'You're certain?'
I recounted to him how I was awakened by the sound of Patrick playing the piano, the strangeness of hearing the song Ashley used to play, and what had followed after that. 'I was awake for at least fifteen minutes.
'Is there any possibility that it was an accident-that in the dark, someone came up behind you and knocked into you, then didn't want to admit it?'
'It's possible, but I don't think it happened that way. I believe it was intentional.'
'Then you must be very cautious,' Adrian said. 'I'd like to tell you there is no reason for you to fear, but I know my family too well.'
'Then you know why I am worried about Patrick,' I replied.
'No one will hurt him. My family will hiss and howl, scratch and nip, but they will not seriously harm one another.'
'But what about Ashley? What if-' 'Kate, 1, more than anyone, understand your suspicions.' He took a deep breath. 'After all, I blamed your mother, unable to accept that an event so horrible could have been chance. But it was. It was an accident.'
I wasn't convinced, and he saw that.
'Of course, you know you may leave your employment here at any time and I would fully understand. I would make sure you are compensated and help you find another job.'
'I'm not leaving.'
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. 'I'm glad, but be cautious and keep in close touch with me, Kate. Promise me that.'
'I will.'
Adrian stood up slowly, then held out a hand for me. We climbed the steps together. 'Sleep well, if that is not a totally preposterous hope,' he said.
'You too. Good night.'
I returned to my room and listened to the muffled voices of Emily and Patrick in the room below me. She had closed the door to the stairway that connected our two rooms. A few minutes later, all was quiet. I crept down the steps to check on Patrick. He was already asleep, the night-light casting a pale glow on his face, creating a deceptively peaceful portrait of a child.
Back in my room, I couldn't sleep. I stood at the window, resting my forehead against the freezing glass, my hands on a lukewarm radiator. I ran through the list — Robyn, Brook, Trent, Mrs. Hopewell-trying to figure out who had pushed me. I could have been seriously injured-even killed — if I had broken my neck. I was afraid.
Only the foolish and the dead have no fear. Had Mrs. Hopewell made good on her warning about the danger of prying into family secrets? Clearly, she and Robyn wanted me out of the house, but perhaps Trent and Brook did too. Why? So they could get to Patrick-or was I, myself, perceived as a threat?
I was starting to believe Sam's theory that Ashley had been lured by a murderer onto the ice. What if Patrick's constant talk of her and the questions I had been asking were beginning to fray the nerves of the killer? Then both Patrick and I were in serious danger, and I was the only one who could do something about it. But what I should do, I had no idea.
A brilliant blue sky and fringe of glittering icicles was the first thing I saw the next morning. The sun was high, too high. I wrenched around in the bedcovers to look at the alarm clock and felt a stab of pain in my right shoulder: 8:45. Then I saw the note next to my clock: 'School has been canceled because of snow. Mr. Westbrook gave instructions to let you sleep. Patrick is with his mother.'
I could imagine the thick fingers of Mrs. Hopewell forming the short, square letters, then turning off my alarm clock. The thought of her creeping into my room and watching me while I slept made me wriggle my shoulders-a painful mistake. When I climbed out of bed and checked myself in the mirror, I saw what looked like a purple map of Norway and Sweden on the right half of my back, Finland on my arm.
Putting on a turtleneck and sweater took some care and time. I pulled on a pair of jeans, figuring that Patrick would be eager to go out in the snow.
When I pushed back my lower set of curtains, the brightness made me blink. Everything below was white, evergreens and hedges dolloped with snowy meringue. After the shadows of last night, the pure light seemed almost unreal.
I descended the steps to Patrick's room, then entered the second-floor hall, pausing to study its layout. It would have been easy enough for Robyn, Brook, or Mrs. Hopewell to follow me across the hall last night to the top of the stairway, since the exit to the wing where they slept was just beyond Patrick's bedroom door. But Trent, whose wing was on the opposite side of the house, also had easy access. The exit to his wing was on a short hall that ran next to the main staircase. Of course, Emily and Adrian's room was on the main hall, its doorway fairly close to the steps.
Preoccupied with the immediate problem of putting out the cat, I had made it easy for whomever had come up behind me. I tried to remember if I had seen the night lamp shining on the landing between the two floors when I was still on the third floor, walking toward the schoolroom. But I had been so caught up in the eeriness of hearing the song Ashley had once played, I hadn't noticed anything else.
The raised voices of Emily and Robyn drew me back to the present. When I arrived on the first floor, I saw them face-to-face outside the laundry room, near Robyn's wing. Patrick stood next to his mother, holding his hands a distance behind him. Brook leaned against the frame of the laundry door, drinking a cup of coffee, surveying his mother, who was dressed in her barn clothes.
'This is outrageous.' Robyn's voice shook with anger. 'He's a horrid child, a wicked boy. You should be ashamed.'
Emily didn't respond; apparently, she wasn't.
'If it makes you feel any better, Mother,' Brook said, 'I'm ashamed-that I never thought of such a prank,' he added, grinning. 'And I'm sure Emily will be very ashamed-as soon as she stops laughing. Patrick, you're a little turd, dumping the manure through the hay chute. Of course, Mother is now a big turd.'
Robyn shot her son a look.
'What's 'turd' mean?' Patrick asked.
'It's a piece of manure,' Emily told him.
I surmised that Robyn had been tending one of her horses, standing beneath a stall's hay chute, when Patrick dropped down a smelly pile from the manure heap. It was tempting to laugh, but if Patrick thought the prank was funny, he might try it again. At the moment he wasn't looking very contrite.
'I don't know what possessed you to do such a thing, Patrick,' Emily said. 'I don't want it to happen again.'
'Oh, it won't,' Robyn responded, her eyes flashing. 'If I catch him near the barn, I'll rub his face in a pile till he suffocates.'
Brook cheerfully saluted me with his coffee cup. 'Good morning, Kate. Come join our family fun.'
Patrick turned around, but Emily reached for his arm and held it tightly. She and Robyn, locked in glares, didn't acknowledge me.
'That child needs a strap across his backside,' Robyn continued. 'I'm going to talk to Daddy. He will straighten out Patrick.'
'Forty-two years old and still tattling,' Emily observed scornfully. 'When are you going to stop pretending that you're Daddy's girl? He has a wife now and a little boy.'
Robyn's lips trembled. She turned on her heel, entered the laundry room, and slammed the door behind her.
'I'll get your robe, Mother,' Brook called, then leaned toward me. 'I wonder how long she would stay there if I forgot?'
I didn't reply, and he headed through the door to their wing.
'Come, Patrick, we should wash your hands again,' Emily said.
