Doubt and anxiety try to creep their way in, so I steel my nerves and press the button. The outgoing message leaves with awhoosh, the finality of the sound almost taking my breath.
The empty screen taunts me for a few more seconds, then I sigh and sit back in the chair. A rainbow of emotions filters through me. Doubt, relief, elation. Doubt again.
Swiveling the chair, I face the windows. Nothing to do but wait. Wait and hope for a callback.
Outside the window, the night seems to go on forever. No moonlight or movement, only thick heavy clouds.
After the last few work-filled days, I feel the vastness of my sudden free time. Endless hours rolling out before me. What do I do with myself?
My gaze drifts to the ceiling, my thoughts drifting even farther. To the storage room one level up, sitting in the dusty dark.
I should probably finish looking for the journal, but I can’t summon the will to return to the cramped, dirty space. Not tonight.
Then I think about Noah and his invitation toLa Danse des Monstres. The monsters’ dance.
According to André, it’s a much sought-after invitation, an exclusive event for the Parisian elite. And great social events often draw the media.
Which could be a problem.
I sit up straight and return to my laptop. The truth is, I have no idea what to expect from the party. High-society events often have photographers present.
Wondering if I should cancel with Noah, I click out of the email server and open a search engine. News of the protests is the top story, and the crowds on the streets have doubled in size.
So many more people than before. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. So far, they seem to be focused on the heart of the city, but I don’t think I’ll be travelling any time soon.
Putting political unrest out of my mind, I type “La Danse des Monstres” in the search bar.
Several links fill the page. None of the sites have photos, so I click on the link for images. Several pictures of the mansion come up, but they’re only exterior views.
At last, I hit paydirt. A single photo of people mingling in a lavish ballroom, many wearing masks or costumes.
The picture is uncentered and taken from a lower angle, as if the one holding the camera was sneaking a shot. Is that why I’mhaving a hard time finding pictures? Are cameras not allowed at the dance?
Visions of golden masks and black robes fill my mind. I shake my head at where my thoughts have led. “I’m not playing a role inEyes Wide Shut.”
At least, I hope not.
I’m sure the privacy is to protect the party guests, or maybe secrecy helps create mystique. If it’s one thing Hollywood has taught me, it’s the power of illusion. And what people will do for a little taste of fantasy.
The photo doesn’t tell me much, other than masks seem to be optional, and I still have questions about the monsters’ dance.
Luci said this party was a way of making fun of the local gossip, the family saying they don’t care what other people think. But something about the explanation doesn’t sit right with me.
The deaths of a husband and wife in the early 1900s isn’t recent enough to inspire so much interest. And surely no one—even the haughty Marteaus—would host a yearly party to mock gossip involving a child’s death.
There has to be more to the story.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve searched every combination of words related to Maison Marteau or the monsters’ dance. I even searched forMaison de la Morte, in its specific arrondissement. Still nothing. No explanation or history ofLa Danse des Monstres.
I remember the enthusiasm of the dark tourist, with his ghoulish attitude and skull T-shirt.
What was done to her body.
The words send chills down my back, but I still have no idea what he meant. How did he know so much? Where did he get his information?
The idea hits me like a lightning bolt. He knew, because he was into dark tourism.
My fingers fly over the keyboard, and this time I search for dark tourist websites. Several pages populate, an overwhelming amount, so I take my time with each link. I sift through a few amateur blogs, links to social media pages, and a site last updated five years ago.
