The tote bag she had them in the whole trip home sits on the counter. So where are the knives?
I open more drawers yet, searching. Maybe she didn’t intend on unpacking them here. Maybe she wanted to bring them to my kitchen. Then where are they?
I step out of the kitchen and look around.
Boxes on the floor in the entry, suitcase next to them, phone on the table. Nothing else is out of place.
I walk to her bedroom. Bed untouched. She didn’t even unpack yet.
I step back into the kitchen. A small pantry sits next to the fridge with a small, slightly tilted door. I open it and find the roll of knives.
Carefully, with respect to her, I pick it up and take it to the counter. Expecting to find the full set, I unroll it.
Right at the end, where the paring knife is supposed to go, is an empty slot.
I scan the counter again, then the sink, the drying mat, the open drawer. No small blade. No wet towel. Nothing that says she finished and put it away.
I move back toward the hall, eyes tracking every flat surface. A faint glint on a console tucked away in the corner.
There it is.
The paring knife sits on the wood like it was set down in a hurry. Not washed. A few pale flecks clinging along the edge, the tacky sheen of apple starting to dull.
Fear flashes through me, quick and electric.
She may be anal about leaving her phone behind, but she would never—never—treat one of her knives like this.
Chapter Thirty Five
Bianca
I don’t sleep.
I do that thing where you sit still and listen harder than you’ve ever listened, like you can hear something useful if you strain enough. Nothing comes except the muffled thump of footsteps passing at intervals outside and the low, constant hush of air moving through vents.
That’s all after I searched the entire room for an exit, that is.
I didn’t find one.
It’s a nice room. Obscenely nice, considering.
The bed is big and carefully made, sheets smooth and cool, duvet in a fancy ivory that looks and feels expensive. Someone ironed the pillowcases. There’s a faint smell of linen and something woody, not perfume, more like cedar.
Currently, I’m sitting against the headboard, eyes on the door. The headboard itself is upholstered in a textured fabric, cream with a faint herringbone.
Across from the bed is a low dresser with a shallow bowl on top. In that bowl are three smooth stones and a sprig of rosemary. Beside it is a clock with no numbers, just hands.
To the right, a pair of tall windows reaches almost to the floor. They’re fitted with sheer curtains that move when I walk past and heavier drapes that were pulled back before I arrived, knotted neatly with braided cords.
Beyond the glass is a courtyard I couldn’t stop watching in the dark—stone paths, clipped green, a fountain. Security rotated through it all night. The windows open, but not much. A safety catch sits in the track. I learned that around 3:00 in the morning, when I tried to pull it open to escape despite the security.
A small sitting area sits in front of the windows. Two chairs and a small round table with a carafe of water and a glass.
Next to the bed is the bathroom with a pocket door. Inside, it’s all limestone and old money. A long vanity lines one wall, a glass shower along the other. Bath products are in unbranded amber bottles with black pumps. I took the cap off one and smelled citrus and something herbal. I didn’t shower. I splashed water on my face, counted to sixty, and did it again.
There’s a closet. Double doors, flush, almost invisible. Inside: empty hangers, a shelf with extra bedding. No clothes. No shoes. No luggage. The only personal item in the entire space is me.
The door to the hallway is solid wood, heavier than it looks. A small brass plate sets the handle off-center like a design choice. No deadbolt on my side, but when I put my ear to it, I heard the soft slide of something internal catching when it closed last night. Locked from the outside. I tested the hinges. I tested the frame. I tested my own patience and found the limits around midnight.
