"It was unlocked. Look, if I need to, I can call Rose."
"She's in the city tonight on a date."
"Date?" I tried to picture it and failed. "Okay, then I'll call someone at the diner--if and when I'm absolutely sure that I can't get out. My cell phone battery is half full. The house is silent. I'm not going to die down here."
"What's the address?" His car's engine roared to life.
"Gabriel? Really. Don't do this. I made a stupid mistake--"
"I'll call you for the address when I'm in Cainsville. If you hear anything, phone the police. Don't worry about trespassing charges. I can fix that."
He hung up. TC rubbed against me, purring.
"Oh, now you're happy. You yowled on purpose, didn't you?" I was kidding, of course, but when he glanced up, I swear he looked very pleased with himself.
"We don't need rescuing," I said as I tramped up the stairs. "He knows that. He's making a big deal out of it so I'll owe him. Then he can get away with even more shit, because I'll remember the times he came running to help me, and I'll feel guilty." I glanced at TC, leaping up the stairs alongside me. "You do realize that, don't you?"
He purred.
I'd get this damn door open if I dislocated my shoulder doing it. I twisted the handle, went to ram it with my shoulder . . . and fell through as it opened. I tripped over the top step and landed on my hip on the kitchen floor, my cell phone skidding across the linoleum. TC trotted over to it, bent, and nosed it my way.
"Thank you," I muttered as I sat up and grabbed it back. "You are truly helpful. You're lucky my gun didn't fall out and shoot you. Accidents happen, you know. Tragic kitty accidents."
He only sniffed.
I speed-dialed Gabriel. It went to voice mail. Not surprising--it was much harder to rescue someone if she called and told you she didn't need rescue. I told him exactly that and texted the same message, abbreviated. There could be no question now--I was fine and I'd notified him, so I owed him nothing.
"Okay, TC," I said, pushing myself up. "Time to go home."
He darted across the kitchen and into the next room.
"Um, wrong door?" I called.
As I followed the cat, I noticed the elaborate frieze in the front parlor. I looked at one section. Seven magpies. Six leaned over, beak to their neighbor's head, as if whispering to him. The seventh stood there, oblivious.
Seven for a secret, not to be told.
The old rhyme played in my head.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for birth,
Five for silver,
Six for gold;
Seven for a secret,
Not to be told;
Eight for heaven,
Nine for hell,