I take a step back, then I remember Alice’s eyes, wide and desolate. Begging for help.
I’ll want a shower afterward, but I need to go in. Boxes and furniture pack the space, leaving narrow, crooked paths to walk the room. Dustsheets cover only a few pieces, as if wrapping the items required too much effort.
This space isn’t as organized as the rest of the apartment, creating hundreds of hidden spots to stash a book.
I doubt I’ll finish this room today, but I can make a cursory check. I start with the furniture, larger pieces built for the purpose of storage. It’s not long before my skin is crawling with filth. Dust in my eyes, my hair, my mouth.
I’m already grungy, so I might as well finish with the furniture, leaving boxes and crates until tomorrow.
Antiques cram against the walls—a porcelain bowl and pitcher set, a violin with no strings, a box of silverware with missing pieces. Even the junk here is expensive.
I’m near the windows facing the park when a bulky shape in the corner draws my attention.
An old steamer trunk, the navy leather turned gray by dust.
Kneeling, I open the locks on each end. But the middle lock doesn’t budge. I grip the ancient latch and give it a shake. The metal holds firm.
“Damn.” A missing journal. An old steamer trunk. An attic in an old mansion. The Nancy Drew of it all has my fingers itching. Should I pry the lock?
No. It doesn’t belong to me, and if I can’t get in, then Rose couldn’t have, either.
I give the trunk a smack of frustration. A black spider scurries from beneath and heads straight toward my foot.
Leaping up, I stutter-step backwards, bumping into a stack of boxes. Dust motes explode in the air and crawl up my nose. Three sneezes and I raise both hands. “That’s it. I’m done.”
I twist and turn my way through the clutter, making a new path to the door. Grudgingly, I turn to the side, squeezing between two tall, heavy pieces. My foot kicks something, and it clatters across the floor.
A silver picture frame, backside facing up. I pick it up and flip it over.
The scene in the photo feels familiar, so I wipe away dust to see it better. An old picture of Maison Marteau. If the sepia tones didn’t give away the photo’s age, the barren land around the mansion would. No trees or shrubbery planted yet, only the residence and cobblestoned courtyard.
A man and woman stand in the foreground, two young boys in front of them. Their expressions are serious, typical of the early 1900s. But what is the man wearing? A type of shawl hangs around his neck, like a graduation stole with a picture or markings on one side.
I peer closer. No use. I can’t make out the details. I pull my phone from my back pocket and turn on the flashlight.
The design is too small. Maybe the letter V combined with other shapes or letters? Finally, I give up and set the frame on top of a box.
The storage room is full of castoffs and abandoned rubbish, yet the photo and frame show no damage. A photo of ancestors, a record of the family legacy.
So why is it in here?
15
I’ve lost the morning light but think I have what I need.
“I should,” I mumble to myself, stripping the camera from the tripod. “I’ve only done a hundred takes.” The number is probably closer to thirty, but still excessive.
Yesterday is a blur in my mind—meeting Alice, searching for the journal, breaking down the scene, filming rehearsal clips. And watching them over and over until I couldn’t see straight. Micro-expressions. Word emphasis. Timing. Obsessively fine-tuning every detail.
Then this morning, I let it all go, allowing practice and emotion to blend, to create something new. Raw and authentic. Hoping to capture Claudia’s character the way I’d planned.
And I think I got it. I feel good.
If casting directors walked in right now, I’d be ready. If they asked me to read like I were auditioning for Stephen Spielberg? I can do that.
For M. Night Shyamalan? Of course.
For Joyce Sandman? No fucking problem.
