Nellie.
The loo.
There are no words.
“Good morning, Miss Stone.”
“Scarlet,” I correct her.
“Scarlet.” Sofia smiles. “Mrs. Moore is taking a bath.”
Brilliant idea. She needs to wash everything about the British bloke from yesterday clean from her body—and her mind. I wish I could do the same.
“I’m going to check on her, maybe choose something for her to wear today.”
After several unanswered knocks on her bedroom door, I open it a few inches. “Nellie? Hello?”
A crack of light peeks from the partially-shut bathroom door. Nellie’s voice mixes with the running water. Each butchered note of a song I’ve never heard before makes me cringe. I give her some privacy, opting to explore her wardrobe for something that doesn’t say “crazy lady” nor “adulterous twat.” Something wholesome would be nice.
“Is it too hot for a turtle neck and cardigan?” I grin, sifting through rows of hanging clothes and drawers of jumpers, hosiery, and lingerie. “Nellie Moore…” I whisper and shake my head, holding up a red lace teddy. Folding the tiny and no doubt expensive bit of nothing, I return it to the drawer. The drawer won’t close. Something seems to be behind it.
Nellie’s harmonic catastrophe continues—the nerve-grating sound of a donkey braying infused with a heavy dose of monkey screeching. It’s really the most unexpected noise coming from a woman who, on the outside, is quite stunning.
After some tedious manipulating, I manage to pull the drawer completely out. Threading my arm in the empty hole, I fish out the culprit. It’s a honey and bronze leather journal with a latching strap.
“Put it back,” I whisper, tracing the strap with the pad of my finger. Curiosity drives the discovery of new frontiers. Okay, that’s what Oscar always tells me. However, acting on it all the time is a disease—one for which I have yet to find the cure.
My name is Scarlet Stone, and I know the difference between right and wrong. I just haven’t mastered the art of giving a shit about it.
Before reason can jump in and rescue my unscrupulous impulse, I have the journal open, my eyes tracking the first sentence of the first entry.
Bell,
I was prepared to leave Harold today, but the psychiatrist declared me insane. Do you think I’m insane?
~Nel
I flip the page.
Bell,
It’s official. I’m insane. I decided not to leave Harold, assuming he would leave me, but he’s still here.
~Nel
Next page. This is so wrong.
Bell,
I can’t let that cheating bastard get away with it. Do you understand? Well, I’m sure you do.
~Nel
Bell,
I busted a seven-thousand-dollar mirror today because I couldn’t stand my reflection. Did you ever think about your mortality? Suicide isn’t always selfish. Sometimes it’s making the hard decision so other people don’t have to make it for you. It’s crazy how much I’ve envied you lately.
~Nel
