“Jen, why don’t you put down the gun?” I asked. “You don’t want to do this. Bobby’s your friend. Keme too. This isn’t the Jen they know and care about. They wouldn’t want you to do this—none of your friends would.”
The silence was a held breath. And then she gave a strange, tilt-a-whirl laugh. “They wouldn’t be my friends if they knew the truth, though, would they?”
“That’s not true—”
“We’re done talking, Mr. Dane. I want those files. And then I’ll leave, and no one has to get hurt.”
She wasn’t a particularly good liar; her tone slipped at the end, and I wondered how she’d been able to get away with everything for as long as she had. Then Jen gestured with the gun, and my nerves almost failed me. I could shout. I could try to run. But even if Jen wasn’t a crack shot, she only had to hit me once to kill me, and she was close enough that I didn’t want to risk it.
Hands raised in surrender, I stood and moved toward the billiards table. Jen followed, keeping the gun trained on me. Her hand had steadied; any doubt or fear had vanished. She was going to get what she wanted, whatever the cost. I figured that had been Jen’s way her whole life—this was just the next level. As we moved out of the ring of lamplight, I watched each step, trying not to trip over the shadowy shapes of rugs and end tables and potted plants and who knew whatever else. You could say one thing about Victorian homes: they weren’t short on junk.
“The files—” Jen said.
“I hid them. I thought this might happen. I thought someone might hear I’d found them. Someone might come looking.” I took a breath. “How’d you find out?”
“Keme,” she said with a voice of grim satisfaction. “He couldn’t wait to tell Damian. Keme has a bit of a man-crush on you, in case you weren’t aware. And Damian wanted to know everything he could about you.”
I wasn’t sure Jen had her facts right—I put Keme near the top of my list of people who seemed to be annoyed by my very existence—but then, Jen didn’t seem like she was playing with a full set of marbles. Before I had to respond to her comment, though, my hip bumped the billiards table. I found the rail and slid my hand along it, counting the diamonds (mother-of-pearl inset into the aged mahogany).
“What are you doing?” Jen demanded. “This better not be a trick.”
“It’s not a trick. This is an old house. There are a lot of secrets. I told you I had to hide the files.” I found the correct diamond; it moved slightly under my finger. “I’m going to press this, and a panel in the wall is going to open.” I gave a nervous laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. “I don’t want to startle you.”
“Which panel?” Jen said. “Where?”
“Over there. Next to the cue rack.”
She gave me a long, considering look. And then she said, “I’m telling you, this better not be a trick.”
“No tricks.”
A second passed. Then another. “All right.”
I pressed the diamond. The concealed latch snicked.
Jen gave a nervous laugh and peered through the gloom, obviously trying to tell if the panel had opened. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. The documents are in there.”
She shifted her weight. And then her voice hardened, and she said, “Open it.”
“I’m telling you the truth—”
“Open it right now. You open it. I’m not going to—I’m not going to fall for it, whatever it is.”
“Fall for what?”
“Whatever it is!” The shout ripped through the darkness. “You open it!”
I showed my hands in surrender again and moved over to the panel. With the latch released, it had opened a quarter inch—barely enough, really, for me to get my fingertips in the seam. I eased the secret door open. Indira had shown me this one; God only knew how she’d learned about it. On the other side, absolute darkness waited for me.
“Quit stalling!”
I found the inside handle of the door—a simple old brass knob. It didn’t even have anything cool about it like a poison pin that killed you if you turned it the wrong way. And then, after a mental three-count, I darted through the doorway and yanked the door shut behind me.
Hands caught me by the shoulders, forcing me to the floor. I squawked, and a hand went over my mouth.
“Hey!” Jen shouted. And then, outrage turning to fury, “Hey!”
I squawked again.
The hand tightened over my mouth, and Bobby whispered, “Quiet.”
This had definitely not been part of the plan.
“You’ve got two seconds before I start shooting!” Jen shouted. She pounded on the paneling. “Open this door! Open—”
Sirens blatted in the distance, and then the sheriff’s voice ordered, “Drop your weapon! Drop it! Drop the gun!”
Jen’s silence had a frozen quality.
“Drop the gun!” the sheriff shouted.
Something thunked against one of the thick rugs.
“On the floor! Hands behind your head!”
Through the old house’s thick walls came the sounds of movement. And then, voice still tight, the sheriff said, “All clear. You can come out now.” Without missing a beat, she began to mirandize Jen.
