James snorted. But Bobby was nodding, so he asked, “Would you mind going upstairs and grabbing some of my things? In the closet. Jeans and a couple shirts. I’ve got a shaving kit in the bathroom.”

“Not a problem. I’ll be right back down.” He started up the stairs, and Ralph, the traitor, was bounding ahead, leading the way.

* * *

Rebecca’s heart was beating like a drum. With her ear pressed to the door of James Cahill’s bedroom, she strained to listen, catching only bits and pieces of the conversation. It sounded like they might be leaving—James and some other man and the dog. God, the dog. It had come galloping up the stairs just as Rebecca was about to leave. She’d been able to slip back into the room, but the dog hadn’t been fooled and had whined and barked.

Now, it sounded like someone was coming again. She looked around frantically at the closet and bathroom, then under the bed. No, no, and no! The only hiding spot was a smaller closet, one with a door barely three feet tall, and she shot across the room, ducked down to the point that she was nearly kneeling, and folded herself inside the cold, dark attic space where she suspected insects, bats, and mice had probably nested.

Her skin crawling at the thought, she heard the door to the bedroom swing open, a light snap on, and then the dog barking and lunging at the door to this attic space. Oh, God, no! How could she explain that she’d come here looking for some kind of clue to her sister’s whereabouts?

“Ralph! Stop it, ya fool dog! Christ, what’s in there? A raccoon?”

She half-expected an angry hiss to come from the dark corners of the space where luggage and boxes and broken furniture had been shoved. The dust was thick, and she had to hold her nose to keep from sneezing.

The dog was still going at it. She heard his sharp barks and saw his shadow in the thin line of light shining beneath the door.

Don’t open the door! Don’t open it.

But she heard the sound of footfalls closing in. Hardly daring to breathe, she held on to the tiny peg that served as a door handle on this side of the closet and braced herself, intent on holding it shut should whoever was on the other side decide to investigate. Her feet were on the door, her arms outstretched, her fingers beginning to sweat despite the frigid temperature, her weight thrust away from the door.

“You want to see what’s in there?” she heard the man say, and her heart sank. His voice was clear now, his shadow having joined the near-frantic whining and barking dog.