But here? The servants would realize he didn’t belong.
“Your boyfriend won’t care?”
Carla paused at the top of the stairwell. “Why would he?”
“Uh, well, because I’m a man?” Jack shrugged. Maybe Ronnie wasn’t the jealous type. Maybe he and Carla had an open relationship.
But that seemed unlikely.
“He’s not gonna know,” said Carla, starting down the stairs. “Come on.”
She would be the death of him; he just knew it.
“Ronnie’s got better things to do than worry about me,” she continued. “I’m not even one of his top ten priorities, trust me.”
“Oh,” said Jack. “That’s, um… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “I choose to put up with it.”
They descended a stairwell lit by a single bare bulb. The wallpaper gave way to wood paneling. Nature paintings lined the walls. Jack wanted to examine them, but Carla jogged down the stairs like she was afraid of whatever waited above, and he struggled to keep up with her.
A musty scent greeted him. The soles of his shoes clicked against linoleum.
The basement was fully furnished. A full bar and kitchenette were tucked into the corner across from a serene painting of a forest. Leather couches faced a television even bigger than the last, so tall and deep that Jack imagined they had to cut away the wall to bring it inside. Someone had placed a doily and a vase of flowers in the center of a solid oak coffee table.
They passed a decidedly threatening-looking stairwell that Carla very purposefully did not look at and stepped into anotheroffice. This one was smaller, cozier than the previous, with a bookcase stuffed full of novels, a small television, a painting of a grassy meadow beneath a stormy sky, and two armchairs facing an executive desk.
Carla dropped into the suede swivel chair with an, “Oof!”
Jack sat gingerly in an armchair and prayed he didn’t taint it with the essence of poverty.
“Nobody’s gonna bother us here,” said Carla. “This is the good study. Trust me.” With that, she whipped a wine key from one of the drawers and set about uncorking the wine, which she sloshed into whisky glasses. She slid one across the desk to Jack, then fished in the drawer until she unearthed a bright red, lacquered fountain pen that gleamed in the dim light. “This is where Ronnie hides the fancy stationery.” The laugh she gave was just short of a cackle.
Jack stared in confusion as she disappeared again, this time emerging with a thick, leather-bound book large enough to be mistaken for a ledger. She flipped gleefully through the pages until she found a blank one.
“He never lets me use the good shit,” complained Carla, uncapping the pen to reveal a robust, golden nib engraved with curling calligraphed letters almost impossible to discern. In print that would shame a first grader, she scrawled:Things We’ve Tried.
Jack struggled not to laugh. “I, uh, I can see why,” he said, staring pointedly at the page.
“Oh, fuck you,” Carla huffed, reaching over to shove his shoulder. “It’s not about the handwriting, it’s about the experience, alright? I can appreciate the fancy fucking stationery without having beautiful handwriting, OK? Don’t shame me.”
“I would never,” said Jack, still choking on laughter. “It’s, um, fine. It’s legible.”
“Thank you,” said Carla, twirling the pen between her fingers. “Now quick, give me some ideas before this thing dries out on me.”
“Well, I’ve tried, uh…” The words died in Jack’s mouth. Suddenly, all his attempts to identify the root of the problem felt painfully ridiculous. “I did a lot of exploring. I tried changing my routine.”
“How?” asked Carla, scribbling something down. Jack didn’t even attempt to decipher it.
“Uh, sometimes I ate a muffin instead of a hot dog for dinner,” he admitted, face heating. “I talked to different shopkeepers. I straight-up asked a few people what they thought was going on. No one was especially helpful.” He declined to mention the bookstore owner’s theory—he didn’t know Carla well enough for that yet and he hated to be written off as crazy.
“Oh-kayy,” said Carla. She frowned at him. “Uh, anything else?”
“Well, I tried to switch my train ticket, but the clerk wouldn’t let me. I can’t just leave.”
“Huh,” she said. “I tried to leave and nothing fucking changed. I just woke up here again.”
Jack tapped his foot against the carpet. “You, um, you said you had a car?”
