This has to be number 17: the Knox.
From her pocket Taylor retrieves a slip of paper, and a packet of orange Tic Tacs falls out. Sam must have slipped them in there; he knows they are her favorite.
He seemed impressed that she would be interviewing at the Knox but was also slightly apprehensive.
“Anna must like you,” he mused, somewhat enviously. “She never tries to hook me up.”
“I think she just wants me to be able to make rent,” Taylor said, only partly kidding.
“Well, remember, you’re not committing to anything—not yet. See how it goes, what you think.”
“Okay.”
“But—if you can, snap some pictures on the sly. I’m curious, of course.”
Smiling, she now slips the Tic Tacs back into her pocket and rereads the note she jotted down earlier during her phone call:Knock three times, wait five seconds, and knock twice. Repeat until someone answers.
It seemed utterly silly when the man on the phone spit out these directives, and she almost laughed, certain he was pulling her leg. But a silent pause had ensued, and then the man continued, his tone maintaining the same businesslike quality. Taylor was glad she hadn’t responded, and later she wondered,Was that the first test I’d passed?
Now, being here on a street that feels like a charming colonial-era movie set, and standing in front of a plain, almost-speakeasy door that apparently opens into an exclusive private club, the instructions seem perfectly reasonable.
Taylor checks her watch—9:13. Two minutes to go. Suddenly, she worries:Will they know my watch is a fake Rolex?Fake designer clothes—and handbags—she is great at being able to discern the difference. But jewelry is a different story.
The second hand slowly ticks down, prolonged, fatigued. And then, finally, it is time.
Knock at the Knox. Here we go.
Her mouth feels dry, her heart picking up a notch, as she knocks as instructed. It takes just one full round before the door slowly begins to move.
“Hi,” a thirtysomething-year-old man says as he rests his hand on the edge of the cracked door, as if opening a fridge to lazily gaze inside at its contents. He is tall and lanky, with brown curly hair and dark eyes. A metal necklace hangs over his white T-shirt, and a half apron is pinned over his jeans.
“Uh, hi. Is this, um, the Knox?”
The man smiles. “It depends. Why?” He sounds British, but Taylor doesn’t have a good ear for those sorts of things. In the Outer Banks, they would get an annual summer influx of foreigners coming to work the tourist season, and she could neverdiscern their accents. Grayson used to tease her about it.England and Australia are two completely different countries, T.J.
She glances at the paper, now crumpled in her hand. Was she given a contact name? “Um…”
The man laughs and steps back. “I’m just fucking with you. Taylor, right? Come on in.”
She pauses. The hallway behind the man is dimly lit, and she’s suddenly hesitant to enter.
“I’m sorry,” the man says. “I didn’t mean to weird you out. My name’s Liam. I’m a bartender here at the Knox. I’m not the one you want to see. That’s Peter Wales. I’ll take you to him.”
Liam turns and begins walking down the hall, assuming she’ll follow. She collapses her umbrella and trails behind. But a few steps in, Liam turns and points to an ornate brass umbrella holder they already passed. “You can put your umbrella there.”
“Oh, thanks,” she mumbles, embarrassed, and backtracks to do so.
Like the street, the hallway is narrower than a typical one—clearly not up to code, though perhaps Knox members don’t concern themselves with these things. Nor do they apparently worry about claustrophobia; Taylor concentrates on the action of breathing, trying to edge the focus away from an all-too-familiar sensation. But her nostrils instantly fill with a musty dampness, the sort of smell one would associate with a basement.
The hall is austere and minimally lit; a single overhead yellowed bulb provides enough light to advance a few feet to the following bulb. The walls appear grayish white, and painted on the left are a burst of dot symbols that remind Taylor of the game dominoes. On the right-hand side begin a series of numbers. Grasping the meaning of those dots is a lost cause, but Taylor can at least make out the numbers.
The first number is seven. “So, is there another entrance to this place?”
“Yep,” Liam calls out from over his shoulder.
“Where?”
“This building runs through to Mount Vernon. That’s the pretty face of it.”
