My mother’s voice comes to me, a memory from one of my first auditions.
Control your fear, or it will control you.
I picture her face, and I almost crumple.
Refusing to give in to the terror, I close my eyes. I ground myself and focus on my body. The countertop edge pressing into my waist, the handles of the knives in my hands, the white marble glaring at me.
I’m aware of my body’s natural response to fear—rapid heartbeat, quick shallow breaths, overwhelming images making it hard to think straight.
I studied this in an acting class, trying to mimic the natural panic reaction. Understanding the response is different from experiencing the real thing, but at least I have step-by-step knowledge of what’s happening in my body.
I know how to work myself into a panicked state, so I should be able to reverse the process. To calm my over-agitated system.
At first, it’s hard to take deep breaths, but I keep trying. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Filling my belly and lungs, I inhale, hold for two seconds, and exhale for eight.
Through sheer force of will, I take control. When my pulse slows and my mind clears, I remember the next step. Focus on the primary goal, the thing that needs to be accomplished first. When that’s done, the next goal. And the next.
A heaviness still crowds my vision from the edges, but I keep breathing until it’s gone. Until the static fades and the tremors diminish.
I’m still not sure what to do, but I know one thing for sure. The Marteau family has the upper hand. They have the advantage. I’m on their territory, and this isn’t the first time one or more of them has killed.
The only thing working in my favor is the element of surprise. I can’t allow myself to lose control again, to race headlong into peril with a scattered mind and two kitchen knives.
After another long exhale, I set aside the larger blade, keeping a narrow one of medium length. One I can slip into my back pocket.
With the knife sitting at an angle and partially exposed, I pull my sweater down to cover the handle.
What is the last thing they’d expect me to do?
And as soon as I ask the question, the answer is clear.
I need to go deeper into the mansion.
As a plan materializes, I take slow, steady steps, exiting the kitchen and heading to the stairs. The fireplace poker still sits in the study, and I need it with me in case things go wrong.
As I climb the wide, curving steps, I grow more confident and more convinced. I can do this. I can get out of this alive, hopefully with Alice and Luci.
Because I have a plan, one I can thank the Marteau family for. Or at least whoever’s been sneaking into the apartment.
They’ve given me an idea.
And I’m going to use their own tricks against them.
43
This is a terrible idea.
I stand at the top of the servants’ staircase, my hand gripping the knob of the attic door. Now that I’m here, all my previous certainty starts to crumble.
Fear-based questions rise up in my mind, scary and timid, like the faces of lost ghosts.
Should I go back to the study and lock the door?
Maybe, but I can’t stay in there for two days. I can’t creep around the apartment waiting for Ric or Vincent to leap from the shadows.
Can I go to the front gates and scream?
The storm is still raging, and odds are, one of the family will get to me before a neighbor happens to glance outside. Even if I’m noticed, they might not understand what I’m doing.
