And the emergency lines won’t be busy forever.
The folded paper with Rose’s notes lies on the sofa. I flip it over, to the side I haven’t read yet. She lists a few more strange things she experienced in the apartment, but what grabs my attention are the words at the bottom.
Where every other note is written in neat, steady script, the last entry is scrawled diagonally across the page. Large, messy letters, as if written in a hurry.
Photos behind his eyes.
At first, the words make no sense. What photos? Is she being literal or figurative? And whose eyes?
Leaning back on the sofa, I try to figure out what she meant.
Then it hits me.His eyes.The most conspicuous eyes in this apartment.
And a great place to hide pictures.
I’m off the sofa in a heartbeat, grabbing my phone and the poker to take with me. Because this is a real horror movie, and I want to make it to the final scene.
And get the hell out of this murder house.
Glancing outside, I check to see the chest of drawers still blocking the hidden door. Then I dash to the main staircase. Halfway down, I stop to study the oil paintings. All of the Marteau ancestors glare at me, all sharp-nosed and aloof.
But the man in the middle, the largest portrait, his eyes are the meanest. Standing to the side in case it falls, I pull the bottom of the frame away from the wall. The shadow from the painting is too dark for me to see anything.
I pull it farther from the wall for more light. There. An envelope. One end is stuck between the canvas and the frame. The other flops away, weighted by something inside.
Standing on my tiptoes, I grab the envelope and the let portrait fall back against the wall. I open the envelope and tip it to the side.
Photos spill into my hand. Polaroids. Black squares surrounded by white.
I flip them over to see the front.
My brain burns and my psyche rebels.
No. No. No. No. I don’t want to see this.
I shut my eyes and try to block the images. The sheer volume of evil in this house makes me physically ill.
Light-headed and dizzy, I lean on the wall. Try to center myself.
And finally, I open my eyes again. Because I have to look.
I need to know.
The pictures are of a young girl. About twelve years old, that fragile cusp between childhood and adolescence.
Wearing only panties and a T-shirt, she poses for the pictures. Positions and gestures too evocative for her age.
At first, I only glance at each photo, too disturbed to take in details.
But then I look at her face. An eerie distance fills her eyes, as if she’s removed herself from what’s happening.
Sadness settles in the pit of my heart, and I study the background of the shots. Dark, rich wood, the corner of an embroidered chair, shelves of books.
My skin prickles with recognition.
I know this room. I’ve been there. The pictures were taken in the library, here at Maison Marteau.
Homing in on the little’s girl’s face, I slap a hand to my mouth to smother my cry.Oh, no. Oh, no.
