Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 31

It took him three trips to carry up all the fruits of his rage.

As he sat on the hearth arranging balls of newsprint and kindling under the grate, Sophie said, “You’re drenched with sweat. Everything okay?”

“Not so much.”

“Paige has been crying in the kitchen.”

“We had words.”

“Yeah, I heard some of them.”

He laid two legs of the piano bench across the grate and grabbed the box of matches.

Struck a light, held it to the paper.

As the flame spread, it suddenly hit him—exhaustion.

Total, mind-melting exhaustion.

The kindling ignited.

“I’m gonna be turning in soon,” he said. “You need to use the bathroom or anything?”

“You just destroyed her in there. You know that, right?”

He looked at Sophie.

Dishes clanged in the kitchen sink.

“I know she’s hurt you,” Sophie said. “I know she’s disappointed you. I know she’s been a pain in your ass since the two of you were on your own. I get all of that. But for whatever reason, you got one sister in your life, and there won’t be anymore. I got none. I envy you.”

“Sophie—”

“I understand that I don’t understand what it’s like.”

“The things she does to herself,” he said. “That she lets these men do to her for money.”

“I know.”

“I remember when she was six years old. When she had nothing in the world but me.”

“I know.”

“And now this?”

“Grant—”

“I love her so much.”

He wiped his eyes, piled more wood onto the fire.

Grant took Sophie to the bathroom and then set her up in a leather recliner. He cuffed her right ankle to the metal framework under the footrest and buried her under a mass of blankets.

Her phone vibrated in his pocket.

He tugged it out, swiped the screen.

Art had sent another text, this one carrying an attachment.

It was a photo of the interior of a diner.

Four men seated at a booth.

“What is it?” Sophie asked.

He showed her the pic and pointed to the frumpy-looking man seated next to Jude Grazer.

“Steve Vincent,” she said.

“Yep. The gang’s all there.”

A local number appeared on the screen.

“Recognize it?” Grant asked.

“That’s Frances.”

He answered with, “That was fast.”

“I aim to please.”

“You got something?”

“Mr. Flowers has a couple of DUIs.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. No ViCAP hits. No NCIC. But ... I did run everyone through the Social Security Death Index on our Ancestry.com account.”

“Good thinking, and?”

“Williams, Janice D., died March 2, 2007. She was forty-one. I don’t know if that’s helpful. I don’t have any other information.”

“The other tenants are still warm and breathing?”

“Yes.”

“This is super helpful, Frances. Thank you.”

“I’ve got another call coming in—”

“Take it. I owe you big time.”

Grant ended the call.

Sophie looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

“One second,” he said.

He hurried out of the living room, through the foyer, and into the dining room, where he grabbed Stu’s manila folder off the table.

Through the open doorway, he caught a glimpse of Paige still at the kitchen sink.

He jogged back to Sophie and sat down in proximity to the only decent light in the house—the roaring fire—and opened the folder.

“Talk to me, Grant. What are you suddenly cranked up about?”

“No meaningful hits on any database, but Frances ran all the names to see if anyone had died. One did, five years ago.”

“Do you know how old they were at time of death?”

“Only forty-one.”

He scrolled the list.

Four names down from the top, he found Janice Williams.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What?”

“Ms. Williams died while she was still living here.”

“So? People die. It happens.”

“You aren’t a little bit curious for more details?”

“Is there contact info on the spreadsheet?”

“Just a phone number. Must be next-of-kin.”

“Call ‘em up.”

Grant dialed. “Five-oh-nine area code,” he said. “Recognize it?”

“Spokane.”

It rang five times, and then went to the voice mail of a gruff, tired-sounding man with a blue-collar twang. Grant pictured a mechanic.

You reached Robert. I can’t get to the phone right at this moment. Leave your name and number and I will call you back.

After the beep, Grant left his name and Sophie’s cell.

“You warm yet?” he asked her.

“Getting there. What now?”

“We sleep. Then first thing tomorrow, we’ll call every resident on that list. We’ll find out what happened to Ms. Williams, have Stu dig up her death certificate, whatever it takes.”

“And Rachel.”

“What?”

“We call Don’s wife. No matter what.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Her skin was beautiful in the firelight, and in that moment, if Sophie had asked him to let her go, he probably would have done it.

# # #

Grant crawled onto the sofa and under a blanket.

He took out Sophie’s phone—the battery charge had dropped to thirty percent—and powered it off.

Then he rolled onto his side, faced the fire.

The movement of the flames was mesmerizing.

He shut his eyes for a minute, and the next time he opened them, the fire was low and Paige was lying on the mattress below him, staring up at the ceiling.

“What if she’s right, Grant?” she said.

“Who?”

“Sophie.”

“About?”

“About me.”

He wasn’t following. He’d been sleeping too hard.

“What are you talking about, Paige?”

“About all of this having to do with me. What if it’s not the house that’s haunted?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Because you don’t want to?”

“Look, I don’t know what this thing is, but I do know you, Paige.”

“Do you really?”