“Good.” He clasps his hands in front of him. “We should get going. It’s late. You must be tired.”
His words remind my body that I worked a twelve-hour shift today. That this has been my life every day for the past six months.
Before I can agree with him, though, Herbert starts walking at a hurried pace.
Shaking off my exhaustion, I rush after him up the stairs. We stride past tall windows on one side and paintings lining the walls of the other. Black, red, gray, and white are the dominant colors in each.
I look at them, admiring how beautiful yet disturbing they are, when I hear it.
Click. Click. Click.
Camera shutters.
My jaw goes slack. My steps falter until I stop where I am.
“Miss Montgomery.” Herbert doesn’t bother turning his attention to me. “No time to waste.”
“Am I being photographed?” My feet are planted in place, my head whipping left and right. Searching. “Is it part of the commission? What’s going on?”
“You’re not being photographed.” Turning to a smaller corridor, Herbert disappears from view.
“Those were camera shutters.” I rush to catch up with him. “I know what I heard.”
“The mansion is old.” We pass more paintings. More closed doors. “Old houses tend to…speak, no matter how well-kept they are.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Stop.” For crying out loud, I live in a crumbling house. I’m perfectly able to tell the difference between creaking walls and a camera going off. I’m not crazy. “I want to see The Restorer. Immediately.”
I’ve never been demanding or rude, but I’ve had enough.
“If you tell me no again,”—my voice rises when he doesn’t answer—“I’ll go find him myself.”
At that, Herbert spins on his heel so abruptly, I nearly collide with his chest.
“If you insist.” A tiny line forms between his eyebrows. A hint of compassion flashes in his hazel eyes, vanishing as soon as it came. “I’ll take you to the sitting room, then ask him to join you.”
“I—thank you.” Barclay would’ve laughed in my face for asking anything, but Herbert just said yes. That one act of kindness knocks the panic back a notch. “Okay. Where is it?”
“As I was saying, right this way.”
Eventually, we reach the end of the hallway. A black, ordinary door with a brass knob separates us from what Herbert calledthe sitting room.
Where I’ll meet The Restorer.
The creepy silhouette? The man who may have taken your pictures? Who might be hiding in the walls?
I straighten my spine, telling myself I can do this. He’s a man. A respected one at that. Not a monster.
Herbert slips out a large brass key from his jacket pocket, unlocks the door, switches the light on, and beckons me inside. “This is it.”
I follow him into the sitting room. The space is round and vast, with muted light spilling from a chandelier overhead, as dim as the sconces.
The air carries that faint, old scent of leather. Detergent reaches my nose too, as if the room has been scrubbed clean especially for me. It must have, since it’s too bare for anyone to spend quality time here.
Aside from two leather armchairs, a heavy wood coffee table in the center, and a door to an adjoining room, it’s empty. No clutter, no paintings, no rugs.
Just…space.
