Slowly, I push open the door to the room.
SEVENTY-THREE
It’s not what I expected.
The room under our staircase was just an empty space. But this one is filled with… withstuff.
I can see why Nico was attracted to it. It’s like every toy he has ever played with or wanted in his life is in this room. Transformers, trucks, model cars, action figures. Most of them look like they have been played with recently. And the room is brighter than the one below our stairwell, lit with actual lights that require a light switch. Nico mentioned Mr. Lowell kept a camera mounted on the ceiling, but I scan the corners up above and don’t see one—maybe he took it down. But the strangest part of the room is what is in the far corner.
It’s a bed.
A small bed, meant for a child maybe even a little younger than Nico, but about that age. It has a white bedframe and a thin mattress with no boxspring. It’s more like a cot. It’s covered with a quilt, and each of the patches on the quilt has a different kind of insect sewn into the fabric.
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I walk over to the bed. I run my fingers along the quilt, which feels stiff, like it hasn’t beenused in a long time. I guess when Nico was here, he played on the floor. I pull back the quilt and…
Oh my God.
There’s a dark brown stain all over the white sheets. It’s darkest right in the center, but there are splatters of it all over the sheets. I don’t know if Nico ever pulled back these sheets and saw what I am seeing. If he did, maybe that’s why he took Mr. Lowell’s threat so seriously.
“Ada?”
I whip my head around in the direction of the voice behind me. I thought no one was home because it was so quiet. That was really stupid. I saw the car pull into the garage. I should have realized Mr. Lowell was here. He was probably upstairs or something. Or maybe he was hiding. Waiting. Watching.
And now he ishere. In the room, with me.
He is wearing a pair of tan slacks and a dress shirt that is unbuttoned at the collar as well as a tie hanging loose around his neck. He has a layer of moisture on his forehead, which glistens in the overhead lights. He has thinning hair on top of his head, and each of those strands seems wet from his sweat.
I open my mouth to squeak out a reply, but nothing comes. I had intended to tell Mr. Lowell that he needed to leave my brother alone. I had intended to tell him in no uncertain terms that Nico would never be back here. I had intended to keep my brother out of trouble.
But now I could be the one in trouble.
“What are you doing here, Ada?” Mr. Lowell doesn’t seem mad exactly. He almost looks like he finds it interesting that I am in here. “Did you move the bookcase?”
“I just…” I squeak out. “I’m sorry. I thought…”
Why am I apologizing? Ugh, I sound like my mom. She’s always apologizing for things she didn’t even do wrong, and nowI’mdoing it. I mean, I guess I am in his house withoutpermission. Buthe’sthe one who has been locking my brother in this room. And what are these stains all over the sheets that look suspiciously like dried blood?
“You were snooping,” he notes.
I don’t say anything to that.
“Did you tell your parents that you were coming over here?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I say.
His lips twitch. “You’re lying, Ada.”
“I’m not!”
“I can always tell when children are lying. You are all so obvious.”
I want to run out of the room, but Mr. Lowell is blocking the exit. Not only that, but he has closed the door. Still, he couldn’t have locked it. Because he’s in here with me, so there’s no way.
Right?
“I think,” he says, taking a step closer to me. Which is too close, because this room is really, really small. “I think that you didn’t tell anyone at all that you came here.”
I take a step back, hitting the wall behind me. Mr. Lowell’s gaze briefly flickers down to the mattress. At the bloodstains on the sheets.
