Page 70 of Crazy Spooky Love
“After that, Lloyd’s boy lived here with his wife and their son, Donovan.” We both take a second to think our own private thoughts about Donovan Scarborough. “You know the rest.”
I make my final notes and close the pad. “Thank you, Isaac. I know that probably wasn’t easy, but it might just help.”
“I hope so,” he sighs, world-weary, and then he lays his head back and closes his eyes. “Because I’ve had enough. I’ve been too long on this earth, Melody. It’s time to go.”
Marina shoves her fringe outof her eyes a few hours later, wiping dust over her forehead in the process. We haven’t even made it out of the attic yet and so far our search has been hard and fruitless work.
“Nothing. Books, pictures, clothes, all kinds of hideous ornaments…no offense intended,” she adds quickly and glances toward Isaac’s chair, but he just remains there with his eyes closed. He seems to have suddenly given up the fight and opted out, which goes to show that ghosts can reach the end of their tether just as much as the living.
“I’ve looked for any loose floorboards and checked around the walls and skirting boards too,” Artie says, appearing from behind one of the roof support struts with the chisel in his back pocket. “All clear.”
We’ve all spent the entire morning combing the attic on our hands and knees and have come up with a big fat nothing for our trouble.
“I think we can safely cross this room off the list,” I say, nodding toward Marina.
She looks nonplussed. “I don’t have the list.”
“You put it with your phone,” Artie says quickly and nods toward her chest. We both give him a look.
“What?” He shrugs. “I thought you wanted me to notice everything.”
Marina extracts the list and opens it, then looks at him again. “Pen? Or did you not notice?”
“On the table by Isaac’s chair,” he shoots back, and then passes it to her with a little bow to show he’s not needled.
She puts a bold red line through “attic” and then re-stashes the list while Artie averts his gaze.
We head down from theattic onto the wide first-floor landing at the top of the grand staircase and glance toward the master bedroom.
“Five bedrooms,” I say, counting the doors leading from it. “Let’s just start with the nearest one and work our way along.”
“We’re like a SWAT team, working through in a sweep,” Artie says. “No stone unturned.”
I pull the notebook from my pocket and share the family timeline with them. “Here’s the problem. The house has seen three generations of the family come and go since Douglas died. The whole place must have altered five times over since the weapon was hidden, if it was hidden here at all. That means it must have been put somewhere so secretive that no one has uncovered it.”
“Or someone found it and got rid of it,” Marina says, leaning against the wall beside one of the bedroom doors.
“Or someone moved it,” Artie suggests.
“It’s a whole lot of ifs, buts, and maybes, isn’t it?”
It’s frustrating to know this might all be a wild-goose chase, but something tells me to press on. My gut instinct is one of my cast-iron basic skills; I know better than to ignore it. Every now and then I try to, and that’s when unexpected things happen—like Lestat.
Growing up as a Bittersweet, I’ve come to rely on a different set of life skills to most girls. I don’t live my life according to social media and I’ve worked out my own style with scant regard for what’s in fashion. I was never one of the popular girls or the sparkly girls and that never bothered me once, because all I needed was black nail polish, Marina, and my gut instincts. As I’ve grown older, I’ve added sugar, superheroes, and Converse sneakers to that must-have list too, but my gut instinct has been a part of my Bittersweet genetic makeup for far longer than my one decent red lipstick. It’s an integral part of my survival kit, and right now it’s telling me that this house still holds its secrets within its walls.
I’m about to suggest we decamp to Babs and break for lunch when Artie’s phone rings in his pocket.
“TheIndiana Jonestheme tune?” I say, recognizing his ringtone instantly.
“I changed it yesterday,” he says, distracted as he looks at his screen. His choice pleases me; I hope it reflects the fact that he’s finding life more of an adventure now that he’s part of the agency.
“It’s my mum.” He beams, clicking her onto speakerphone so we can all hear her news.
“Little Art,” she trills. “Can you hear me, Sausage?”
“Yes, Mum,” he says and laughs goofily because her voice is echoing off the high ceilings of the upstairs landing. “You’re on speakerphone so we can all listen.”
“Ooh, I say!” She sounds thrilled. “I feel like breaking into song!”
