Chapter One
HOW DID I GET HERE?
No, it's not a rhetorical question. I honestly can't remember how I got here.
I press my palm against the mattress beneath me, velvet, the kind that would cost a fortune to clean if you spilled anything on it, and push myself upright. The movement sends a pickaxe through the back of my skull, and I have to breathe through the urge to vomit.
Okay. Okay, Mira.
Channel your inner Jassy.
What would a criminology intern do?
The answer comes to me as soon as I ask myself this.
Assess the scene.
The room is small. A cubicle, really, maybe three meters by three meters if I'm being generous. The bed I woke up on dominates most of the space, its burgundy velvet coverlet the same shade as the curtains drawn tight against the far wall. No nightstand. No lamp. No visible light source, and yet the room glows amber, like someone dipped it in honey and secrets.
I touch the back of my head and wince. There's a lump there, tender and throbbing, but my fingers come away clean. No blood. Small mercies.
A door sits to my left. Dark wood, brass handle, the kind of old-fashioned craftsmanship that belongs in a Perry Mason courtroom scene.
Oh, a door!
I'm on my feet before I can think better of it, and the room tilts dangerously, but I grab the wall and stay upright. Three steps. That's all it takes to cross this glorified closet. My hand wraps around the brass handle, cold, smooth, freshly polished, and I pull.
Nothing.
I push.
Still nothing.
A part of me already expected it to be locked, but my heart still cracks a little when suspicion hardens into reality. I press my ear to the wood and hear music. Something jazzy, brassy, the kind of song flappers would dance to in old black-and-white films.
I don't bother trying to shoulder it open. I'm optimistic, not illogical. That door is solid oak at least, and I have the upper body strength of someone whose primary exercise is reaching for the top shelf of her bookcase.
My gaze slides to the velvet curtains.
The fabric is heavy when I pull it aside, the kind of thick material that would muffle screams if someone pressed their face into it. My brain supplies that detail cheerfully, and I tell it to shut up.
Oh.
It's a full-length window.
No latch. No hinges. No way to open it.
But what's on the other side—
I flatten my palms against the glass and stare.
A...bordello?
Or what a bordello would look like if someone with too much money and a Gatsby complex designed it. Gold drips from every surface: the crown molding, the frames of paintings I can't quite make out, the champagne flutes clutched in gloved hands. Velvet booths in deep jewel tones line the walls below me, emerald, sapphire, ruby, each one occupied by figures in evening wear.
And masks. Everyone is wearing masks. Half-face, Venetian style, the kind you see at masquerade balls in movies where someone always ends up dead by the third act.
My cubicle shares a wall with this space, the window positioned like a display case. Like I'm an exhibit. Below me and to the right, I can see other windows just like mine, each one framed by the same burgundy curtains.
