No. I can’t let my emotions or feelings for anyone affect my judgment. This journal could belong to Luci or even Dora. Almost everyone at this mansion had a father who was born a Marteau.
Even Noah.
I read the wordstrappedand a shudder wracks my body.
“Nooo.” I tuck my chin to my chest and reach out for Clairee. The little cat is my only source of comfort on this cold, cruel day.
The rain has only worsened, blurring the windows and blackening the sky.
Turning the page, I prepare myself for whatever shock comes next. One hand still on Clairee, I lift the journal, the front half pinched between my fingers.
A folded paper falls from the back and drops into my lap.
Setting the book on the end table, I open the paper. Handwritten notes on front and back. The first line is a nail hammered in my spine.
Someone is coming into the apartment.
My eyes quickly skim the rest of the page. There’s mention of the journal being left in the kitchen, Ric’s creepy and inappropriate behavior, and near the bottom a question.
Should I tell Luci?
There’s no doubt in my mind. Rose wrote these notes. She must have stuck the paper in the journal before hiding it behind the trunk.
I flip the paper over to keep reading.
But a sound comes from above my head. A single high-pitched groan that cuts off in an instant.
The creak of floorboards.
My heart climbs in my throat.
Seconds pass in heavy silence. And then I hear it again—two soft thuds and another creak.
Someone is walking across the floor.
Upstairs.
A droning hum fills my ears, panic and blood pressure straining my veins. Immobilized, I stare at the ceiling, tracking the movement. Not directly above, but out in the corridor.
Another step. Two. Whoever it is, they’re moving toward the stairs.
I lunge for the fireplace tools. Every piece made of iron. Black and heavy. I rip the poker free but end up knocking the stand over, tools clattering on the marble hearth.
Clairee startles awake.
Fire poker in hand, I look upward. My lungs heave with terrified breaths and my heart is an urgent gallop in my chest.
The footsteps land faster and with less caution, moving down the hallway. Back the way they came.
I listen until I can no longer hear anything, then I break from the daze. I grab my phone and dial 911 before I remember I’m in France.
What’s the emergency number here? What is it? What is it?
The numbers pop into my head, so I stab 112 on the screen. A robotic voice answers in French. I hear words that sound likeexcuseandminutes.
I hold out my phone and stare wide-eyed. “What the hell?” This is supposed to be instant assistance.
Then I remember the strikes. And the protests.
