Page 91 of Jane Deyre

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Without another word, she goes back to drinking her coffee and I head upstairs to help Adele start her day.

I’ve been anxious all morning. While Adele happily draws pictures of colorful butterflies, I find myself drawing weird creatures that resemble ghosts and goblins. Adele looks over at my picture and giggles.

“Jane, it’s not Halloween yet.”

“You’re right, honey.” On impulse, I tear my drawing in half. In my mind, I can’t stop wondering what kind of horrors I will discover inside the locked room. A dead body? A crazed woman? Or maybe it’s just some wild animal that knows how to get inside it through a window? For all I know, it could be Pilote.

I glance down at my watch. Shit. It’s a quarter to eleven. I don’t want to be late.

I pack up the art materials. “Sweetie, why don’t you show your daddy your drawing and then help Grace make lunch? I have to run back to the guesthouse.”

“What for?” My precious charge is always so inquisitive.

“Um... uh... I forgot something.”

She cocks her head. “What did you forget?”

Think, Jane!“My bathing suit. We’ll go swimming after lunch.”

Adele claps her hands and breaks into a megawatt smile. “Yay!” Joyfully, she grabs her drawing and scampers into the house while a waft of wind whisks away the torn pieces of mine.

I make my way to the guesthouse, apprehension pulsing in my blood.

Ms. Fairfax is waiting for me at the front door. She glances down at her watch and then makes a face at me. “You’re one minute late.”

I glance down at mine. The old piece of junk watch must be off. I make no excuse.

“I hope you brought your key,” she says, her tone icy.

I nod and retrieve my key from my jeans pocket. I was hoping she’d have one—proving she has access to the guesthouse. Nervously, I unlock the door. It takes several tries. An impatient Ms. Fairfax folds her arms, and when the lock clicks open, she snips, “Finally.”

I follow her inside. The guesthouse looks intact. Just as I left it.

“Let’s not waste time.” She walks at a clipped pace down the narrow hall to the room next to mine, with me close behind her. The smell of incense still lingers. Every sense is on high alert.

She stops at the door and reaches into her breast pocket. She pulls out an old skeleton key. I find it strange she has a key to this room but not the front door. I want to ask her why, but instead I ask, “Why does the sign on this door sayKEEP OUT?”

“Nosey, aren’t you, Jane?” She inserts the key into the keyhole and cranks it. “It’s really not any of your business, but I’ll tell you. There are important documents stored inside this room. And a lot of Bertie’s old stuff.”

“Bertie?”

She cranks the key again. “Bertrand. Edwina’s late husband. This guesthouse is where he used to work. Sometimes sleep.”

Bertrand Mason, I think to myself, the author ofMiracle in the Rain, who tragically died in a sailing accident shortly after Charlotte’s kidnapping. Whose body was never found. Presumed to have been ravaged by sharks. A possible suicide. A chill falls over me. What a horrible way to die!

I hold my breath as I watch Ms. Fairfax turn the tarnished knob and push the door open. Without hesitation, she steps inside and flicks on the light. A ceiling fan begins to spin at full speed, the whir sounding much like the chattering of teeth. Is this the weird clinking sound I’ve heard at night? If so, who’s been turning it on?

Ms. Fairfax cuts my thoughts short, her voice curt. “Come look for yourself.”

I cross the threshold and my eyes take in the room. It’s about the same size as mine with a single window, the lower half of it boarded up by a plank of plywood and the top half covered by a yellowing shade. Against one wall, there’s what looks to be a daybed covered by a canvas drop cloth. Across from it a closet. Everywhere else there are stacks of sealed cardboard boxes. A few nautical paintings dot the walls. Along with some cobwebs in the corners.

I sneeze. The dust is getting to me.

“Do you want to look under the bed?” Ms. Fairfax asks. “Maybe you’ll find the boogey man.”

Her words are barbed with sarcasm. Like a scared, silly little girl, I pad over to the bed. I squat down and lift up the drop cloth. I sneeze again. There’s nothing under the bed but a thick layer of dust. And a single dead spider. I stand up.