Wishing I could pull the words back in, I snap my lips shut and give a non-committal shrug.
But he’s latched on to what I’ve already confirmed. “Oh, how cool. Maison Marteau.” The way he draws out the name reminds me of Bill and Ted and their excellent adventure.
“So have you been down to the catacombs? They run under this part of the city.” He edges closer, the neon skull staring straight at me. “The tunnels stretch for miles and miles. We’vegot tickets for the official tour but are trying to hook up with some catophiles.”
“I’m not sure?—”
“You know,” he says, “people who explore and hangout down there. They make maps of the tunnels.”
“Illegally,” the girl chimes in, crossing her arms. Maybe not as eager as her boyfriend to explore the deep, dark underground.
“Listen, I know we just met,” the guy says, “but could you get us inside?”
“Inside?” I shake my head, confused. “The catacombs?”
“No. Here.” He thrusts a hand toward Maison Marteau.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. I can’t.” I start to edge around him.
He blocks me, his voice getting higher and faster as he tries to persuade. “Just for a few minutes. To take pictures.”
“I don’t think?—”
“Jaden, back off.” The girl steps up and puts a calming hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder. “Sorry,” she says to me. “Dark tourism is kind of his thing.” She sends him an exasperated glance. “Sometimes he gets a little crazy.”
“No worries.” My laugh sounds fake and fluttery. “Sorry I can’t help, but I’m only a guest myself.” I step toward the gate.
Then her words register.
“Wait.” I face them again. “Dark tourism?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “You know, visiting places like Chernobyl, Bodie ghost town, Lizzie Borden’s house.”
“The catacombs,” the guy says, shifting his gaze to the mansion. “And here.”
“Here? Maison Marteau?” An eerie sensation whispers on my neck.
The guy drags his gaze back to me. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
He leans closer with a ghoulish grin. “You’re living in a murder house.”
7
Unease spreads through me, crawling down my back like a hundred baby spiders. I swallow and my voice comes out sounding ragged. “Murder house?”
“Yeah.” The guy’s face lights up with wicked glee. “More than one person has met a bad end in this place. And the woman who was killed here?” His eyes gleam, morbid excitement oozing through his voice. “Not just killed, but what was done to her body?—”
“Okay.” The girl interrupts him by grabbing his elbow and giving him a hard stare. “We should go if we’re going to make our ticket time for the catacombs.”
My nod is automatic, politeness taking over despite the unease reeling in my head and roiling in my gut.
What murder is he talking about? What woman? When? I have so many questions. Questions I’m not sure I want answered.
At least, not by him.
The way he smiled when talking about a woman’s dead body. . . The neon skull leers at me, and I shudder with disgust.
