Page 60 of Shelter
Luckily, I found an unopened toothbrush and a comb in the drawer of her vanity, and I tossed a compact, a tube of moisturizer, and a few other cosmetics from the drawer. Mrs. Abigail never left the house without her makeup, and I knew sending her to New Orleans without it — even in the dead of night — would make her feel shabby and vulnerable.
It was time for her to have better than that.
I turned off all the lights behind me except Mrs. Abigail’s bedside lamp, which we always kept burning after we brought up her ice water. I paused just outside the door, listening. The only sound I could hear was my own agitated breathing, so I held it and listened again.
The creak of a floorboard froze me in place. I had Mrs. Abigail’s bag slung over my shoulder, and anyone other than Cole, Ava, or Mrs. Abigail seeing me like that would spell disaster. And not just for me.
A scenario played out in my head like a movie reel on triple fast forward. Mr. Whitehurst or one of their guests spotting me sneaking around with Mrs. Abigail’s belongings. If I was lucky, they would assume I was stealing. And in a flash, I knew I’d let that stick.
Okay, so, maybe Mama would get fired for that, or maybe I’d just be banned from the house. But Cole and his mother and sister would be safe.
I crept up to the open door on soundless feet, brought my fingertips to the wall and leaned in, trying to peer farther into the hallway unseen. It was still dark, but just as I chanced to poke my head into the hall, I heard a door click closed to my right. I squinted into the shadows. The hall was empty, but I saw the light on under Cole’s bedroom door.
Had he come upstairs? If he hadn’t, I didn’t want to stick around to find out who had.
On tiptoes and with quick steps, I left the master bedroom. The laundry chute was all the way at the end of the hall, but I had to pass Cole’s room to get there, and I didn’t want whoever had come upstairs to find me. And maybe no one had come up. Maybe I was imagining things. My heart raced and my hands shook with nerves.
As silently as possible, I pushed the chute door open, carefully stuffed the Vera Bradley bag inside, and prayed as I let the bag go.
Please, don’t let Mama hear this drop into the laundry room.
I listened for the sound of the bag dropping into the basket below, but I heard nothing. Letting out a breath, I closed the chute door, dashed to the stairs, and made my descent. I was far from calm, but I hoped I’d managed to appear calm.
I kept repeating my prayer as I made my way to the kitchen. Mama was busy collecting the chafing dishes on the dining table. She gave me a look.
“You just coming from upstairs?” she asked, wrinkling her brow. I rushed to the table to help her carry the pans of water.
I lowered my voice, hoping to sound modest. “I had to use the restroom.”
“Oh.” Mama rolled her eyes but wore a smile. “I could use a break, too. Can you finish these for me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a nod, and then I practically scurried into the kitchen. I set my load on the counter and made a beeline to the laundry room.
Mrs. Abigail’s bag had made a safe landing on a pile of tablecloths Mama must have collected. I plucked it from the waiting basket and scanned the laundry room for a place to hide it. Finding nothing promising, I carried it out to the garage.
The Whitehursts’ garage was the neatest in all of history. They used a service for their landscaping and lawn maintenance, so it was free of the usual yard tools. The family’s bikes were mounted along the walls flanking the his-and-hers Mercedes. I didn’t even know what model they were because Mr. Whitehurst traded up every two years.
The only items that weren’t posh and expensive in the whole garage were the trash and recycling bins. I tucked Mrs. Abigail’s bag behind the recycling bin, knowing that even if Mama made a trip out here to throw out wine bottles and soda cans, she’d have no reason to move the hefty container.
I darted back inside before she could notice my absence. The party was definitely fizzling out. I could only hear a few sets of voices in the front of the house, and the grand piano in the den was now silent.
I bustled back into the dining room to help Mama with the rest of the platters, and I scanned the spaces I could see for Cole. Through the archway, I spotted him in the living room, standing by his mother’s side. He had an arm around her, and she leaned into him in a way that made me cringe. It looked as if he was bracing her.
As if she was in pain.
Ava stood on the other side of her mother, smiling brightly at the guests who were telling them goodnight. But I could see that her smile was a little too wide. Almost a little crazed. Maybe it was the way her jaw seemed to clench under that smile.
In the instant I watched them, I knew that the couple talking to them just wouldn’t leave. The weariness and forced patience was etched on all three of the Whitehursts’ faces.
Leave, dammit!I mentally screamed at their guests. Apparently, my telepathic powers weren’t strong enough because they just kept talking. I hefted up the remaining tray of sliced roast beef and cast my gaze into the hallway, looking for any other stragglers. Seeing no one, I wondered where Mr. Whitehurst was lurking. Maybe he’d walked an important guest outside.
While Mama stored the leftovers in the kitchen, I could still hear the couple in the front. They were telling a story about a recent trip to Napa Valley and a rental car with a faulty horn. The woman continued to laugh as her husband narrated, but she’d break in with“And…”then“tell them what happened…”
By the time they’d gotten to the part of the story when a police officer pulled them and their malfunctioning horn over, I couldn’t stand any more.
The light switch for the dining room chandelier, oddly enough, was on the kitchen side of the wall, so I simply flipped it off, plunging the room nearest the Whitehursts and their guests into darkness.
From behind me, Mama gasped. “Elise Nicole, what are you doing?”
