The Veil
Page 92
I adjusted the clock sign on the front door. I’d told Liam I’d go with him to check the wraith’s house, see if we could find anything. I’d guessed we’d be gone for an hour and a half, and I hoped that was right—and that there wouldn’t be a run on twine while I was away.
Liam’s truck puttered its way down Royal. He sat in the cab like a king, pulled over to my side of the street. His window was rolled down, elbow on the doorframe and one hand on the wheel. He glanced at me, took in the blue and gray tunic and dark leggings I’d paired with knee-high boots. I’d braided my hair, so it lay across my shoulder.
“Hey,” he said when I climbed into the truck.
“Hey.”
I’d been nervous about seeing him today. The sense that I was nearing the edge of an emotional cliff kept haunting me. Unfortunately, that didn’t make me want to see him less—exactly the opposite.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Pretty good. I thought about my father a lot.” Feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, I looked out the window so he couldn’t see the emotion in my face.
We drove through the Garden District and back to Fourth Street to the colonnaded house where we’d found the girl last night.
Liam parked on the street, and I followed up the sidewalk and into the house.
We’d left the door open, and rain had dotted the wooden floor. “You want upstairs or down?”
“I’ll go upstairs,” I said. “I’ll call you if I find something.”
He nodded, walked down the hallway.
I took the stairs, which were covered by a thick, carpeted runner. Several rooms led off from the landing.
The first two had been bedrooms for young boys, judging from the paint color and baseball-themed wallpaper border. No furniture, no toys. They’d left in the exodus, probably. Packed everything up, including the children, and gone in search of safety.
There was a small bathroom, covered in old-fashioned pink tile, a pink sink, a pink bathroom. The owners had been into vintage, maybe. Or just hadn’t had the chance to upgrade before they’d moved out.
I walked to the third door, pushed it open, and walked into another world. The room had been stripped of furniture and belongings from whoever had lived here before. But the wraith had made it her own. There was a roundish pile of blankets on the floor—probably where she’d slept. Food scraps in another—chunks of rotting vegetables, a few late berries, energy bars, empty water bottles.
I rose and walked to the doorway, called his name. “Liam.”
I heard him step into the doorway behind me. He walked in, spun in a slow circle as he surveyed the room.
“She was living here,” Liam said. “It’s safe, it’s secure. Think about the fact that she ran away from us.”
“But if she was able to evaluate that—if she could gauge whether she was in danger—why not just go home?”
“Maybe she didn’t have a home to go to. Or she thought they’d be in danger from her.”
That was depressing.
“Let’s look around,” he said. “See if you can find anything that will tell us who she is or where she came from.”
I nodded, moved to the pile of bedding. That was the nest, the spot where she slept. It made sense that it would be the most secure.
Great theory, but totally wrong. The blankets had feathers, leaves, crumbs. But nothing that wouldn’t require forensic equipment to analyze.
I rearranged the blankets—it seemed only fair not to disturb her spot, even though she wouldn’t be coming back—and took a step backward so I wouldn’t step on it. The floorboard slipped under me with a squeak.
Liam’s truck puttered its way down Royal. He sat in the cab like a king, pulled over to my side of the street. His window was rolled down, elbow on the doorframe and one hand on the wheel. He glanced at me, took in the blue and gray tunic and dark leggings I’d paired with knee-high boots. I’d braided my hair, so it lay across my shoulder.
“Hey,” he said when I climbed into the truck.
“Hey.”
I’d been nervous about seeing him today. The sense that I was nearing the edge of an emotional cliff kept haunting me. Unfortunately, that didn’t make me want to see him less—exactly the opposite.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Pretty good. I thought about my father a lot.” Feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, I looked out the window so he couldn’t see the emotion in my face.
We drove through the Garden District and back to Fourth Street to the colonnaded house where we’d found the girl last night.
Liam parked on the street, and I followed up the sidewalk and into the house.
We’d left the door open, and rain had dotted the wooden floor. “You want upstairs or down?”
“I’ll go upstairs,” I said. “I’ll call you if I find something.”
He nodded, walked down the hallway.
I took the stairs, which were covered by a thick, carpeted runner. Several rooms led off from the landing.
The first two had been bedrooms for young boys, judging from the paint color and baseball-themed wallpaper border. No furniture, no toys. They’d left in the exodus, probably. Packed everything up, including the children, and gone in search of safety.
There was a small bathroom, covered in old-fashioned pink tile, a pink sink, a pink bathroom. The owners had been into vintage, maybe. Or just hadn’t had the chance to upgrade before they’d moved out.
I walked to the third door, pushed it open, and walked into another world. The room had been stripped of furniture and belongings from whoever had lived here before. But the wraith had made it her own. There was a roundish pile of blankets on the floor—probably where she’d slept. Food scraps in another—chunks of rotting vegetables, a few late berries, energy bars, empty water bottles.
I rose and walked to the doorway, called his name. “Liam.”
I heard him step into the doorway behind me. He walked in, spun in a slow circle as he surveyed the room.
“She was living here,” Liam said. “It’s safe, it’s secure. Think about the fact that she ran away from us.”
“But if she was able to evaluate that—if she could gauge whether she was in danger—why not just go home?”
“Maybe she didn’t have a home to go to. Or she thought they’d be in danger from her.”
That was depressing.
“Let’s look around,” he said. “See if you can find anything that will tell us who she is or where she came from.”
I nodded, moved to the pile of bedding. That was the nest, the spot where she slept. It made sense that it would be the most secure.
Great theory, but totally wrong. The blankets had feathers, leaves, crumbs. But nothing that wouldn’t require forensic equipment to analyze.
I rearranged the blankets—it seemed only fair not to disturb her spot, even though she wouldn’t be coming back—and took a step backward so I wouldn’t step on it. The floorboard slipped under me with a squeak.
