Chapter 8: The Stairs

Cormick drove me up to the lake house himself on Sunday, five days before Colette's weekend.

"I want a look at it first," he said, "with no one else there."

He didn't say why. I didn't ask.

The house stood on a bluff above black water, long and low, with a glass wall facing the lake.

The caretaker had left the heat on.

I stood in the doorway of the great room and looked at the staircase.

It rose from the middle of the floor to the gallery above. Walnut treads, steel supports, and a rail on the wall side only.

The open side dropped straight to the stone floor, twenty feet below.

"My father liked to see the lake from everywhere," Cormick said behind me. "He never liked rails."

"No."

"I've told the builders to start Monday. A full rail. It will be done before Colette arrives."

"Thank you."

He came around me and looked at my face.

"You're white," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Eden."

I made myself walk to the foot of the stairs.

Last time, I had stood here at night, in a nightgown, with a glass of milk Colette had told me would help me sleep.

I remembered the sound of the first step.

I remembered a hand in the small of my back that I had thought was a friend's.

"I'm going up," I said.

"You don't have to."

"I do."

I put my hand on the wall-side rail and climbed.

One step. Two. Five.

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