The young girl in the polaroids.
It’s Luci.
41
I slide the journal into the space behind the steamer trunk and let it drop. It’s been hidden in the storage room for months, so it should be safe for another few hours.
Enough time for me to enact my plan.
I return the envelope of polaroids to the portrait, seeing the wisdom of Rose’s decision. Two hiding spots. Spread out the evidence. In case some of it’s discovered.
Since I found the photos, I’ve been going over all I’ve learned. Seeing my experiences here from a new perspective. I think there’s only one viable conclusion.
Luci’s been coming into the apartment. I believe she crept into the apartment when Rose lived here, leaving the journal and photos for Rose.
Just as she left theCarmillabook for me.
The handwriting, the photographs, the handwritten accounts of homicide. All of them can be used as evidence to prosecute a killer, and providing them was Luci’s way of trying to help.
Or crying for help.
She’s still so young. Not even old enough to buy a drink in the States.
And now that I understand, I don’t want to let her down.
Easing between stacks of boxes, I leave the storage room and hurry downstairs. Clairee has relocated to the crimson chair. Right where I foundCarmilla.
Going to her, I give her a few rubs and a kiss on the head. “I’ll be back soon. Stay safe.”
Leaving Clairee where she is, I take the only chance I’ve got left. I put on my jacket, take the apartment keys, and step out into the cold rain.
Wind whips the rain into my face, stinging my cheeks until I lower my head. The heavy downpour is a constant drone, and after only a few steps, my hair is soaked to my scalp.
Staying close to the building, I creep to the corner and peek around. I doubt any of the family are out in this weather, but I scan the courtyard anyway. All clear.
Careful on the slippery cobblestones, I run to the front gate and punch in the code.
Nothing happens. I don’t hear the usual buzz and click of the system opening the lock.
Maybe I entered the wrong numbers, my wet fingers slipping on the buttons. Carefully, I try again, punching in the same code I’ve used every other time.
Still nothing.
Shock courses through me, a cold realization chilling my bones. Panicked, I type in the code again. And again. “This can’t be right.” My voice breaks as anguish tightens my throat.
They’ve changed the code. Or disabled the system. Either way, it amounts to the same thing.
I’m locked inside.
Whirling around, I glance at the main house, expecting to see Ric or Vincent running toward me. When I don’t, I make a dash back toward my door. Instead of going in, I keep moving, heading toward the gardens and the back gate.
As I run through the prickly holly and rain-soaked leaves, I look for any weak spot in the fence, any place I might be able to climb out. But the tall black bars are impenetrable, built to keep people out.
Or to keep them in.
I pass an area with a space between the shrubs and hurry over to look out. The weather is terrible, but there might be people in the park. Someone cutting through the grass as a shortcut home, or maybe someone walking a dog. People have umbrellas. They go out in storms.
Pushing through the tall bushes, I grip the bars and push my face close to the black metal. Leaning one way and then the other, I search the park. Rainfall turns the air gray, but even in the low visibility, I see no one else.
