Free Floating Staircase by Ronald Malfi Page B

rest.”
    â€œSure,” I said . . . then froze. Movement from the hallway caught my attention. I saw—or thought I saw—a shadow receding down the length of the wall. My bowels clenched, and my heart was suddenly a solid chunk of granite. Covering the phone’s mouthpiece with my hand, I called out Jodie’s name and waited for a response. None came. Anyway, I would have heard the front door open had it been Jodie . . .
    â€œWe’re doubling the print run on this one, too,” Holly droned. “At least, that’s what I’m shooting for. But I need you to deliver.”
    I crept down the hallway in time to see the basement door at the end of the hall slowly close. The latch catching sounded like someone charging a handgun. I swallowed a hard lump of spit.
    â€œYou’re frighteningly contemplative. You’re not going to ask for an extension on this, are you? Because the book is already slated—”
    Somehow I found my voice. “No. That’s good news.” The words all but stuck to my throat. I heard the basement steps squeaking as someone descended. Heart pounding like a jackhammer, I approached the basement door.
    â€œWhat the hell’s the matter with you?” Holly barked. “You sound completely out of it, man.”
    â€œI’m gonna have to call you back,” I said.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œI think someone just broke into my house.”
    â€œTravis? Broke into your
house?”
    â€œI gotta go.”
    â€œDo you want me to call—”
    â€œI’ll call you back,” I said and hung up. The cell phone was a sweaty block in my hand. I slipped it into my pocket, then opened the basement door. There was a light on down there, one I was positive I hadn’t turned on. And Jodie had not been in the basement at all as far as I could tell. “Hey,” I called, trying my damnedest to sound threatening and failing miserably. “I know you’re there. Come on up and we’ll talk. No need to call the police.”
    I stood at the top of the stairs, sweating like a hostage, for what seemed like an eternity. Just as my heartbeat began to regain its normal syncopation, a muted thump followed by a peppering of distant, hollow clacks—pencils falling to the concrete floor?—issued from the basement, causing the sweat to immediately freeze to my flesh. I was about to convince myself that some animal had gotten into the house and was down there scrounging around and raising hell until I saw that the carpeted runner on the stairs held the distinct and undeniable impression of wet footprints.
    Invisible hands closed around my neck. All of a sudden, the simple act of breathing became a monumental task. I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and prepared to dial 911 . . . although there was a horrible clenching feeling in the core of my soul that suggested whatever was down here could not be shot by bullets or restrained in handcuffs.
    No,
a voice countered in the back of my head.
That’s stupid. Quit trying to frighten yourself.
    I descended the steps with excruciating slowness, the risers groaning beneath my weight. At the bottom of the stairwell, I took a deep breath while counting silently to five, then swung around the wall, exposing myself to whatever might be waiting for me.
    The basement was empty. The main room was packed with our orphaned belongings—things we had not yet decided where to put—and the single bulb in the ceiling, which was on, cast shadows in every direction. I stood there holding my breath, waiting to hear another sound in order to pinpoint the exact location of the intruder—a raccoon or possum, surely—but other than the slamming of my own heart, the basement was silent.
    Then something caught my eye: something that should not have been there because I’d thrown it away after we’d moved to England. In fact, my memory of throwing it into the trash behind our flat was