The Glass House by David Rotenberg Page B

lab. I want them tested for toxins.” She turned from the kitchen and headed up the narrow staircase to the second floor. Halfway up she stopped and looked back at the first floor. What bothered her about it? She couldn’t say, but something was wrong.
    A bedroom on the right, prim to the point of prissy—perfectly made bed, toiletries in the en suite bathroom, all made fromnatural products and lined up with military precision, lamps on either side of the bed, no overhead with the low ceiling. Even the oval hooked rug at the foot of the bed was perfectly placed so that it was dead centre in the room. She lifted the rug and pulled it to one side. She ran her palm along the floor to check for ridges that could indicate the presence of trap doors, but there were none. Besides, there was so little space between this floor and the ceiling below. Is that what bothered me on the stairway? she wondered.
    As she backed out of the bedroom an odd image popped into her head—herself coming out of the en suite bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of men’s boxer shorts and approaching the bed. But it wasn’t Harrison on the bed—it was Decker Roberts. And somehow she was watching herself approach Decker. And as she did she sensed someone else watching Roberts from the other direction. She turned towards the shadowy figure. “Seth,” she said aloud, but before the figure could turn to her, it evaporated. The room stabilized.
    She had no name for what had just happened, but had she mentioned it to Decker he would have told her that she’d just experienced what he so often experienced—sliding.
    She took a long slow breath and approached Harrison’s armoire. Six suits all pressed and ready to go, ten pairs of pleated, cuffed slacks, eight pairs of shoes all polished to a high gloss. She parted the clothing and pushed against the back panels. “Lion, witch and wardrobe, here we come,” she whispered—but nothing gave under her pressure.
    She quickly went through his dresser drawers—folded underwear, correctly matched socks, a single widow sock to one side. She picked it up. It was torn. Harrison had kept a torn solo sock.
    She closed the drawers of the dresser and headed back into the hall.
    Across the way was a closed door. She tried it. Locked.
    â€œLet me,” said Emerson.
    How he’d managed to sneak up on her was a matter of concern, but she just nodded. With surprising expertise he manipulated his pick and probe with his long, tapered fingers. It took him some time but eventually the door popped open. He stepped aside and she entered.
    The small bedroom had been converted into a study. The antique desk was as neat as the rest of the house, his Lenovo laptop dead centre.
    â€œWhy’s his computer still here?”
    â€œThe techs got everything they needed from it without having to touch it.”
    â€œWhat did they get?”
    â€œNot much; apparently it’d been monkeyed with by experts.”
    â€œDust it.”
    â€œI’ll call a tech.”
    â€œOkay.” She waited until Emerson had left the room and closed the door behind him, then she opened the desk’s two drawers. She found nothing but high-quality writing paper, an expensive pen, a box of chalk and a well-worn family Bible that was printed in Edinburgh in 1691. She looked at the family trees on the front four pages and was surprised to find that Harrison had a twin who had died almost thirty years ago.
    Beside the date of the brother’s death were the words “We’ll meet again at the End Time.” Yslan recognized Harrison’s beautiful penmanship.
    She stepped back and looked at the window. An overhanging willow tree obscured the view, but the window itself was so thick that it blurred her vision. She tapped the glass—bulletproof. The locking device on the side, the best money could buy. Harrison evidently didn’t want anyone in this room. She assumed