ROMAN
The bedbeside me is empty and cold, which is never a good sign when you’re staying in a house full of killers. One who seems to have a very personal vendetta.
Maggie’s gone.
My brain goes through several possibilities, none good, before my eyes land on the note on the bedside table.
I’ve been forced to go to the spa with Eliza and Priscilla. Sorry! Please don’t leave, I’ll be back as soon as I can.
M x
I flop back on the bed for a further twenty minutes of wallowing before I give in and decide to get up.
I’m halfway into yesterday morning’s jeans when there’s a knock at the door. Loud and sure. I’m still hoping to god it isn’t Eddie coming to finish me off. I don’t know how to work a gun, far less where to find one. I scan the room for some kind of weapon, seriouslyconsidering whether the candlesticks are hefty enough to take him out.
‘Roman,’ It’s Evan’s voice, not Eddie’s. I’m not sure if that’s much better.. ‘Morning. Thought you might fancy joining me.’
Zero explanation as to what I might be joining him in doing.
‘Uh, sure. I’ll be right there.’
I’m pretty sure hiding under the bed won’t solve my problems. So I square my shoulders and open the door.
He doesn’t say where we’re going. Just turns and starts walking, clearly expecting me to follow.
I do. Because defying him seems like a bad idea. Though I’m not sure following him feels much wiser. We head through the main part of the house at first, the smell of coffee drifting from the dining room. It all looks perfectly normal. I start to relax, telling myself that I’m being paranoid.
Then we turn down a corridor that looks distinctly more shoddy than the others. It narrows, and the design gets simpler.
My shoulders tighten.
Okay. This is fine. Lots of big houses have extra corridors. Storage. Wine cellars.
Murder rooms.
My arse tightens.
We take a set of stairs downward. Then another. No carpet. Just worn stone, that dips in the middle from centuries of use.
I consider turning around and pretending I’ve forgotten something.
Evan keeps walking, not even looking back to check if I’m there. Clearly, he’s used to being obeyed.
The air changes as we go deeper. Colder and damper. The sound of the house above us fades, replaced by the echo of our footsteps. My unease grows with each step, until my brain is screaming at me to turn back
This is it. This is where he finds out who you really are. This is where you get turned into pig food.
We stop, and Evan opens a door.
To a games room.
I could fucking cry with relief. A games suite. Plush carpet and expensive leather seats fill the space, along with a fancy-looking snooker table, complete with full lighting. A well-stocked bar and multiple gaming machines. There’s a full pitch and putt to one end of the cavernous room, and a massive curved screen showing a golf course so vividly green it makes me squint.
‘Virtual golf,’ Evan says, like I’m dumbfounded because I’m stupid, and not because I thought I was going to end up as pig fodder. ‘My knees aren’t what they used to be.’
He hands me an electronic gold club.
‘I should warn you, I’m terrible at golf. Virtual or otherwise.’
