Page 44 of Jealous of the Clouds
“In my pocket.” Ted patted the front of his jeans.
If all went well, we’d creep up Camille’s back stairs to her kitchen door, undetected by Josh or anyone else.
We’d made our way through what had now turned to an ugly, steady rain. I was grateful for it, to be honest, because it made it a little less likely Josh was watching. Even in his car, his view would be obscured by the downpour.
We were both shivering as we mounted the wooden stairs at the back of the building. The lake’s roar snatched our breaths and most of our words away. Part of me wanted to get inside, with its promise of warmth and dryness.
The other part dreaded what we’d find.
Ted led the way. When we got to her door, he held up his hand to stop me. “Let me go first.”
I nodded and huddled under the eaves, wondering if I was doing the right thing by complying.
He disappeared into the dark apartment.Shouldn’t there be lights on in there? After all, the day was now akin to night with its dark clouds and precipitation.
I waited for what seemed like an absurdly long time. He finally returned, features creased with worry.
I cocked my head. “What?”
“She’s not in there.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe she’s just gone away for a couple days. A little break?” I moved closer and Ted stepped back to allow me inside.
The place was quiet. Dark. The only light was a side-table lamp Ted had switched on in the living room. The air was stale. There was a sense of emptiness to the place, as though no human had walked here for some time.
Mrs. Davis perched on the back of the couch, observing. I sent out a little gratitude, glad at least she was okay.
“I don’t think so. Look.” He pointed toward the front door, which was slightly ajar.
There was a smear of blood on the wall next to it.
I tried not to react with what I was feeling—horror, despair. “Looks bad, Ted. But it still could be nothing. A cut? Kitchen accident. We just don’t know.”
Ted said nothing. He simply stared at that small line of blood on the gray wall. The more he stared it, the more I did, until it began to look like a minus sign.
“We should get out of here,” I told him.
He grabbed Mrs. Davis and clutched her to his chest; she wriggled and hissed. He put her down. “I can’t leave her here now.”
As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. So I simply nodded. “I’ll gather up her stuff.” As I was pulling together Mrs. Davis’s things—cat carrier, litter box, food and bowls—Ted’s phone chirped.
He showed me the screen. “It’s her.”
I set down the cat stuff. Mrs. Davis did a figure eight between my legs. “Put it on speaker.”
Ted answered. “Camille?”
Her voice, sounding tinny, came through the small speaker. “Ted? Ted, it’s me.” She sounded confused and panicked.
“Are you okay?”
“No, Ted. I’m not. I need you to meet me.” She drew in a quivering breath. “I’m not alone.” There was a long pause, long enough to cause me to wonder if she was still there. Then she said, “I need you to come to me.”
Ted looked to me, a question on his face. I read it as,what do I say?
I shrugged, feeling helpless.
“Where are you?”
