She nodded, but her forehead pulled into a wrinkle. The door opened, and she looked both ways down the hall.
I did, too.
No one was there.
Another moment. I held my breath, and then she stepped inside.
Down, down, down, we rode, the tiny wrinkle fixed firmly between her pale eyebrows.
When the elevator door opened again, cold, musty air rushed inside. The tunnel before us was dark, only the interior light from the small cab shining on the stone walls.
“This is your cellar?” she asked, backing up in the elevator. She started shaking her head. “I don’t want to go in there. It’s too dark.”
“Don’t you want the chocolate?” I asked, my gaze moving between the girl and the tunnel. We were almost there.
“No. I want to go back up.”
The door started to close again, but I jabbed the button. “Come on. It won’t take long.”
“No.” Her eyes were wide and frightened. She wasn’t going to budge.
That’s when I fell on her, grabbing her arms and pulling her out.
She yelled and dragged her feet, but her Sunday shoes slid easily on the floor.
Another jerk, and she flew from the elevator, landing in a pile on the dirty ground.
Stunned, she stared up at me. And then she started to wail—high, piercing cries that echoed through the catacombs.
“Be quiet,” I shouted, angry that my plan was failing. I wanted to take her to the room. I wanted her to lie still. I wanted her to smile at me.
Everything was going wrong.
“Let me out!” She tried to stand, but one arm was caught up in the handle of her shopping bag. I lunged at her, throwing myself on top of her. I pressed my hand over her mouth, but she wouldn’t stop screaming.
I lifted her head. Rammed her back down. Again. Again.
Her eyes closed and her cries fell quiet.
I was breathing hard and suddenly so tired. So drained.
As I stared down at the lovely blonde girl, a shadow fell across us both. Before I could look up, my father spoke.
“What have you done?”
36
This can’t be real.
Pacing back and forth behind the couch, I chew on my thumbnail as my mind whirls. Too many questions bombard me at once, but I can’t grab hold of a single one. Because I’m stuck on a panicked auto-repeat.
This is crazy. This is crazy. This is crazy.
I try to convince myself that GraveDanger is wrong, that he’s misinformed or a sensationalist. He’s a dark-tourism junkie I met online. I don’t know him. Why would I trust anything he says? Much less the wild claim made in his last message?
I stop and stare at the rain-lashed window, streams of water distorting my view of the park.
Because despite the absurdity of what he wrote, it fits the pattern of Maison Marteau. Just one more dark puzzle piece sliding perfectly into place.
