mind.”
“You can’t tell me you actually like that.”
He stepped on the gas pedal and the car lumbered up the steep hill.
“Did you know that Mozart is the cutting edge of music therapy?” he asked conversationally. “Rats that listen to Mozart have increased brain function. And Alzheimer’s patients perform better on spatial and social tasks after listening to Mozart.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I feel like getting social.”
He laughed.
At the top of the hill, Fury stopped the car under the overhang next to the pillars and wide marble steps.
Home sweet home.
He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “Here’s my cell phone number. If you need anything, I’m staying around the corner, past the old blacksmith shop in one of the private doctors’ cottages.”
She got out of the car.
“Eight thirty tomorrow morning you meet with Dr. Harris.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Nobody said you did.”
“That’s exactly what you’ve been saying.”
She slammed the door and he drove away.
For a few hours, she’d almost been able to forget about the Hill. Forget about Cottage 25, and an inexplicable fear that kept creeping up on her, causing her stomach to plummet and her heart to pound.
She almost wished Fury hadn’t left.
Chapter 7
Arden rechecked the digital clock by her bed. It seemed to be stuck on three a.m. Too bad the room didn’t have a TV. You could come across some weird shit at three in the morning.
From outside in the hall came something that sounded like a light footfall—almost like running. The sound increased in volume as it approached her door, then faded into the distance.
She tossed back the covers, swung her feet to the floor, and grabbed the jeans from the nearby chair.
She always slept in a stripped-down version of whatever she’d worn that day. Now she quickly stepped into the jeans, buttoning them under the hem of the dry, white T-shirt she’d changed into when she’d gotten back to her room. She felt around the dark floor until her fingers came into contact with her sneakers, which were still wet and cold from the rain.
It was a struggle to get her bare feet into them. Once they were tied, she moved to the door and listened.
The silence and the late hour made her begin to wonder if she’d imagined the noise. Had she actually fallen asleep and dreamed the footfalls?
Then the flurry of movement returned.
And stopped directly in front of her door.
Vera’s shadow people?
There was no peephole. She swung to the side, back pressed to the wall, eyes and ears straining.
A tiny rap sounded on the door, followed by a whispered, “ Ar-den!”
Harley?
She pivoted and opened the door.
Curly blond hair.
Eli. Backlit by wall sconces.
He looked at her clothes. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“What are you doing here?” And in pajamas? Striped pajamas.
“We’re having trouble sleeping.”
“We?”
“Me and my friends.”
The friends he’d told her about in the car.
“We’re playing cards. Wanna come up?”
Since she couldn’t sleep and was curious to hear more about what they were doing on the Hill, she thought, Why not ?
She locked her door and pocketed the heavy key. “What was that noise I heard?”
“This?”
He shot away, cantering down the hall, taking long strides while his bare feet landed softly.
Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk.
Then he came back, skidding to a stop in front of her.
“Yeah,” she said dryly. That explained Vera Thompson’s shadow people.
“Sometimes we time each other. See how long it takes to run the floors of this wing. My best time is seven minutes. But we have to do it quietly; otherwise the guard will chew us out.”
They took the stairs to the fifth floor, then down a hall that hadn’t yet been restored. It smelled of moldy, crumbling wallpaper.
“We asked for this room,” Eli explained. “So we could hang out. So we could stay up late and play music without bothering
“You can’t tell me you actually like that.”
He stepped on the gas pedal and the car lumbered up the steep hill.
“Did you know that Mozart is the cutting edge of music therapy?” he asked conversationally. “Rats that listen to Mozart have increased brain function. And Alzheimer’s patients perform better on spatial and social tasks after listening to Mozart.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I feel like getting social.”
He laughed.
At the top of the hill, Fury stopped the car under the overhang next to the pillars and wide marble steps.
Home sweet home.
He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “Here’s my cell phone number. If you need anything, I’m staying around the corner, past the old blacksmith shop in one of the private doctors’ cottages.”
She got out of the car.
“Eight thirty tomorrow morning you meet with Dr. Harris.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Nobody said you did.”
“That’s exactly what you’ve been saying.”
She slammed the door and he drove away.
For a few hours, she’d almost been able to forget about the Hill. Forget about Cottage 25, and an inexplicable fear that kept creeping up on her, causing her stomach to plummet and her heart to pound.
She almost wished Fury hadn’t left.
Chapter 7
Arden rechecked the digital clock by her bed. It seemed to be stuck on three a.m. Too bad the room didn’t have a TV. You could come across some weird shit at three in the morning.
From outside in the hall came something that sounded like a light footfall—almost like running. The sound increased in volume as it approached her door, then faded into the distance.
She tossed back the covers, swung her feet to the floor, and grabbed the jeans from the nearby chair.
She always slept in a stripped-down version of whatever she’d worn that day. Now she quickly stepped into the jeans, buttoning them under the hem of the dry, white T-shirt she’d changed into when she’d gotten back to her room. She felt around the dark floor until her fingers came into contact with her sneakers, which were still wet and cold from the rain.
It was a struggle to get her bare feet into them. Once they were tied, she moved to the door and listened.
The silence and the late hour made her begin to wonder if she’d imagined the noise. Had she actually fallen asleep and dreamed the footfalls?
Then the flurry of movement returned.
And stopped directly in front of her door.
Vera’s shadow people?
There was no peephole. She swung to the side, back pressed to the wall, eyes and ears straining.
A tiny rap sounded on the door, followed by a whispered, “ Ar-den!”
Harley?
She pivoted and opened the door.
Curly blond hair.
Eli. Backlit by wall sconces.
He looked at her clothes. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“What are you doing here?” And in pajamas? Striped pajamas.
“We’re having trouble sleeping.”
“We?”
“Me and my friends.”
The friends he’d told her about in the car.
“We’re playing cards. Wanna come up?”
Since she couldn’t sleep and was curious to hear more about what they were doing on the Hill, she thought, Why not ?
She locked her door and pocketed the heavy key. “What was that noise I heard?”
“This?”
He shot away, cantering down the hall, taking long strides while his bare feet landed softly.
Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk.
Then he came back, skidding to a stop in front of her.
“Yeah,” she said dryly. That explained Vera Thompson’s shadow people.
“Sometimes we time each other. See how long it takes to run the floors of this wing. My best time is seven minutes. But we have to do it quietly; otherwise the guard will chew us out.”
They took the stairs to the fifth floor, then down a hall that hadn’t yet been restored. It smelled of moldy, crumbling wallpaper.
“We asked for this room,” Eli explained. “So we could hang out. So we could stay up late and play music without bothering
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