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I turned to the table where the flute had been.
But now it was gone.
My stomach twisted.
“Where’s the flute, Daphne?” he asked.
I pointed. “It was there. On that table. It’s not there anymore. But I swear, Ian, it was there.”
He moved to the table, bent at the waist, inspected it closely.
Then, without a word, he took off, and I again followed.
He entered another room, this one, the furniture was covered with big sheets.
He pushed on a wall by the door, I heard a click, a panel came away, and he pulled it open. He reached in and yanked on a string, and a single, stark hanging lightbulb inside turned on.
False wall.
Hidden passageway.
Shit.
Okay, it seemed like he was going to enter the belly of the beast, and I was not one with the idea.
Before I could share that, he pulled out his phone, engaged the flashlight and went in.
I didn’t want to, but with the way he was acting, I also didn’t want to be alone. So I followed him.
It was dark in there, musty, the stair treads covered in a well-used, faded runner and dust. There was a small landing, it was a very narrow flight of stairs, up and down.
He went up.
Expelling a breath, I went after him.
We came out on the top floor, in the hallway. I’d never been up there. The ceilings were lower, and the décor was nice, but a whole lot more utilitarian.
He walked down two doors and across the hall where there was a keypad next to the door.
He punched in a six-digit code, I heard a click, and he opened the door.
He walked in, switching on the lights.
I went in after him.
The air was very fresh in there, and it was cool.
It was a big room, lots of old-fashioned filing cabinets. There were some paintings stacked against the wall. A table holding crates with photographs, cardboard tabs sticking out, the numbers of years scrawled on the tops. Carefully stacked and labeled boxes. There was an old pair of riding boots in a glass case on a table. A mounted saber. Both with tabs stuck to them with a lot of writing on them.
And there were two humming units that looked expensive sitting in the corners, I knew, filtering the air.
Boy, Ian wasn’t wrong. Louisa did put in a lot of work, and it was meticulous.
Ian was staring at the line of filing cabinets across the room between the two windows that had their curtains carefully shut to hold back any rays of sun that might fade anything.
On top of them was the flute case, currently shut.
A now familiar shiver snaked down my spine.
