Cover of Night Read online

  Oh, God, their time together had been so short.

  Cate shook herself back to the present and blinked the tears from her eyes. She let herself cry only at night, when there was no one to notice. Her mother and the boys could return from their picnic at any time, and she didn’t want them to catch her with her eyes red. Her mother would be worried, and the boys would cry if they thought Mommy had been crying.

  She got the old, long key out of her dresser, slipped it into her jeans pocket, and retraced her steps down the hall to where she’d left the suitcase and Dopp Kit outside room 3. She turned on the hallway light, then picked up the suitcase and kit and took them all the way to the end of the hall, where the attic stairs were, plunking them down again.

  The stairwell door opened outward, revealing three steps up to a landing; then the stairs made a right turn and ended at an awkward spot in the attic, so close to the slanted ceiling that she had to duck to take that last step. At least, the door was supposed to open outward. She inserted the key and turned it, and nothing happened. The lock was a little tricky, so she wasn’t surprised. She pulled the key out a little and tried again, with no success. Muttering to herself about old locks, she pulled the key all the way out, then reinserted it a little at a time, trying repeatedly to turn it. The key had to hit the pins just right…

  She thought she felt a tiny click, and triumphantly turned the key with a brisk motion of her wrist. There was a snap, and half the key came away in her hand. Which meant, obviously, that the other half was stuck in the lock.

  “Son of a bitch!” she swore, then hastily looked around to make certain the twins weren’t standing silently behind her. Not that there was much chance of them silently doing anything, but if they ever did, it would be when she was swearing. Seeing that she was safe, she added—for good measure—“Damn it!”

  Okay, the door needed a new lock anyway. And locks weren’t hideously expensive, but still, there was always something that needed repairing or replacing. She also still needed to get that door open, so she could store this suitcase somewhere out of the way.

  Swearing under her breath, she stomped downstairs and into the kitchen. She was just reaching for the phone to call the hardware store to locate Mr. Harris when she heard a car stop outside. Looking out the window, she saw—miracle of miracles—Mr. Harris himself, climbing out of his battered pickup.

  She didn’t know what had brought him here, but his timing couldn’t have been better. She jerked open the kitchen door as he was coming up the steps, both relief and frustration evident in her voice as she said, “Am I glad to see you!”

  He stopped in his tracks, his cheeks already firing with color as he glanced back at his truck. “Will I need my toolbox?”

  “A key broke off in the attic door—and I need the door unlocked.”

  He nodded and went back to the truck, reaching over the side of the bed and one-handing the heavy toolbox up and over. She had the fleeting thought that he must be stronger than he looked.

  “I’m going into town tomorrow,” he said as he trudged up the steps. “Thought I’d stop by and let you know, in case you need anything.”

  “I have some mail that needs to go out,” she said.

  He nodded as she stepped aside to let him enter. “This way,” she said, preceding him into the hallway and up the stairs.

  Even with the light on, the hallway was dim, because there were no windows at either end. The open bedroom doors let some daylight in, enough to see unless you had some specific task, such as manipulating a cantankerous old lock or retrieving a broken key from it. Mr. Harris opened his toolbox, took out a black flashlight, and handed it to her. “Shine the light on the lock,” he muttered as he moved the suitcase out of the way and went down on one knee in front of the lock.

  Cate turned on the flashlight, amazed at the powerful beam that shot out. The flashlight was surprisingly lightweight, with a rubberized coating. She turned it in her hand, looking for a brand name, but she didn’t see one. She turned the beam on the door, directing it just below the knob.

  Using needle-nose pliers, he retrieved the broken key, then took some kind of pick from the toolbox and inserted it into the lock.

  “I didn’t know you knew how to pick locks,” she said with amusement.

  His hand froze for a moment, and she could almost hear him wondering if he needed to actually reply to her comment; then he made a “hmm” noise in his throat and resumed manipulating the pick.

  Cate moved so she was directly behind him and leaned closer, trying to see what he was doing. The bright light illuminated his hands, etching every raised vein, every powerful sinew. He had good hands, she noticed. They were callused, stained with grease, and his left thumbnail sported a black mark that looked as if he’d banged it with a hammer, but his nails were short and clean and his hands were lean and strong and well-shaped. She had a soft spot for strong hands; Derek’s hands had been very strong, because of the rock climbing.

  He grunted, withdrew the pick, and turned the doorknob, pulling the door open a few inches.

  “Thank you so much,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. She indicated the suitcase he’d pushed to the side. “That guy who left without taking his things still hasn’t come back, so I have to store his suitcase for a while, in case he decides to come back for it.”

  Mr. Harris glanced at the suitcase as he took the flashlight from her, turning it off and placing both it and the pick back in his toolbox. “That’s weird. What was he running from?”

  “I think he wanted to avoid someone in the dining room.” Odd that the handyman had so swiftly picked up on something that hadn’t immediately occurred to her. Initially, she’d just thought Layton was nuts. Maybe men were more naturally suspicious than women.

  He grunted again, an acknowledgment of her comment. He dipped his head at the suitcase. “Anything unusual in there?”

  “No. He left it sitting open. I packed his clothes and shoes, and put his toiletries in the kit.”

  He stood and nudged the toolbox to the side, opening the door wide, then bent and picked up the suitcase. “Show me where you want to put it.”

  “I can do that,” she protested.

  “I know, but I’m already here.”

  As she led the way up the steep staircase, Cate reflected that she’d probably heard him say more in the past ten minutes than she had in months, and it was certainly one of the few times she’d heard him utter an unsolicited comment. Usually he’d give a brief answer to a direct question, and that was it. Maybe he’d joined Toastmasters, or taken a loquacious pill.

  The attic was hot and dusty, with that moldy smell abandoned possessions all seemed to have even when there wasn’t any mold present. Light from three dormer windows made it a surprisingly sunny place, but the walls were unfinished and the floor was made of bare planks that creaked with every step.

  “Over here,” she said, indicating a bare spot against the outer wall.

  He put the suitcase and Dopp Kit down, then glanced around. He saw the climbing gear and paused. “Whose is that?” he asked, pointing.

  “Mine and my husband’s.”

  “You both climbed?”

  “That’s how we met, at a climbing club. I stopped climbing when I got pregnant.” But she hadn’t gotten rid of their gear. It was all still there, neatly arranged and stowed: the climbing shoes, the harnesses and chalk bags, the belaying and rappelling devices, the helmets, the coils of rope. She’d made certain direct sunlight never reached the ropes, even though she knew she’d never go climbing again. It just wasn’t in her to mistreat the equipment.

  He hesitated, and she could see his face turning red again. Then he said, “I’ve done a little climbing. More mountaineering type stuff, though.”

  He’d actually volunteered information about himself! Maybe he had decided she was as nonthreatening as the boys, so she was safe to talk to. She should note this day on her calendar and circle it in red, because any day that shy Mr. Harris