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He heard a softclick, and a musty smell wafted into the room, to blend with the lingering smoke. Sure enough, an entire panel of the wall was offset from the rest now. Curiosity blanketed his bleak thoughts. He scooted back to pull the door open, and found a safe inside.
The digital keypad indicated it hadn’t been there for centuries or even decades. It had to be fairly new.
He pocketed his phone, tugged the small box from its hidden spot, and carried it to the bed, where the light was better. How was he supposed to open it? He drummed his fingers on his leg, cycling through a list of possible number combinations. He could start with something simple, like a series of six 1’s and work his way up the list, but that would take ages. So what numbers mattered to her? He tried combinations of her social security number, the address here, his dad’s birthday... He racked his brain for stories she’d told him and any significant numbers therein.
Something nudged the back of his thoughts, and he couldn’t quite grasp it. The idea was simple, but he didn’t know why Nana would go with it. It wouldn’t work, but maybe trying it would knock another idea loose. He typed in 1-6-6-9-8-6. January 6 and June 9, 1986. His and Bailey’s birthdays.
A soft series of beeps flitted through the room, and the safe clicked open.Damn that woman.The thought only held fondness. A cardboard box in plastic sat inside. He extracted it and unwrapped it carefully, anticipation growing.
Photos sat inside. Not like those in the album downstairs. These were yellowed and faded with age, and Nana was in them, a much younger woman than Jonathan ever knew. Probably in her late teens or early twenties. In some of the pictures she was with an older man. A grandfather? That wasn’t right. Nana loved her photos, and Jonathan had seen dozens of his family dating back several generations. The man was familiar, but not family. Jonathan couldn’t place where he’d seen him before.
He sifted through more of the shots. When he reached one of his grandmother lying across a fainting couch in practically nothing, he coughed in shock and dropped the stack. He moved it aside to reveal the next, with her wearing even less.
“Jesus.” He didn’t know if he was more disturbed or amused. He’d stumbled on naughty photos of Nana. Either way, he wasn’t interested in looking at more.
At the bottom of the box sat a film reel. Interesting. She had a projector upstairs. A nagging voice asked if he really wanted to see the movie, given what was else was in the box.Maybe later.He gathered it all up and was about to set it back in the safe, when something else caught his eye. An envelope with his name on it, in Nana’s flowing scrawl.
A loud crash shook the house. It wasn’t the storm; it came from beneath him. Louder than boxes falling. “Bailey?” he shouted.
A whisper of concern snaked through him when she didn’t answer. It might be like the other day, and she was fine. Had she always been so accident prone? He couldn’t shake the worry. He sprinted down two flights of stairs, not slowing until he hit the ankle-deep water in the basement.
Light shone at the far end of the room, illuminating the concrete wall but not much else between him and it. “Bailey?” As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out dark shadows that looked like fallen shelves. The water was only a couple inches deep. He picked his way across the room, trying to avoid stepping on anything. He should have worn shoes. He didn’t see any movement in the room besides his own shadow. He reached the fallen shelves, and his heart dropped into his stomach when he found a warm body pinned underneath. A cinderblock sat on one of Bailey’s arms, and a dark gash glared across her forehead.
Fear pushed aside any of his anger from earlier. Her chest rose and fell. That was a good sign. He shifted everything off her. Her arm sat at an awkward angle. “Fuck.” He pressed a hand to her forehead and pulled it away. Dark, sticky blood covered his skin. He didn’t dare move her without knowing the extent of her injuries, and he was terrified to leave her alone while she was unconscious.
He could take her to a doctor. If the clinic was open. If it wasn’t, he had no idea where the current practitioner lived. “Come on, Ale.” He brushed the hair off her face. “Please?”
Chapter Thirteen
Bailey’s head hurtmore than she ever remembered it hurting. She couldn’t remember much, though. Her arm ached too. Why? She was fighting with Jonathan. Was this some kind of psychological reaction? It was dark. The power was still out. No, her eyes were closed. She struggled to force them open, and her skull protested.
The fighting wasn’t the last thing she did. She’d been downstairs. Pissed because the basement flooded. Angry at Jonathan, for choosing now of all times to show emotion. Yanking stuff down in a frustrated rage. And then—
She reached for thewhat next, and her head screamedno.
A soft and warm sensation scuttled over her cheek. Bugs? The thought made her skin crawl. Lucifer? No. A hand.
