Chapter 7: Under the Floor

I waited until the house went dark.

Guests had gone by ten.

Dad had taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed.

Brynn's door was shut, and a light still burned under it.

Shane had said goodnight to everyone, kissed my father's cheek, and gone upstairs to the guest room.

At midnight I slipped out through the kitchen and crossed the back lawn in my socks, with my shoes in my hand.

The staff cottage stood past the garage, low and white, with ivy on the porch.

Shane's mother slept in the big house when the family came up.

The cottage had stood empty since breakfast.

The brass key turned on the first try.

Inside it smelled of dust and pine.

I knew the way.

I had run up these stairs at twelve to hide from my own grief, and Shane, who was fourteen then and kind to me, had let me sit on the end of his bed.

I had thought that was kindness.

Now I knew what else had been in this house.

His room was the one at the back.

A single bed, a desk, a poster of a sailboat.

The window looked out on the sea.

I knelt under it with my phone light between my teeth and ran my fingers along the floorboards.

The third plank rocked.

I got my nails under it and lifted.

Under the plank lay a hollow, and in the hollow lay a shoebox tied with kitchen twine.

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