I head into the bathroom, laugh at my reflection—wild eyes, wet hair, bandaged head—and get dressed. It seems both Derio and I faced a bit of our fears today. I just don’t know if either of us came out any stronger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning I wake up feeling groggy, my head and shoulder burning like they’re on fire. But I don’t feel nauseous or dizzy so it’s safe to say I escaped the event without a concussion. I also see that it’s eleven a.m. when I finally pull myself out of bed, and I’ve missed breakfast. I know I should take the fact that I’m injured and use it to my advantage to get some much-needed rest, but I’m curious about Derio, as well as Alfonso and Annabella. I don’t want any of them to worry about me.
When I get dressed and go downstairs, I find the house to be completely empty. At least it seems that way.
“Hello?” I call out as I walk into the kitchen, which is usually the hub of activity in this house. Everything is put away neatly, spic-and-span.
I decide to make myself an espresso and after I wrestle with the noisy machine, I pull up a stool to the island and sip it. In a week, my body has gone from barely tolerating the stuff to finding it delightful and kind of addictive.
Though I can hear the usual birds chirping merrily outside, the house hums with silence. I’ve actually never been completely alone in the house before. It’s kind of nice, albeit spooky in a way. Despite the sunshine that pours in through all the windows, I guess the dramatics of yesterday are casting a bit of a shadow on my subconscious, and when I think I hear something thump from upstairs, it scares the bejesus out of me.
I finish the last bit of dark espresso and slowly put the cup down, listening hard now.
Another thump. Coming from the attic.
Well, actually, it’s a storage space, accessible from a narrow hall between Alfonso’s and Derio’s rooms. I’ve obviously never been up there but this isn’t the first time I thought I heard something funny coming from there. There was a reason why I ended the first week somewhat convinced that there might be a ghost in the house.
I’ve never actually seen a ghost in my life, and even though I believe in them I’ve always been a bit skeptical. But old villas on Italian hillsides kind of get your imagination running. I listen again and hear the same thump. It sounds like something being dropped or knocked over. The other night it was more like a scratching sound as I passed by it in the hall. It was probably a rat, if anything, but in my imagination in the dark, it was the sound of someone trying to claw their way out.
I had a brief notion of Derio keeping his ex-wife locked up in the attic, but then decided that sort of thing only happens in books.
I get off my stool and look out the windows again to the patio. It’s sunny, bright, and the sea gleams blue. There is absolutely nothing scary going on. I take in a deep breath and head to the stairs.
Once I get to the second floor I pause, holding my breath and listening.
Thump.
There. Above me and down the short hall, almost where the ladder pulls down from the ceiling.
I wish I had something to defend myself with, like a candlestick or something, but I’m not really sure what the protocol is. My knowledge stretches as far as those ghost hunters on YouTube, like that crazy guy with the mustache and the girl who screams a lot, who never really seem to solve anything.
I creep down the hall, my bare feet sticking to the tiles, and then I wait below the attic door, the pulley hanging above me. I inhale, reach up, and with one go jerk it down.
There’s a cry and then the door opens, the steps slamming down onto the tiles. Suddenly, it’s raining books as paperbacks hit the tiles and echo loudly—bang, bang, bang.
When it finally stops and I’m able to swallow my heart back down my throat, I poke my head around the stairs, looking up.
Derio is in the attic, staring down at me with the most exasperated expression on his face.
“Oh, hi,” I say, feeling foolish all of a sudden. “I didn’t know you were up there.”
He swears in Italian then says, “Well, who did you think was up here?”
He’s pissed off. This isn’t good.
“A ghost?” I say, helplessly.
He makes a disgusted face. “A ghost?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I didn’t know anyone was home.”
“You think I would leave you alone in the house after what happened?”
I shrug. Not when he put it that way. “I thought you were all out.”
“Felisa took the twins to the gardens,” he says, his voice hard. “I was up here attending to some matters.”
I look at the books at my feet. They are by his mother, Sophie Larosa, but I don’t recognize the titles. Almost all of them are different, too, in the small mass-market format you might find at a grocery store. “Your mother was a writer,” I say, stating the very obvious, though I know he knows he’s never told me that himself.
He makes a disgruntled sound and comes down the stairs in a huff. “I was organizing these,” he says, gathering all the books into his arms. I try not to look at his muscles or his angry, handsome face.
“What for?” I ask. “How many books has she written?”
He shoots me a look that says it’s none of my business. But I have the power of Google and I can make it my business if I want to. “She wrote a lot,” he concedes.
“What kind of books?”
“Does it matter?” he asks.
“I love books, I read all the time,” I tell him. Of course it matters. “Have any been translated into English?”