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In that time, Tom begins to stir enough that we know he isn’t dead. That’s about all we know because he can’t do more than groan after his second concussion in a week.
Emma lays a blanket over him while I hunt for Jude. His moped is missing from the yard. In fact, I haven’t seen him since our 2 a.m. chat. I glance at the barn, starting to feel seriously annoyed with my neglectful brother.
Still, it’s probably for the best that he isn’t home—he’d never stop puking if he saw Tom’s leg.
I can’t stop apologizing, though I don’t know if Tom can even understand me.
Emma prefers chastisement.
“I told you this would happen!” she shouts at poor, groaning Tom. “You never wear your goddamned safety harness!”
The paramedics won’t let us in the ambulance, so we follow in Emma’s car and spend several hours in the waiting room at the hospital in Hickima.
By the time I’m back home, it’s almost eleven o’clock at night. Jude’s moped has returned, but he’s already in bed, oblivious to the entire debacle.
Even though it’s late and dark as hell in the house, I grab my lantern and climb up to the crawlspace above the ballroom. I shimmy across the groaning beams, cognizant that this is exactly what Tom was doing when he fell through. But I’m a lot lighter than him…I hope.
I don’t know what, exactly, I’m doing up here. It’s impulse more than conscious thought that drives me. But the impulse is strong enough to push me through feet of dust, cobwebs, and dangling wires.
Then I see it ahead—a gaping hole, darker than dark. The place where Tom fell. At the edge of the gap, I spy several of his tools and meters. And then, the place where the ceiling joist broke…
Only…I don’t think it broke at all.
At least, not all on its own.
The edges should be ragged if the beam simply snapped.
Instead, the first three-quarters of the joist looks smooth, like someone sawed it. Only the last inch or two shows broken splinters.
I don’t think Tom fell through on his own.
I think he was booby-trapped.
And I only know one person with the motive to do it.
* * *
25
DANE
It’s midnight when Remi comes pounding on my door, which is a hell of a lot better than 7 a.m. But I can’t say I’m pleased to find us in the exact same position we were in a month ago, accusations hurled in my face the moment I open the door.
“Tom Turner’s in the hospital with a broken leg and four broken ribs,” Remi informs me. “Oh, and a dislocated shoulder.”
“DUI?”
“Very funny,” she says, stone-faced.
It’s not hard to guess what the attitude’s about.
“I take it you think I had something to do with it…”
“Are you going to pretend you didn’t?”
A dark mood settles over me. I’ve seen the look on Remi’s face many times before on a hundred faces in town. Maybe I deserve it. But it fucking hurts coming from her.
“You’ve already made up your mind, so what does it matter what I say?”
