The interior passageway ahead of us is a dark and narrow crowded tangle of floating furniture, pool towels, serving carts, and safety straps. It’s an obstacle course out of a claustrophobe’s nightmares.
“You’re in crew quarters,” Nysus says. “It’s going to be tighter down here, but it’ll get better as soon as you start to go up.”
“No shit,” Voller grunts as he works to squeeze past a stack of chairs, braced between floor and ceiling, and blocking most of the hall.
“Looks like they were barricading themselves in,” I say, using the doorframes to pull myself along the wall ahead of Voller. The wooden doors themselves, still closed in most cases, are dented, with chunks missing, as though someone took a heavy object to them.
“Fuck. That sounds cheery,” Voller says.
“I don’t think so,” Nysus says suddenly.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“If they were barricading themselves in, why is all the furniture out here?” Nysus asks.
“To block the hallway,” Voller points out.
“Except wouldn’t it be easier to just block the door to your room from the inside?” Nysus says. “And look at that one, the door you’re passing right now, TL.”
I pause. The door is pocked with holes on the outside, like the others, but a black cord runs from the handle on the door to the chaotic stack of furniture jumbled in front of it. Glimpses of the cord appear, wrapped around a chair arm, up a table leg, before it disappears into the mess. It’s as if someone on the outside was trying to keep the door from opening. From the inside.
A flicker of panic lights up in me. What happened here?
“Let’s just keep moving,” I say firmly. I don’t like the feel of this place. The sensation of being silently watched—observed—from corners and shadows raises goose bumps on my skin even under my suit.
“Fine by me,” Voller says, drawing even with me at the doorframe on the other side of the hall. “This place is fucking creepy.”
Nysus is right; the next level up is easier. The hallway is slightly larger and not as difficult to navigate. It’s the lowest level of passenger rooms, the cheapest of the paid accommodations available on theAuroraand generally reserved for assistants, dog sitters, assistant dog sitters, wardrobe and makeup experts, and a camera crew apparently following around the Dunleavy sisters.
“It was a reality show,” Nysus is saying. “Doing It Dunleavy Style. Or justDunleavy Style. They were supposed to be spokespeople for the cruise line, recording their experiences and sending them back. The first five episodes aired before CitiFutura lost contact with theAurora.”
A click sounds inside my helmet and then audio plays.
“Oh my God, this place is scorching! Did you see the pool?” a high-pitched female voice demands. In the background, I can hear the low murmur of conversation. The other passengers, maybe?
“Calm down, Cattie, don’t be such a fundie.” Another girl’s voice, this one pitched lower and smoother, emerges over the rustle of fabric. “I’m going to the spa. I heard Linx is here.”
“But you’re supposed to be avoiding him,” Cattie says. “The restraining order—”
“Doesn’t count in space, duh.” The second girl lets out an impatient huff, and the door slams shut.
Then the audio cuts off.
“The rumor is other episodes were shot but never released. Their father worked as a lawyer for the president of the United States at the time and his daughters were always in the spotlight for trouble they were causing or for promoting a new line of…” He pauses. “Lip plumper? Is that a… what is that?”
“Wait, so Dunleavy Cosmetics? That’s who this is… was?” Lourdes asks. “That company is still around. My sisters use their stuff.” She sounds stunned.
“One and the same,” Nysus confirms. “The other siblings took over after they disappeared. TheAurora’s passenger list was high profile.”
Except down here, where the high-profile guests paid for others to stay, literally beneath them.
Though, on this level, the chaos we saw on the crew deck is completely missing. Voller and I, following the signs for the stairs/elevators, make our way down the hall easily enough. The doors stand like silent soldiers in long, obedient lines down either side of the passageway, awaiting their next orders in perfect form.
Voller reaches out and jiggles one of the door handles as we pass.
“Hey,” I protest.
He shrugs. “Just checking, TL. It’s locked.”
