Chapter 37 · The First Word Through the Gate

The latch clicked. Twice.

The door cracked half an inch.

I stayed flat on my knees against the third-floor runner. Palms down. You don't stand over a terrified six-year-old like an intake guard with a clipboard.

"Just me," I said under my breath. "Nobody else out here."

A cuff showed first. Gray flannel, frayed raw where she'd chewed the seam. Then four tiny fingers hooked the molding, knuckles pale, gripping like the pine might rip away.

Behind me, Owen stopped breathing. Clean cut-off. I heard the exact second his lungs locked up. Two nights ago the man had run a pump shotgun dry in that stairwell without blinking, but a two-inch gap in a nursery door had him gutted.

"Hall's dead quiet," I told her. "That rattle downstairs is just the storm shutter. Shakes till Tuesday every time the tide turns. Nothing's coming up these stairs."

One eye peered out. Storm-gray. Same shade as his.

Then the rest of her small face slid into the crack. Her gaze darted past my shoulder, found Owen, and her grip locked so tight the pine frame creaked.

"He stays put," I said. "He's real good at leaning against plaster looking useless.