The Family Plot by Cherie Priest Page A

you.”
    â€œAnd I’ll be right behind her, ” Bobby declared.
    But she stopped him. “Wait,” she begged. “Just wait a minute. Listen, you heard the floor, didn’t you? It’s no good up there. Let me check it out first. If one of us falls through or gets stuck, we’ll need you to help us out.”
    â€œYou’re trying to hog my kid again.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me. You like him better than you like me.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve known you twice as long; but between the two of you, he’s the most loyal.” Any idle goodwill Bobby’d mustered with his trip down memory lane fizzled right out. “I’m trying to look out for him, that’s all.”
    â€œThat’s my job.”
    â€œIt’s also your job to do what I tell you, at least while we’re here.” Before he could wind up to a dying duck fit, she held up a finger and lowered her voice. “You outweigh me by fifty pounds. Let me test the floor up there. If it’s safe, I’ll holler, and you can come on up. Your kid is happy we haven’t killed each other yet. Throw us all a curveball for once, and don’t let him down.”
    Without waiting for a retort, she slipped the lantern’s hanging loop down around her wrist and started to climb. “Gabe?” she called out. “You’re being awful quiet. Did you find something?”
    At the top of the ladder, she was greeted with a drop of water to the eyeball. It wasn’t raining again, but Gabe was right: The roof had a hole in it. On the other side, she could see lacy black clouds just a half-shade lighter than the sky itself—pierced here and there by only the most determined stars, and a smudged gray shadow that showed where the moon ought to be.
    She wiped her eye and cheek with the back of one arm, and took the lantern by its handle again.
    The second floor, or the loft, or the attic, or whatever it was … it wasn’t packed to the rafters like the first floor used to be, but it was plenty cluttered. At a hasty glance she saw furniture, paneled doors, milk crates—or maybe peach crates, or some other kind of crates—and more horse tack. She picked out a set of oars that maybe went with the rowboat that had fallen apart downstairs.
    She didn’t see Gabe.
    â€œGabe? Where’d you go?” Dahlia climbed off the ladder, testing the floor with every step to see if it would hold. It squeaked, creaked, and once she got past the loft entrance, it held just fine—even when she rocked back and forth on her feet, and stomped a couple of times. “Gabe?”
    â€œOver here.” He breathed it in a whisper so soft, she barely heard it over the faint patter of drizzle on the copper roof.
    She followed the whisper around a pair of French doors with the glass all shattered out. Her feet crunched across the broken pieces, and her footsteps were far too loud in her own ears.
    Why hadn’t she heard Gabe moving around up there? He was twice her size, easy, and none too light on his feet at the best of times. Why wasn’t there a ladder under the loft entrance until they brought one? Why was her cousin whispering? Who was wearing yellow cotton, all out of season?
    Ahead she saw the glow of his lantern, reassuring in the cave-like loft.
    He was on the far side of a set of fin de si è cle screens, moth-eaten and ravaged by rats, mold, and anything else that will ruin fine silk on a balsa frame. A scene was painted upon them, or embroidered onto them, Dahlia couldn’t tell. She saw the ragged outlines of trees, mountains, and water. The rest was too badly damaged to make out.
    Gabe’s body showed through the holes. His shadow was large against the rest of it. He was hunkered over something, or crouching down.
    Dahlia rounded the screens with her light and saw him, knees bent, his hands clasping the edges of an open trunk. He was pale, even