Then I look more closely and see that the door isn’t stuck, after all.
Grace has locked me in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Before I know what I’m doing, I let out a panicked yell. I look around the room for something to break open the door, but there’s only heavy furniture, exercise equipment, boxes.
I yell again and again, praying that it’s a mistake and that Grace will come down and let me out.
But I already know it isn’t a mistake. There’s no way the door could have been locked accidentally with that big key Grace used.
Is this one of her jokes? If it is, there’s no point giving her the satisfaction of reacting. She wants to hear me scream. She wants me to try to smash the door down.
I concentrate on my breathing. If this were a bad thriller, Grace would leave me here as a prisoner, toying with me, until she eventually decides to kill me. But this is real life, and Grace isn’t stupid. Bradley will find me, and even if she manages to keep him away, Neil will eventually come looking.
And even if he doesn’t, then Grace herself will eventually realize how absurd this is. The basement door locks from the outside, and she has the key. She’ll never get away with it.
This all relies on one fact, of course—that Grace is rational. Bradley keeps pointing out that she sees no difference between life and art. Maybe this is another scene in her book of Brie.
Or most likely of all, she knows about me and Bradley, and she wants to make me pay.
I scan the room again for a way out, then sit on the cold, damp ground next to the box. At the bottom, I find a pile of manila folders and notebooks. I open one, and a dozen loose newspaper clippings fall to the basement floor. I pick up one, then take it closer to the light.
The police have made no progress in the disappearance of Caroline Churchwell, a twenty-three-year-old woman who hasn’t been seen since the 26th of August.
A native of Canada, raised in Montreal, Caroline Churchwell worked at a local homestead called Pine Ridge for two months before her disappearance. Pine Ridge is owned by author Grace Frost, known in the literary community for her short stories, and her husband, college professor Bradley Little.
The police have not yet ruled out foul play, though there are no known suspects.
As I read the article, I feel my hand begin to shake. The other articles repeat most of the same information. Next to every article, without exception, is a photo of Caroline—blonde and beautiful in each—and I wonder if this is part of why the story was covered so relentlessly. There are photos of her with her family, at college, even one of her in a bikini, shamelessly stolen from social media.
Why did Grace collect all these articles? I read them all, looking for something to quell the rising thoughts, some hint that Caroline is OK and still alive, as Bradley said.
But there’s nothing.
I put the clippings to one side, then pick up the largest notebook. I read the title and feel a charge run through me. There’s one word on the front.
Caroline.
It’s just like the notebook I found upstairs, though it’s been split into sections.
The Girl.
The Affair.
The Murder.
The Investigation.
I turn to the first section and find barely legible notes giving her height, weight, hair color, and ethnicity. The clothes she wears. On the next page, her family background, including her parents’ occupations and their likely income, as well as the school she attended. Then, pages of random quotations, with words and phrases underlined.Quirky. Right? Where I come from…She’s looking for unique speech patterns, anything that will make her character seem real.
The second details multiple different sexual encounters between Caroline and someone labeled ‘B’. Was Bradley having an affair with Caroline? That’s the implication, though none ofthe scenes could have been witnessed by Grace. I tell myself it’s fiction, even though I don’t quite believe it.
The third section runs through everything involved in a potential murder of Caroline. It plays out a range of scenarios, including poison and arson, before finally settling on an accidental fall. I’m about to read the final section when suddenly the lights go out. I rush to the wall and fumble for the switch, but it doesn’t work.
Have I blown a fuse? But how would that happen from a single lightbulb?
No. Grace has cut the power. I’m sure of it.
