“Hidden stairs?” I already feel unbalanced by the connecting doors—vulnerable and exposed—despite the assurance of locks.
“An old servant stairwell,” Luci says.
The staircase we’re on now is the opposite of narrow, and certainly not built for servants. Wide steps and ornate railing, with oil paintings adorning the walls. Grim-faced portraits of people who must be Marteau ancestors.
The clothing and style of the paintings suggest the 1900s, but the colors are deep and moody. Midnight blue, blood red, funeral black. The faces glower down at me, stares piercing and full of disdain.
We reach the second floor, and Luci points out another set of the tall, connecting doors. “My quarters are on the other side, so if you need anything, come here to knock.” She whirls with her arm extended. “In front we have a bedroom andun petit salon—sorry, I mean a small salonfacing the courtyard.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I love hearing the French. I only know some basic words, how to thank someone and how to ask for the toilet.”
She rewards me with a light laugh. “You’ll never have to go far for one of those. You’ll find en suite bathrooms in every chamber. One here, one in back, and two on the top floor.”
“Four bedrooms to choose from?” I stare up at the plaster ceiling, imagining yet another level. This place is as big as a New York brownstone.
“Yes, but only three are available. One is being used for storage.”
She leads me toward the back, stopping to tap on a smaller door. “The hidden stairs are here, a shortcut to the other floors.”
She pushes on a wall panel, and a door springs open to reveal a stairway—dim and musty, a cobweb string hanging in the air. “The steps also lead down to the basement, but the door at the bottom is double-locked. I doubt you’ll want to go down there, anyway. It’s cold and damp and smells funny.” She curls her nose. “Gives me a headache.”
I imagine a basement the size of this mansion, the endless dark. “That’s not a problem.”
After peeking into the first bedroom, I move to the one in the back corner. Ambient light outside reveals two windows, one facing the street and one with a view of the park, lampposts glowing through the trees.
“That one is my favorite.” Luci watches from a distance.
Flipping on the light reveals a space that’s much brighter than the rest of the apartment, with embossed wallpaper the color of ivory. The light shade gentles the space, a feminine quality to balance the heavy furniture.
“I’ll take this one,” I say.
“Good choice.” Luci hovers near the balustrade as if she’s ready to go back downstairs. “You must be tired, so I’ll leave you to get settled.”
She can’t know what an understatement that is. I’m more than ready to be done with this day. Actually, the lasttwo days.They’ve been one long, continuous blur, filled with shock and sadness and running and hiding.
But I stifle a yawn and join her for the walk downstairs. Following her to the door, I listen as she reels off local cafés. I try to grasp one or two, but the French names sift right through my weary head.
“Oh, and this is yours.” She hands me the key. “I almost forgot.”
“Thanks again for letting me in.”
“Bien sûr.” With a whirl, she turns on her heels and opens the door.
Then she jerks to a stop.
“Ric.” She almost spits the name, her jaw clenching. “Why are you here?”
A man stands outside smoking a cigarette—casually facing the door as if he’s been waiting. His slicked-back hair is dark, almost black. Like his eyes. In the low light, they’re deep as pitch. Lifeless and empty.
Luci hurries down the steps. “Let’s go,” she tells him, looping her arm through his.
With his unnerving stare locked on me, he responds to Luci in French. I might not understand what he’s saying, but the look he gives me exists in every language.
A dirty smirk.
One that rakes over me from head to toe and leaves an invisible trail of slime.
I keep a mask of calm in place, refusing to give him any reaction as Luci pulls on his arm.
