Chapter 15
BAD TIMING, GOOD TASTE
Her father’s clothes are the wrong size, wrong style. I don’t fit into any of his stuff.
But this house further down the hill? It’s promising, if dusty, up here. I flip open the first suitcase, sort through the contents. A bunch of ladies’ clothes, skirts, blouses, dresses.
Four suitcases are piled on each other in this part of the attic, and an old dresser stands against the inside wall. God knows how they dragged that up here. There must be another access hole past that doorway.
This house is empty and soulless, the silence heavy with the lack of the sound of feet, of laughter, of love.
It looks as if no one lives here until summer when the fishing is great, the water on the lake is a beautiful mirror, and the little beach teems with half-naked women in bikinis.
Days like that were awesome. Drifting in thought, I focus and glimpse the floor below, through the square access hole.
Past the ladder, the floor shows my boot prints.
That’s evidence of me breaking and entering. Well, no breaking, yet. Just some window levering. Need to clean that before I go.
Climbing in through the tower window was simple, if you can scale a wall like a spider monkey. Which, apparently, I can.
The bedrooms have closets with racks of clothes made for holidaying in a rough town where a pair of jeans is perfect for all the outdoor activities, as well as for visiting the bars afterward.
If I must, I can take from those, but these suitcases seem less likely to be checked when the owners return.
I unzip two more and hit the jackpot. Jeans, light sweaters, several hoodies, a stack of old photos—a few of those show Hailey’s neighbors at a risqué party.
I grab some of the clothes, put them on the floor.
Something clinks underneath the remaining clothes, and a long chain shines in the last of the daylight playing through the window.
I sweep aside more clothes, and my hand encounters a second silver chain.
It’s shorter, with thicker links, and has a red heart tag attached.
Engraved on it, revealing the silver base, is one word: PET
There is a jewelry-standard clasp. This collar is made for a human and not a dog or cat.
Why would I need this, I ask myself, even as I slip both chains into a pocket.
For Hailey, of course.
Standing, I survey the rest of the attic, tempted to explore past that door. I have what I need, and I do have to clean up my prints.
I take a step. It won’t hurt to look. A backpack would be useful.