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“What was that?” she asked in a whisper.
“What?”
“I heard something.” She glanced at the ceiling. Had the sound come from above? “Is there an attic over this part of the house?”
His eyes narrowed. “Maybe. There’s room, although—”
Creeeaaak.
This time the sound was louder.
Pescoli froze and craned her neck to stare at the ceiling.
Santana’s eyes narrowed.
He grabbed her arm and held a finger to his lips, then led her through the laundry room to quietly open the door to the garage. She followed, hand on her gun, silent as a wraith beside him as they passed through another door to a mudroom where he pointed to the ceiling. There, tucked against the wall, was a pull-down ladder, cord hanging.
She glanced at the floor, black and white tiles, shining where they’d been recently polished. Visible on the squares were two marks, about eighteen inches apart, where the stairs had scraped.
She met Santana’s eyes and gave a quick nod.
Santana pulled hard on the cord.
The collapsible stairs came tumbling down with a loud bang.
Both Santana and Pescoli flattened against the wall, bracing themselves for what might be a hail of gunfire.
But there was nothing.
Everything remained still.
“Come out!” Pescoli ordered. “Police!”
Still nothing.
“Bring me my son and come down these stairs, Padgett!” she ordered, but Santana wasn’t waiting. He started up the stairs.
“Wait!” she called, then handed him her pistol.
“This is the police!” she yelled. “We know you’re up there. Come out now with your hands over your head!”
Santana crouched low, then peeked over the edge of the attic, the pistol beside his head.
“Don’t shoot!” a panicked male voice yelled. Footsteps scrambled overhead. “For the love of Christ! Don’t shoot!”
Chapter 31
“Who the hell are you?” Santana demanded, lowering his gun as he saw the panic on the kid’s face, his hands raised over his head under the three single bulbs lighting the attic space. The second the words passed his lips, he knew the twenty-year-old standing in a corner of the dark attic was none other than Garrett Mays, who claimed to be Brady Long’s son.
“I’m Garrett,” he said, and damn if he didn’t look like Brady. Tall and lanky, straight dark hair, big worried eyes. “Garrett Mays. Who’re you? The manager guy—right?”
“Nate Santana. What’re you doing here?”
“Camping out on the family property.”
Camping was right. Spread against the far wall was a crumpled sleeping bag, a small duffle, and all surrounded by wrappers for candy bars and fast food along with empty cans and bottles.
“More like trespassing and breaking and entering to start with,” Santana said, and waved Pescoli up the stairs.
