The Family Plot by Cherie Priest Read Free Book Online Page A

harder and louder than was strictly necessary.
    Now she heard voices, easily recognized. A window must be open somewhere, for her to catch them so clearly. It sounded like they were just outside the bedroom door.
    She poked her head out into the corridor again.
    Ah, there it was, down at the end: a window that wasn’t open, but broken. It was a six-pane grid with two panes missing. No wonder the sound carried so easy.
    Dahlia left her officially dibbed quarters and peered through the glass, down at the salvage trucks. They were parked so near to the house she might’ve dropped a penny on the nearest windshield. Beside the trucks, her cousin, his son, and Brad-who-was-no-relation were chattering about the house’s exterior. The porch spindles were cool. Some of the gingerbread cutouts weren’t rotted out completely. Nice front door.
    She turned away. Her time was almost up, and it wouldn’t do to waste it.
    At the other end of the hall she found a second staircase, this one narrow and dark. She felt around on the wall for a switch, but didn’t find one, so she climbed up anyway. She felt a string dangle across her cheek and shoulder. She tugged it, and an overhead bulb crackled to life, revealing dark paneling on one side, and floral paper on the other. A recessed spot on the wall suggested a gas lamp fixture. The fixture was missing, leaving only a shadow and a warm-looking stain.
    Out on the front lawn, someone called for her attention. “Dolly? You in there?”
    It was Bobby, who damn well knew better than to call her that. She declined to respond. Really, she couldn’t possibly hear him, inside that stairwell that was scarcely wide enough for her to walk without rubbing her shoulders on the walls. That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
    Her boots were heavy, and so was their echo on the steps, and under them. She paused, kicked gently, and yes—it was hollow under there. Storage? She hoped so. People leave great things behind in storage, when they’re done living someplace.
    At the top, a trapdoor stopped her.
    She pushed her palm against it and it moved easily, letting her up inside a spacious semi-finished attic. It was mostly empty, with no promising crates, trunks, or boxes; but she saw stray books, and the suggestion of toys. Old toys could be worth a mint. She’d take a closer look later on.
    She stood on the stairs, her head and shoulders in the naked space—all of it lit by the attic windows (not leaded, not valuable) and as dusty as everything else. It was warmer by a few degrees up there, which made the air feel stuffy. In the exposed rafters overhead, she saw elaborate spiderweb clusters, nets, and balls; and she detected the nibble marks of rats or squirrels (please let it be squirrels) and, along the floor, droppings from the same (probably rats).
    â€œRats aren’t so bad,” she told herself, and mostly meant it. “The rats will give you gifts, and the bugs will give you kisses. Right, Dad?” Could be worse. Could be rabid raccoons, or needle-toothed possums. Besides, any rats in the Withrow house wouldn’t be the big black plague rats of lore, but little brown wood rats from the mountain. Give ’em fluffy tails, and you’d feed ’em peanuts in the park.
    â€œDahlia?”
    This time it was Gabe calling her name. She dropped the trapdoor back into place and headed down the stairs—then over to the broken window, which opened when she yanked on the latch. She hung her head out, and hollered: “Up here, boys. Come on in, and take a look around.”
    â€œWe can’t.” Brad shielded his eyes against the sunny morning glare. “You locked us out.”
    â€œI did no such thing…?”
    â€œThen the door locked behind you. Come on down here and let us in,” Bobby pleaded.
    â€œWell, shit. Hang on.”
    Dahlia left the window to stand at the top of the grand staircase and gaze across