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TWENTY-NINE

I consider, and then I back into the kitchen and grab a steak knife. I don’t want to bump into Brodie Kilmer high on something and hiding in our basement.

With the knife in hand, I quietly descend the stairs. At the bottom, I take a moment to listen at that closed door. I’m definitely hearing a person moving about inside.

I ease the door open a crack. Then I peer in to find myself looking at Cirillo’s back as he bends to examine something.

Why the hell is Cirillo down here with the door shut and the stairway light off?

I remember last night, what happened to me down here, the voices I heard.

I’d wondered whether it could have been Cirillo and then brushed it off as paranoia.

Before I can back out and think this through, Cirillo turns, as if sensing the open door. He gives a start. I push it open and walk through.

“What are you doing down here?” I say.

He starts to casually push his hands into his pockets, and then realizes he’s holding his phone, and settles for leaning against the wall.

“I heard something last night,” he says.

“Last night?”And you came down at almost noon to check it out?

As if hearing the unspoken part, he says, “I’d forgotten all about it. I woke around four hearing something, but I was so tired that I fell back to sleep. I was getting a coffee when I passed the basement door and came down to investigate.”

Shutting the door behind you. Turning off the light at the bottom of the stairs. Shutting the next door behind you, too.

“Well, if it was four in the morning, that was me. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, thought I heard something, and investigated. Turned out to be a mouse.”

“Ah.”

“While I have you, though,” I say, “I’ve been trying to speak to you about something. One thing that kept me up last night was that talk about using my story for your grant.”

He exhales in a slow hiss through his teeth.

NL is not an easy woman to work with.

“It will be anonymous,” he says. “You have my word on that.”

“I know, but I’ve decided I need more. I’m having an agreement drawn up.”

He stiffens. “An agreement?”

I give a dismissive wave. “It’s nothing, really. Just protecting both of us. It says that if my story is used for funding, all names and locations will be changed.”

He relaxes. “Of course. I can do that.”

“Great. My lawyer is working on it now.”

“Yes, of course. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable, Nicola.”

I turn back toward the door and then stop. “Oh, and she’s putting in something about limiting the use of my story to research and associated funding. Not my idea. She’s just covering all the bases. Making sure you don’t do something like sell book or film rights.” Ilaugh. “I told her that was silly, but you know lawyers. We pay them to be thorough.”

Call me a petty bitch, but I bask in the frozen horror that seeps into Cirillo’s face.

“Davos? Are you okay?”

“Y-yes. I…” He gathers his professorial dignity and lifts his chin. “I just realized that I am going to need to place a call myself. You are correct about lawyers and their thoroughness, and mine will insist on seeing that agreement before I sign it.”