“Okay, Mr. Gray.” I tiptoe farther into his bedroom, scanning for anything dangerous. Lasers. Dogs. Security cameras. “If I find a red room in here…”
Thankfully, I don’t need to complete that sentence.
There’s nothing worth stumbling upon in the room. I can’t open the wall safe because it also requires a fingerprint. Only clothes fill the closet. Dark jeans, white t-shirts, black boots. A few dark suits off to the side.
Does he think he’s an anime character who only changes his appearance for a new series?
I open another door, but my hopes are dashed once I enter.
The master bathroom is a larger version of the one I’ve already used. Except this one contains basic hygiene items. Shampoo, toothbrush, shaving cream, a razor. No personal products beyond the absolute basics.
The last door leads to a smaller bedroom with no signs of life. I wonder when Alexei last had company. Probably never, based on his less than desirable personality.
All dead ends. I head back to the main room.
The silence presses against my ears, almost physical in its intensity. Ten thousand square feet of space, yet I’m suffocating. I spin in a slow circle, evaluating my prison.
The windows taunt me with clear views of the city, of freedom just beyond an uncrossable barrier.
Or is it?
I pivot back to the bathroom door but hesitate, torn between the urgent need to escape and the desperate desire to wash away the remnants of last night.
Blood in my hair.
A dead man’s blood.
I shudder.
Five minutes. I’ll allow myself five minutes to feel human again before I continue searching. Maybe the hot water will help clear my foggy mind.
Decision made, I dart into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Probably a pointless act. If Alexei returns, a flimsy interior lock won’t keep him out. The apartment-sized bathroom is intimidating. It’s a decent walk from the door to the toilet. Another to the sink. The tub is in the back half, tiled in slate. Glass panels and a glass door are held up by shining steel and concrete.
“I could host a dance party in this shower.”
The dimensions are spacious, with multiple showerheads and a control panel that belongs on a spaceship. I fiddle with the buttons until instantly hot water cascades from above.
I peel off the filthy maid costume, wishing I had anything else to wear. The sight of my naked body in the mirror stops me short. Bruises bloom on my wrists from the zip ties. Several more mar my arms and legs, likely from struggling in the car and fighting against Benny. My knees are scraped. I turn away, unable to confront the physical evidence of what happened.
At least the water is heaven.
I scrub at my skin and hair with rich, sandalwood-scented soap and shampoo, watching pinkish water swirl down the drain. Five minutes, I’d promised myself, but I finish in three.
I dry off quickly, grimacing as I pick up the maid outfit. My skin crawls at the thought of putting the filthy material back on, but I have no other alternatives. No time to check for clothesthat might not exist. I slip the costume on, the fabric clinging to my damp skin. A quick rifling through the bathroom drawers rewards me with a travel-sized toothbrush and toothpaste. After a quick brush, I start to feel human again.
I grab my heels from where I’d left them by the couch. Rather than putting them back on, I hook my fingers through the straps. If I need to run, I’ll be better off barefoot than with these torture devices.
Back to my investigation. I drift to the windows that line the far wall and offer a panoramic view of Chicago. I press my palms against the glass, then my forehead, and peer down. The height is dizzying. I’m ten stories high, with nothing but straight, smooth building face below me.
The glass is cool and unyielding against my skin. I rap my knuckles against it. Thick. Solid. Just as Alexei said. Reinforced polycarbonate. Unbreakable.
But something catches my eye.
Not the glass itself, but the frame around it. The building is old, an industrial conversion, but the original parts are probably early twentieth century. The windows might be new, but these frames? I run my fingers along the metal casement.
Despite careful restoration, the weathered steel shows signs of age. My eye spies what others might miss. The subtle discoloration of old welds, the almost imperceptible sagging at the corners.
My heart quickens.
