In the foyer they walked beneath a huge chandelier dripping with crystals and passed by umbrella stands and pictures of Brady Long’s ancestors. Across the marble floor and through a drawing room where small sofas clustered near intricate tables and lamps, they came across another door that opened to the kitchen.
Nothing.
No sign of her baby.
Her heart ached.
And the house was so quiet.
Even the furnace could barely be heard, though the rooms were kept warm enough that Pescoli’s jacket began to be uncomfortable.
She ignored the pang that cut through her soul.
Kept moving.
Kept searching.
Kept silently praying.
On soft footsteps they climbed a massive split staircase opening to the second floor. There the rooms were kept as if to accept guests, the beds made, the lamps lit. Only the ever present dust spoke of disuse. Her heart nearly tore when she spied the nursery with its antique rocking horse, Victorian dollhouse, and oversized tricycle. Again, Santana gave her a little prod and they walked through a master suite and several bathrooms.
Not a hint that anyone had been inside since the doors closed after the tourist season.
It’ll be okay. You’ll find him.
She had to believe it. Had to think she would see her child again.
Ignoring the rope disallowing visitors to the third floor, they made their way up to the servants’ quarters under the eaves but found only unused furniture and pictures, the place dusty and forlorn, as if no one had set foot up here in decades.
There was nothing on any of the floors aboveground, and as they explored the basement staircase, Pescoli’s heart sank. Dark and dry, dust and dirt.
Nothing but mouse traps, some with furry little victims, and more forgotten furniture from times gone by, lives once lived.
“Son of a bitch,” Santana said as they climbed back to the first floor.
“He’s gone,” Pescoli said, miserable at the thought.
Don’t go there! You have to find him. Don’t give up.
“We’re not done yet,” Santana said, and she thought he was just being stubborn.
“There’s the laundry house and toolsheds,” but there was little hope in his voice and the night seemed close, as if behind these closed gates they were in another world. The snow had begun to fall again. Slow, lazy flakes drifting from the sky. In another situation, she would have found joy and beauty in the landscape. Tonight she felt bleak.
“Let’s go.” Pescoli started for the laundry house and Santana fell into step with her, cutting a path through the snow.
What had her grandmother once told her when her grandfather lay dying, pale and thin beneath sheets as he breathed in horrible rasps? “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
She had to cling to it. Clenching her teeth, she waited as Santana found the right key to open the door. She heard the lock snap open and she told herself not to get her hopes up. There was no sign of life within.
This, of course, was another wild goose chase.
Chapter 32
They were here?
For the love of Christ. How the fuck did they know to come here?
Padgett had hazarded a peek through the curtains and nearly fallen through the floor of the ancient laundry facilities when she saw Pescoli and Santana leaving the main house, the museum for God’s sake, and break a path through the snow to the very spot where she was hiding out.