peeping now.” He returns to the hallway to stand beside me. Both of us stare up at the crawl space. “But neither one of us is going to relax until we’re positive, right?”
I groan, visions of my bath dissipating like wisps of smoke. “Should we call the police?”
He considers my totally irrational question. Really considers it, stroking the scruff on his chin. This is one of the reasons I love Jude so much. We’re siblings, so naturally we’ve had our share of bickering fights and outright shouting matches over the years, but he’s on my team. It’s a given. He doesn’t accuse me of being crazy. He takes me seriously. The things that are important to me are of equal importance to him and I will always, always do everything I can to make his life easier, the way he’s done for me in the near-constant absence of our parents.
“I think I’ll just pop off that panel and have a look,” Jude says, finally.
“I don’t like it.” Jude might be well over six feet tall now, a grown twenty-three-year-old man, but he’ll always be my little brother—and the thought of him confronting a possible peeping Tom on my watch makes me nauseous. “At the very least, we should have a weapon handy.”
“Need I remind you that I took jujitsu for six months?”
“Need I remind you that you only hung in there that long because you were waiting for the instructor to break up with his boyfriend?”
“They were clearly on the rocks.”
“I’m sure your dimples helped speed things along.”
“You’re right.” He gives me an intentionally creepy smile. “They are the true weapon.”
I shake my head at him, but thankfully the shivers are subsiding.
“All right.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s take a quick look and pray we don’t find a jar of fingernails or some shit.”
“Or a GoPro,” I mutter, bracing myself against the wall, hands covering my face. I watch through the cracks of my fingers as Jude slides into the closet, reaches up and eases aside the panel to reveal a small space. Very small. Immediately, however, daylight streams in through the two holes and it is impossible to ignore the fact that they are the exact width of an average set of eyes and they go straight through to the bedroom. Peepholes. One hundred percent. “Oh God. Yuck. Is there anything…or anyone up there?”
Jude grasps the edge of the crawl space and does a quick pull up. “Nope. Nothing.” He drops down. “A person would have to be tiny to fit up there. Or really flexible. So unless my powers of deduction fail me, the peeper is a gymnast.”
“Or a small woman?” We trade a skeptical look. “Yeah, that doesn’t really fit the peeper profile, does it?” I pull my towel up tighter beneath my armpits. “So what do we do?”
“Send me the contact info for the owner. I’ll give him a call.”
“Oh. No, I’ll do it. I don’t want this to disrupt your vacation time. Go take your nap.”
He’s already on his way back to the stairs. “Send me the info, T.”
For some reason, I still don’t want to be alone with the peepholes, so I scurry along after my brother in my towel. “Fine.” I chew my lip. “I think I’ll check the laundry room for a stepping stool and some tape to cover up the holes.”
He tosses a wink back at me. “In case the peeper is a ghost?”
“Oh, sure. It’s funny now, but as soon as it gets dark, a peeper ghost will become a totally realistic possibility.”
“Take the other room, if you want. I don’t mind being spied on by Casper.”
I’m laughing as we reach the bottom of the stairs, both of us hooking right into the kitchen where the door to the laundry room is located. “You’d probably enjoy it,” I say.
“Have you been reading my diary again?”
By the time I pull open the door to the laundry area, I’m having such a good time with my brother that I don’t believe what I’m seeing at first. It has to be a joke. Or a television screen playing a grisly reenactment from a Netflix true crime documentary. There cannot be a large, dead man stuffed in between the washer and dryer, face purple with bruises, eyes glassy and unseeing. And there in the center of his forehead is a neat, black-edged bullet hole. It simply cannot be happening. But the bile that spears up my throat is real. So is the ice that hardens me, head to toe, a scream freezing in my throat. No. No, no, no.
