I shake my head. “No. And I’ve looked everywhere. She has to have left.”
He sighs, scrubbing his face. But then his hands drop slowly. He peers past me, in the direction of the hall behind me. “Have you checked the hallway closet?”
I blink at him, then glance over my shoulder at the tiny hallway closet that I’ve never actually seen inside. I assumed it was a shallow storage space, too small to hide a person.
Swearing under my breath, I storm down the hallway and yank open the door. “Goddammit.”
There she is, cuddled up against a jumbo pack of paper towels, clutching a bottle of whiskey like it’s her teddy bear. The bands squeezing my ribs pop, and I suck in a deep, steadying breath. Leaning past the door, I call to Jamie, “Found her.”
His head drops back with relief. “Thank God.”
I’m kicking myself for not checking here. There are a dozen closets at the Wilmots’ house, perfect for slipping into for hide-and-seek, for popping out of and scaring the shit out of innocent people just walking to the bathroom.
Oh yes, I have extensive experience being at the receiving end of those juvenile jump scares. The closet is the first place I should have checked.
Twitching in her sleep, Kate mutters something as her head slumps forward, about to connect with the edge of a shelf.
I crouch and catch her just in time, exhaling with relief. “Come on, Kate. Wake up.”
“No,” she mumbles. Flailing away, she thumps her head back on the paper towels. “Tired.”
“Which explains why you’re here of all places. What is with you Wilmots and closets?”
“Gowaylemmesleep.”
“You’re not sleeping on paper towels in a closet. Get up.”
“Nuh-uh,” she says sleepily.
“Dammit, Kate.”
A deep snore rolls out of her.
Jamie joins me outside the closet and peers down at Kate. Her mouth is slack, her head back at an uncomfortable-looking angle. “She’s really out of it,” he says.
“She was lucid for a second, but”—another snore rolls out of her—“she could fall and stay asleep through the Second Coming,” I tell him, hating that I know it, that I have a catalog of memories of Kate growing up—gangly limbs, freckled nose, tangled hair, out cold beneath the backyard trampoline; curled up on the landing of the stairs; even once snoring in the bathtub of the third-floor bathroom, where she stashed herself for hide-and-seek and fell asleep because no one found her.
Kate twitches in her sleep again, flopping onto her back. The whiskey she was clutching rolls away from her.
I scoop it up and inspect the bottle. I know without a doubt that bottle was sitting unopened at the bar earlier this evening because I brought it. A good quarter of it’s gone.
A low whistle leaves Jamie as he notices that, too.
“And apparently she’s drunk as a sailor.” I set the bottle aside.
“I’d like to check for signs of alcohol poisoning,” he says, crouching beside her. “Sorry for the physician mode, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t.”
I crouch beside him, feeling a harsh, sharp pang in my chest as Jamie holds her wrist and feels her pulse, then gently lifts her eyelids, examining her. “Is she all right?” I ask.
He nods. “Fine. Just a little tipsy and tired. We should make sure she sleeps on her side in case she gets sick.”
“Jamie?” Bea calls groggily from the main room. She stands from the chair she was sleeping on and rubs her eyes. “What’re you doing?”
“Just, uh . . .” He clears his throat as we both stand, too. “Closing up for the night. Coming.” Quickly, he turns back to me and asks quietly, “Can you manage helping Kate to bed?”
I arch an eyebrow, glancing from Kate’s slight form back to him. “I think I can handle it.”
Bea sleepily wanders toward him and Jamie backtracks, catching her when she slumps into him and wraps her arms around his neck as she whines about being tired. Jamie sweeps her up and shifts her high in his arms, then turns and carries Bea toward her bedroom.
Sighing, I crouch down again and say, “Wake up, Kate.”
I get a snore for an answer.
“Kate, wake up.”
“No,” she grumbles.
I had a hunch she’d do this. She’s a deep and cranky sleeper. I’d rather poke a sleeping bear than wake up Kate. Which means I just need to suck it up and pick her up, then dump her in bed.
Except I can’t quite seem to make myself do it. I stare at her as she sleeps, long legs tucked up, knees to her chin, snoring like a truck driver. Like a fool, for just a moment, I watch her sleep and count the constellations of her freckles. I stare at her full lips parted, her expression smooth, utterly at peace.