I lean my ear against the wood. Silence. But there’s a faint hum coming from inside. Like the hum of electronics. Servers?
I kneel down, peering through the keyhole, but it’s dark.
I stand up, frustrated. I turn to leave, but my foot catches on something at the base of the doorframe. I look down.
A key.
It’s lying on the floor, half-hidden under the edge of a runner rug. It’s silver, small, nondescript.
Did he drop it? Did it fall out of his pocket?
Silas Vane doesn't seem like the kind of man who drops things. He seems like a man who calculates every breath he takes.
But maybe... maybe he was distracted last night. Maybe carrying a kidnapped woman threw him off his game just enough.
I pick up the key. My hand is shaking.
This feels like a trap. It feels too easy.
Don't do it, Ivy.
But I have to know. I have to know who he is. I have to know what I’m dealing with. Knowledge is the only weapon I have left.
I slide the key into the lock. It fits perfectly.
I turn it.Click.
The mechanism slides back.
I take a deep breath, push the door open, and step inside.
The room is dark. Heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight across the windows, blocking out the sun. The only light comes from the glowing LEDs of a massive computer server rack in the corner and the standby lights of several monitors mounted on the wall.
It smells like him in here. Concentrated. Sandalwood and ozone, but sharper.
I fumble for a light switch on the wall. I find a dimmer and slide it up.
Track lighting floods the room.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a scream.
It’s an office. There’s a massive mahogany desk, leather chairs, shelves of books. But that’s not what draws my eye.
It’s the wall opposite the desk.
It’s a corkboard wall, spanning at least ten feet. And it is covered in me.
Hundreds of photographs.
I walk toward it, my legs feeling like they’re moving through molasses. I can’t look away. It’s a mosaic of my life, stolen and pinned up like butterflies in a display case.
There’s a photo of me walking out of my art history lecture in September. I’m wearing a yellow scarf. I remember that day. I was laughing at something my friend Sarah said.
There’s a photo of me buying apples at the bodega on the corner.
There’s a photo of me sitting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, sketching.
There’s a photo of me through the window of a coffee shop, biting my lip as I read a textbook.
