A place I’m not allowed to go. Not by myself.
I turned to go back the way I came. I was disappointed, so I decided to make a plate and take some food up to my room.
But even as I piled fancy sweets on a plate, I couldn’t stop wondering about the woman with my father. Why was she still here? Why did he touch her like that?
And why did he take her to his special place?
14
I begin my search in the most obvious place. The grand salon is on the first floor, the largest room in the apartment, filled with couches, chairs, tables . . . and a full wall of bookshelves.
After eating at the café, I came straight back to the mansion. I haven’t studied my scene from the script like I’d planned, too intrigued by the journal to focus on anything else.
As I cut through the entry hall, my mother’s voice whispers to me, reminding me about distractions and how they steal your dreams.
Lifting my gaze, I say, “Mom, as soon as I search the apartment, I’ll get back to work. Promise.”
Because I gave my word to Alice.
And I’m dying to know what Rose read in the journal.
In the salon, I peruse the shelves, taking time with any book in the family of blue. When I find one, I check the first pages. So far everything is history or a work of fiction. Nothing in the format of a journal or diary.
After half an hour of scouring the shelves and other potential hiding spots, it’s clear the journal isn’t hidden in the grand salon.
Covering the rest of this floor doesn’t take long, most of my time spent in the kitchen and butler’s pantry. I check everydrawer, cubby, and cabinet, even running my hand beneath a sideboard in the dining room.
All the while, curiosity scratches at the base of my skull. The same morbid question echoing again and again.
What did Rose read that was so horrible? The mansion’s nickname floats to mind—house of death—and I roll my shoulder to dislodge the chill.
First floor completed, I go upstairs, pausing to study the grim portraits. When did the dour-faced people live here? What atrocities have they seen?
What secrets have they kept all these years?
When I reach the landing, I put my hands on my hips and survey the area. Then I start the hunt. Like most of the apartment, the second floor is museum-clean. Every closet or cabinet uncluttered and organized. It makes for a swift search.
But still no journal.
By the time I finish with the third-floor bedrooms, I’m drafting a message to Alice in my head. Regret and disappointment tangle inside me. Alice is worried about her sister and suspects the worst. She needs answers.
But so do I.
If Alice’s suspicions are correct and Rose discovered something about the Marteau family, something that scared her, I need to know what she found.
Because I’m living under their roof.
With a sigh of defeat, I return to the landing. I don’t have the journal, after looking every possible place. Every drawer, nook, pillow, and every loose floorboard. In every single room.
Except one.
The storage room.
My stomach clenches, a sense of dread building as I walk down the corridor, creeping into darkness.
The door opens with a low, moaning creak. A sound worthy of any haunted house.
I flip the switch, but the light barely reaches the floor, blocked by taller furniture draped in sheets. The stale scent of neglect fills my nose, and I almost change my mind.
