Memories flooded me – Ashley and I thrashing about in the mosh pit in a London club. The two of us showing up at our school formal in dresses made out of PVC, fishnet, and safety pins. Ashley and I celebrating our acceptance to fashion school by getting matching skull and rose tattoos on our lower backs.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I wiped them away, but more replaced them. The tears washed away the numbness that had clung to me since last night, leaving my body raw with grief. I cupped my broken eyes and wept for Ashley, for the friend who had lifted me out of my darkest times as a teenager and taught me not to give a fuck what anyone thought.
Floorboards creaked downstairs as Heathcliff and Morrie moved around. Upstairs, all was silent. Quoth hadn’t come down to go out to the police station, although I don’t know why Morrie thought they’d tell him anything, or why if we were trying to protect Quoth he was going to the police station at all.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Of course it didn’t make sense, because they weren’t telling me the whole truth. I didn’t need Morrie’s superior intellect to figure that out.
I need to talk to Quoth.
I tore my gaze from that bare patch of floor and bolted up the stairs. The door to the flat was open, the living room empty. Morrie’s computer beeped an odd rhythm. Numbers and random strings of characters streamed down the screen. I peered into the kitchen, and quickly retracted my head. That room needed crime scene tape. “Quoth?” I called out.
No answer.
“I need to talk to you. I’m not buying this blood phobia story.” I stepped into the hallway, squinting to resolve the dark paneled walls covered with even more artwork and a set of narrow servant’s steps sweeping up toward the attic. I peered into the first room. It was impossibly neat – the bed made with hospital corners, a metal clothes rack beside the window holding an identical row of pinstriped suits, damask waistcoats, and crisp white shirts. Six pairs of shiny brogue shoes were lined up on the edge of the blanket box, upon which sat a turntable and a sound board. A set of leather belts with extra silver attachments hung from a hook beside the bed.
I picked up one, noticing the silver attachment buckled a wrist-sized loop. “Argh!” I dropped the thing and wiped my hand on my jeans.Those aren’t belts…
It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce this was Morrie’s room, and that I now knew way more than I needed to about the guy. I backed out without touching anything else. The next door was closed. I pushed it open just wide enough to see it was a bathroom. Then the smell hit me and I slammed it shut again. I guess Morrie’s fastidiousness doesn’t extend to communal spaces like the bathroom and kitchen. At least I knew my boys were somewhat normal.
Why am I thinking of them as mine? I’ve only known them for three days, and one of those days they asked me to lie to the police and they might very well be lying to me now. Don’t get attached to them just because they’re hot and they were nice after I spilled my guts. I should know by now what happens when I think I can trust someone.
“Quoth!” I yelled, pushing open the next door. The contents of this room consisted of a mountain of clothes, books, and stale takeout containers that might hide a bed or furniture or the weapons of mass destruction. A unique and distinctly Heathcliff musk hit my nostrils – leather and peat and stale cigarettes mingled with damp laundry and rotting food. I held my nose and backed out. If Quoth was buried under that pile, he was a goner.
By Isis, guys are pigs.
I headed toward the final door at the end of the hall. I knocked. “Quoth? I know you’re in there. If you’re wanking, can I get a grunt of acknowledgement?”
Nothing.
“Why does Morrie want you to go to the police station if you’re supposed to be laying low? What is it you’re not telling me? You listened to me spill my guts last night. I demand equal treatment. Quoth?”
Still no reply.
“Quoth, seriously, say something or I’m opening this doorright now.”
The hairs on my neck prickled. The silence in the flat turned ominous. It wastooquiet.
Someone broke into the shop last night and killed Ashley. We assumed they slipped out after doing the deed, but what if they’d been hiding in the shop this whole time? What if they’re behind the sofa downstairs or crouching in the corner of the Children’s Books room, just waiting for the chance to sneak out and pick us all off?
Or what if Quoth is standing behind me with a machete and an evil glint in his weird eyes?
The creeping sensation shot up my neck. I whirled around, but there was no one in the hallway. I froze, listening hard for the sound of movement, but all I could hear was the faint sounds of people banging on the front door and Heathcliff yelling.
No. I don’t deserve to feel scared like this. I’m getting answers.
I turned back to the door. “That’s it. I’m coming in.”
I shoved my shoulder against the door and yanked the knob. The door flew open. I tripped over the rug and stumbled into the room.
“What?”
I wasn’t looking at a guy’s room, but an entiresuite. An enormous, elaborately-carved four-poster bed dominated the space, hung with thick curtains but unmade, the bare mattress covered in a layer of dust. In an alcove in front of the window were arranged chairs and coffee tables and a liquor cabinet, all covered in white sheets streaked with grime. On the other side of the bed were three doors. I opened one to find a massive closet – twin banks of ornate racks and shelving units flanking a floor-length gilt mirror. In the dusty glass my reflection appeared in mottled sepia like an old photograph, the edges fading into a pinhole, the way my vision faded away.
Imagine having a room like this.I pictured the racks full of my clothes, the shelves bursting with bright-colored Doc Martins and Vivienne Westwood dresses. When I was a famous fashion designer I’d be featured in my double-page Vanity Fair spread photographed inside this closet…
Except that you’ll never be a fashion designer.
