I should call the police right now. How fast could they get here? Or should I take one of these packages of powder and bring it to them as proof?
Suddenly, a light comes on in the main room. It spills through the cracks around the door. Someone is down here.
And I am trapped.
Whoever it is starts whistling, and I hear a cart rolling across the floor as he goes about his business. I recall the crates stacked against the wall andwonder if he is going to start with those, whatever he is doing. Do I have time to get out of here? Can I peek through that door, then sprint when his back is turned?
That’s a ludicrous question. I can’t even move in this room without someone hearing me. There’s no way I can pile the screws back in the crate, considering the noise they’d make. Even if I don’t replace all the little boxes and do manage to escape, they’ll know someone has been here.
What have I done? Who do I think I am?
Beyond the door, the man is moving things around, grunting with strain, whistling the rest of the time. I try to picture the space where he is. I think there were about six boxes stacked out there. How many has he moved? How long before he comes to this room?
I can’t just stand here, waiting for something to happen. Performing a feat of balance that amazes me, I step over the piles of little white boxes, in the direction of the far door. If itisa tunnel, maybe I can escape through there. The closer I tiptoe to the end of the room, the more optimistic I feel, and I start wondering where the secret tunnel might lead. But the door is securely locked. My paper clips won’t work here.
All of a sudden, the room outside this one is quiet. I cannot move.
Then I hear the man again, and I can tell from the sound of the wheels that his cart is empty. He’s ready to reload, and he’s coming this way. Shaking with fear, I crouch and turn off my flashlight, my pulse pounding. But squatting won’t be enough, I admit to myself. Doesn’t matter if I stand or squat, I’m in clear view of anyone entering the room. The man’s whistling, which sounded almost cheerful before, now comes to me as a threat, closer with every step. I’m in big trouble. I hold my breath when the doorknob rattles.
“Excuse me!”
I gasp, hearing a man’s voice raised in the big room.
It comes again. “Hello? Ah, there you are. Excuse me, sir, but I think I am lost. I was looking for the lobby, and…”
I could cry. It’s Matthew.
“Uh, just go that way,” the other man says, sounding annoyed. Or is itstress? None of us are supposed to be here, not even him. “Then right, and when you reach—”
“I’m so sorry. I am terrible with directions. It’s a little embarrassing, if I’m being honest. Would you mind? Could you walk me to the lobby? I have ten bucks for you if you do.”
“Listen, man. It’s simple. You just go—”
“Twenty?”
I can practically feel the man’s frustration, but I don’t care.Go… Go… Go!
“Yeah, sure.”
The footsteps recede. Matthew is saying something, excusing himself, doing that clumsy Professor Jones thing that I am slightly crazy about. As soon as his voice is gone, I replace the little boxes in record-breaking speed, then I grab my paper clips and crowbar, and I bug out. I know this place, and I know the staff exit, even in the dark. That’s the one I use now. I burst into the cool night, bending over and gasping for air as soon as I’m clear of danger. Then I dissolve into tears.
“I reconsidered,” I hear Matthew say behind me. “I decided to come see what you were talking about. Everyone needs a little adventure in their lives, right?”
PART 2ROSIE RYAN
1929
chapterFIFTEEN
LATE JULY
Someone in one of my rooms was awful sick last night, so I scrub the carpet until my hands are raw. That spot was also full of shattered glass, so I must mind myself while I clean. Even so, my knuckles catch a few shards. I bind up my hand so as not to get blood on any of the guests’ sheets.
A chambermaid’s work demands attention to detail, but no one could call it grand or clever. Part of my brain tells me to scrub until the shadow of the stain finally gives up, but the rest of my head is throbbing with questions about Damien and the criminal he works for on the side.
I’d like you to keep this part of his character in mind as you go.
I want to forget what Mrs. Evans said about Damien being in a dangerous position, but I would be a fool to do that. She is a steady, smart woman with years of experience and knowledge behind her, and I value her friendship and lessons. In truth, she feels almost like a mother to me, though I’m no expert when it comes to knowing what a mother is supposed to feel like.Even worse, Mrs. Evans has her own story about someone dear to her being caught up in criminal behaviour. Somehow, she’d lost her husband to the same man Damien now works for.
