Free Catacomb by Madeleine Roux Page B

the apartment.
    Still, the floors were wood, and ponderous old chandeliers hung in most of the rooms. In the study adjacent to the kitchen, Steve showed them his jam spot, a cluster of South American drums and flutes collected on a frayed shag rug.
    “Some buds come over on Friday nights to jam out,” Steve told them, hands on hips. The jam spot was clearly a point of pride. “We won’t keep you up too late. Or, hell, you can all join in. Sorry, heck .”
    “It’s okay, you can swear. Mom and Dad aren’t here to throw a fit,” Jordan said, grinning. “Good thing, too, they’d probably try to Pottery Barn the bejesus out of this place.”
    “Not my style, man, not my style.” Steve led them into the kitchen. His worn flip-flops pitter-pattered on the hardwood floors, his loose cotton pants pooling over his feet. “Whileyou’re here, help yourself to anything in the fridge. The, uh, grown-up stuff, too, just don’t get too wild about it.”
    He pressed one forefinger to his nose and winked at them. “Any vegetarians in our midst?”
    “No, but vegetables kind of sound heavenly after four days of fast food,” Abby said, her eyes going a little glossy.
    “Right on, right on.” Dan couldn’t place Steve’s accent. East coast, maybe, but slowly descending into a smoother, Creole twang. Steve shuffled over to the refrigerator and bent low to inspect what was inside. “Cauliflower, some bell peppers, and an onion or two. We’ll have to do some grocery shopping soon, anyway, so I’ll put more vegetables on the list.”
    Abby thanked him, and then Jordan grabbed a few sodas and made their excuses. They followed Jordan up the narrow staircase to a dark, cool second floor. There were plenty of bags and boxes to unpack from the trunk, but Jordan wanted to relax a little first.
    Uncle Steve had hung framed pictures on the wall along the stairwell. Dan paused in front of one of them. It showed three men on a street, or at least outside. The men wore simple masks, with exaggerated eyeholes and long, curved beaks. Dan shuddered, hating the way the black, gaping eyes made the wearers look lifeless, almost as if there was nothing there behind the painted plaster faces. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any of those damn pictures in their bedroom or he’d never get to sleep.
    “We’ve got the room at the end of the hall, Dan. Abby’s in the office. I know you’re probably internet starved so I’ll get my laptop set up and grab the Wi-Fi password from Steve.” Jordan stopped in the hall and flicked on a light switch, bringing one of the old chandeliers to life. “You can have first dibs on the bathroom, Abby. Hot water’s a little sluggish, so give it a minute.”

    He led Dan to their room, which was small but reasonably tidy, with two ancient futons in opposite corners, both of them made up with mismatched flannel and cotton sheets.
    “This place gives new meaning to the term ‘bachelor pad,’ but I bet you two will get on famously,” Dan said, dropping his backpack onto one of the futons and sitting down. A spring from the frame bounced up to jab him in the rear.
    “Hey!” Abby glided in through the open doorway, bringing her camera with her. Her dark eyes slid to where Jordan was booting up his laptop on the table under the window. “Mind if I leave these to upload while I take a shower? I’m running out of space after the cemetery.”
    “Uh-huh, now it’s obvious you two only want me for my computer,” Jordan said. He submitted to a playful ruffling of his hair from Abby, then abdicated his chair to her. “All yours. And then yours,” he said, glancing at Dan. “You’re doing a good job of not saying anything, but I know you’re dying to email that Maisie chick.”
    “Is it that obvious?”
    “Yup.” Jordan tossed Dan one of the sodas and then cracked his own open. “Jesus, Abby, how many damn pictures did you take?”
    “A few?” she answered sheepishly, giving him a goofy smile before