My eyes move between them, back and forth, measuring. Re-measuring. Something about the spacing. The height. The symmetry.
As if they were used together. As if something had been fixed there.
I glance at the other posts at the head of the bed.
Nothing. Just these two.
I purse my lips, trying to reason through it.
Curtains?
No. They wouldn’t sit like that. Wouldn’t leave marks like this. And they’d be on all four posts, not only these.
I step back again, my gaze dragging over the bed, the space between the posts keeps drawing my attention. That empty stretch of mattress is big, exposed.
Unease creeps into my chest.
I exhale, forcing my shoulders to drop away from my ears, trying to shake it off.
“It could be anything,” I mutter, trying to convince myself but the longer I stand there, the worse it gets.
The spacing. The height.
The empty stretch between the posts.
No.
The room changes then. It happens so quickly it takes me a second to notice. One moment it’s bright, light pouring in through the windows, and the next, it isn’t. A cloud must have moved over the sun, stealing the warmth from the space.
The chandelier dulls. Shadows deepen. Every fine hair on the backs of my arms, my neck stands up. I whirl around, suddenly and irrationally convinced that I’m not alone, except this time it’s not Carrson I expect to see but someone else. A ghost maybe. The skeletal remains of Carr Ashford, or one of his other ancestors. I can almost picture it, smell it. The decaying flesh. The scrap of bone across the floor. The moan of a creature who will never rest in peace.
Is this why he took down all the pictures? Did Carrson sense this too?
I take a step back, my head whipping as I try to watch all corners of the room at once. My stomach rolls, a slow wave of nausea.
“Okay. It’s okay,” I say, but it comes out high. My heart beats irregularly, jarring against my ribs. I walk backward toward the door, refusing to take my eyes off the bed. The moment I reach the hallway, I slam the doors shut and finally turn, walking fast, faster, until I’m practically jogging by the time I reach the stairwell. I take the stairs two at a time. The entire way down I can’t shake it. The paranoid idea that there was someone, something, in that room.
By the time I reach the bottom floor, all I know is this: I never want to go back in there.
***
I waste the next forty minutes pawing through empty bedrooms, bathrooms, and the conservatory. Plus, a room for wrapping presents because rich people are fucked up and believe that’s more important than, I don’t know, feeding all the starving children in the world.
I keep an eye on my watch, allotting thirty minutes for the last room, the one I believe is the most important. If Carrson hasn’t tampered withit, of course.
It’s on the ground floor, close to the kitchen. When I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cigars. It’s everywhere in this room. Smoke from years ago that seeped into the wallpaper, the rug, the furniture and stayed there.
I remember those circles on Carrson’s thighs,my father liked cigars,and I seriously consider lighting a match and watching this whole room go up in flames. It would burn quickly because the place is a disaster. Papers, folders, books litter every surface. They spill onto the floor. None of them are neatly stacked or organized in any sort of way.
My mother used to point at my messy bedroom and then at Remi’s clean one and shake her head. She said a person’s home was a reflection of their mind, of their mental state.
If she’s right, then Carr Ashford was a raving lunatic.
I wade into the center of the room and clear a space on the floor, sweeping paper aside until they form tiny mountains all around me. I pick up the nearest one, a single sheet of white paper with typed print. Times New Roman. Double spaced.
The Guatemala shipment route is compromised. Suggest Panama.
Expect twelve kilos on Sunday.
