But what was done to her body
Because her body was drained of blood.
Two similar stories from two different sources.
“But they’re dark tourists,” I say to myself, walking toward the desk before pivoting to walk back, Clairee’s golden eyes tracking my every step.
The rational, left-lobe part of my brain argues against acceptance. Because it’s crazy.
It’s crazy. It’s crazy. It’s crazy.
But the other side, the one governed by instinct and intuition, the one prickling hairs on my neck and stabbing pins in my heart . . .
That side is horrified.
That side has no doubt at all.
“Okay, let’s think this through.” I glance at Clairee, my feline sounding board. “Let’s look at all the events individually.” I nod to myself, eager to examine the data and dispel the panic.
The first thing I consider is the murder-suicide. Something more common than most of us would like to admit, and certainly no reason to be afraid of the mansion.
Then there’s the girl found in the catacombs. A tragedy for sure, a horrific accident. But in all probability, that’s all it was. A terrible accident.
Hands on my hips, I stare into space, still pacing but with less agitation.
Thinking rationally is helping. It’s calming me down. Instead of the tourist with the skull T-shirt, I think of his girlfriend and what she said. That a house as old as Maison Marteau is going to have history. And it’s going to have seen some death.
“So, what’s bothering me the most?” I look to Clairee, but she’s closed her eyes.
“I guess that’s your advice,” I say, leaning over the sofa to rub her back, her silky hair a balm to my nerves. “Don’t worry and just go to sleep.”
But it’s the middle of the day, and I can’t stop worrying. Not with blood humming through my veins and in my ears.
Blood.
Bloodlines.
Missing women.
Dead women.
Why did GraveDanger’s message unsettle me? Because it’s another claim that bad things have happened here.
But more concerning, they’ve happened in recent years.
I need to talk to someone else. Someone who has questions like I do, who doesn’t trust the Marteau family, and won’t tell me I’ve come unhinged.
The only person who checks all those boxes is Alice.
My phone lies atop the desk, so I snatch it from the wood surface and open the photo-sharing app. I haven’t heard from her in two days. Not since she screamed at the manservant and the mansion in general.
I keep the message short and simple, telling her we need to talk. As soon as I hit send, I’m back to pacing. This time, I keep hold of my phone, fully expecting an instant reply.
But the more minutes pass, the more my frustration grows.
I consider trying to leave again, just packing up and putting this place in my past. But the strikes are still in effect. I won’t be able to get a cab or check into a hotel. That paints an ugly but realistic picture—me out in the rain, struggling with two pieces of luggage and one small cat.
I don’t even have a pet carrier. Leaving is impossible.
