Twenty minutes later she had collected her luggage, the flagpole, two old musty blankets and, oddly enough, a metal bow rake. The latter items had been left by the house’s previous owner. If James Bond could kill someone with a fountain pen, she could MacGyver her way out of the attic.
She placed the pole right by the opening and her smallest suitcase next to it. The blankets were being held in reserve in case she really did have to throw herself on the stairs and hope she didn’t kill herself when she landed. She would wrap herself in them to help break the fall. But first, a more sensible approach.
She stood with the rake head pressed flat against the opening. She pressed down as hard as she could. The door shifted slightly, then snapped closed. She rested for a second, then pressed down again, this time using her body weight for leverage. She felt the door give a hair, then half an inch, then a little more. She managed to kick the flagpole into the opening to hold it.
She straightened and shook out her arms. If she made it out of here, she was so going to have a serious talk with Mason. And maybe start working out. And get more friends. And one of those old people alert thingies.
When her arms felt less shaky, she went back to work. This time she got the door open enough to slide the small suitcase in the resulting space. The pressure dented the plastic, but allowed her to widen the opening.
Two suitcases and much swearing later, the attic door dropped to the open position and the stairs oh so gracefully unfurled. Mason trotted past her and made his way to the main floor, then looked up as if asking what was taking her so long.
“We are so having a talk about your attitude,” Zoe muttered as she followed him down the stairs. “And tonight, there’s going to be wine.”
* * *
Four days after the attic incident, as Zoe thought of it, she stopped by Let’s Do Tea for scones on her way to her friend Jen’s place. One of the advantages of working from home was that her time was pretty much her own. If she wanted to get her work done at two in the morning, no one cared. The downside, of course, was the fact that no one would know if she was mummifying in her attic.
No matter how many times she reminded herself that she’d figured out a way to escape and now was fine, she couldn’t shake the feeling of having stared down her own mortality—and blinked. Or maybe her general unease had nothing to do with attic near death. Maybe it was more about feeling so incredibly isolated.
All her old work friends had either relocated with the company to San Jose or found other work. Her dad was a great guy and local, but still her dad. It wasn’t as if they were going to go shopping together. She worked at home and rarely had a reason to leave. Somehow in the past few months, she’d kind of lost the concept of having a life.
Breaking up with Chad was a big part of that, she told herself as she walked to the bakery counter to choose her scones. Not that it hadn’t been the right thing to do. But now she was left at loose ends.
She picked out a dozen scones—buttermilk, blueberry and white chocolate chip—before returning to her car and driving the handful of blocks to Jen’s house.
The mid-March air was cool, the sky clear. The Pacific Ocean less than a half mile away kept the beach community of Mischief Bay regulated, temperature-wise. Even in winter, it rarely got below sixty, although it could be damp.
She turned onto Jen’s street, then pulled into the circular drive. The big, one-level ranch-style house sprawled across an oversize lot. The landscaping was mature, the roof on the newer side. In the land of escalating home prices, especially in this neighborhood, Jen and her husband, Kirk, had hit the housing jackpot.
Zoe wrinkled her nose as she remembered that good fortune had come at a terrible price. Almost two years ago, Jen’s father had suddenly passed away. Jen’s mother, Pam, had given the house to her daughter and moved into a condo. Zoe would guess, given the choice, Jen would rather be back in her small apartment and have her dad around. Zoe knew she would give anything to have her mother with her again.
“That whole attic thing has pushed me into morbid land,” she murmured as she got out of the car. “Time for a mood shift.”
She walked to the front door and knocked softly. A bright yellow hand-painted sign above the doorbell warned My Baby Is Sleeping.
A few seconds later, Jen Beldon opened the door. “Zoe,” she said, sounding surprised. “Was I expecting you?” Jen, a pretty brunette with hazel eyes, groaned. “I was. I’m sorry. I’m a horrible friend. Come in.”
Zoe hugged Jen, then held up the box. “I bring terrible food that neither of us should be eating, so that makes me a bad friend, too.”
“Thank God. Lately all I want is carbs. The more, the better.”
Jen led the way into the big, open kitchen. She put water in a kettle, then set it on the stove. After collecting a teapot from a cupboard, she scooped loose tea into a strainer.
“The days go by so fast,” she said. “I can’t seem to keep track of where I am, timewise. There are always a thousand things to do.”
Jen wore a baggy T-shirt over black yoga pants. She had on white socks but no shoes. There were dark shadows under her eyes, as if she hadn’t been sleeping, and the extra weight she’d gained carrying her eighteen-month-old son, Jack, was firmly in place.
“Kirk’s so busy at work. I know he’s happy, but his hours are erratic. And don’t get me started on his partner.”
“Still making you nervous?” Zoe asked sympathetically.
“Every single day. The man is a walking, breathing cowboy. He has no regard for the rules. I don’t know why he hasn’t been disciplined or fired.”
Six months ago Kirk had left the relative safety of the Mischief Bay Police Department for a detective position at the LAPD. His partner was a reckless old-timer named Lucas. Jen lived in fear that Lucas was going to lead Kirk into dangerous situations.
Zoe put the scones on a plate and set them on the table. She collected butter from the refrigerator, along with milk for the tea.
She glanced at her friend. “Should I ask about Jack?”
Tears immediately filled Jen’s eyes. Her friend looked away, then back at her. “He’s the same. Bright, happy, loving. I just wish...”
The kettle began to whistle. Jen turned and snapped off the heat, then poured the boiling water into the teapot.
Zoe took her place at the table and held in a sigh. Jack was a sweet baby who had reached every milestone exactly when he was supposed to. Rolling over, sitting up, crawling, reaching for objects. The only thing he hadn’t done was talk. He rarely vocalized, instead getting his point across in other ways.
Jen had grown increasingly worried over the past few months, convinced something was wrong. Zoe didn’t have enough experience to offer an opinion, but as every specialist Jen had been to had said Jack would talk when he was ready, she thought maybe her friend was making herself crazy over something that might not be a problem.
Jen poured the tea, then brought the baby monitor from the counter to the table and took her seat. “I’m still doing a lot of home testing with Jack,” she said. “He does so well on nearly everything. I think he’s bright. He’s not regressing, at least not that I can see. I have another specialist I’m going to take him to next week.” She sighed and reached for a scone. “Maybe it’s nutritional.” She waved the scone. “I’d never let him have this. I’m so careful with his diet.” She sighed heavily. “I just wish I could sleep. But it’s hard. I worry.”
“Of course you do. You have a lot going on.”
“Tell me about it. I had to let the cleaning service go. They were using a spray cleaner. Can you believe it? I told them they could only use steam and those special cloths I bought. What if the fumes from the chemicals are affecting Jack’s development? What if it’s the paint on the walls or