Finally, I land on a forum, the latest entry from only two hours ago. Using the search box embedded in the site, I type inParisand scan through the topics. I find mostly information about the catacombs and graveyards.
I need more about the mansion. Specifics. And I’m betting these are the people to ask.
When I try to post a question, I get a pop-up box with a message.Access restricted to members only.
Typing in my junk email and my usual nickname, I apply to open an account.
I wait five minutes. Check my email. Another five. Another check.
“This is ridiculous.” I refresh the page one more time.
Thunder rolls outside the window, and those thick, dark clouds release the rain.
My first thought is of little Clairee. The rain will bring her to my front door, ready for supper. And so am I. With the whole day spent working, I’ve hardly eaten.
Hand on the railing, I jog downstairs, and as soon as I open the door, Clairee dashes in. She doesn’t bother to shake the drops from her fur, only beelines for the kitchen.
“Well, I guess I know what I’m good for.”
She stops and meows at me.
“Yes, yes. I’m coming.”
In the kitchen, she sits in her spot, watching me as I fill her bowl. By the time she’s licked it clean, I’ve got water boiling for pasta.
My food is in the pantry across the kitchen, my few items dwarfed by the huge space. I grab rotini and meat sauce, an easy meal. And the bottle of merlot I forgot I bought. With my audition submitted, a little relaxation—and celebration—sounds like a good idea.
I skirt around the island, pour rotini into the pot, and read the instructions. The pasta needs nine minutes to cook. Enough time for a quick change of clothes.
Rushing through the entry hall, I pass a red velvet chair.
Something pops in my peripheral vision.
I stutter to a stop.
My brain is slow to process what I saw.
I turn and look again. There, in plain sight, rests a small book.
A book that wasn’t here before.
A book I’ve neverseenbefore.
Slowly, I stare over my shoulder, to the large connecting doors. The ones I left unlocked when I took a tour with Luci.
Alarm jolts down my spine, the shocking heat of fear. And I’m certain . . .
Someone’s been in the apartment.
19
I stare at the book for at least a minute, body numb and mind searching for an explanation.
Most of the book’s cover is scarlet, the same color as the velvet chair. Almost camouflaged. I simply overlooked it.
At least, this is the reason I give myself.
I don’t see how I could have, because now the book glares like a beacon, pulsing blood-red on the velvet chair.
