“No, God, of course it is,” Ashley lashes out, frustrated. “I’m saying… It’s complicated. I need time to figure it out. That’s why I’m asking you to not say anything.”
“Okay,” I reply. “I promise. I’ll pretend I never saw it.”
I don’t agree with Ashley’s affair, but I can admit that I’m new here, and her situation might be more complex than I realized.Besides, I need to continue to play nice. Ashley is right: A job like thisdoesmean you have to keep people happy. I need to make it through this storm. After all, one of these people could be responsible for Elena’s disappearance.
Ashley meets my eye, and for a second, there’s a hint of shininess in her gaze, pools of unshed tears. Then she steps away from me, turns her head, and says, “Good. Then get out. I have to change.” Her usual forced brusque tone is back.
“You know, your sister is a lot nicer than you are,” I mutter.
“Well, gotta tell us apart somehow, right?” Ashley shoots back. “The plastic surgery isn’t enough on its own.”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Ashley’s eyes flicker away, and she bites her lip, looking annoyed. With me, or with herself?
“Did you get plastic surgery to look different from Rachel?” I ask, unable to help the surprise pitching my voice. “Is that why you act likethistoo? To separate yourself?”
“Never mind,” Ashley snaps, shaking her head. “Just forget I said anything.”
“Ashley—”
“Leave, Charlie. Please.”
I unlock her door, letting it slam shut behind me as I bound out into the hallway. No wonder Ashley is bristly—she’s trying to set herself apart from her sister. Rachel is so sweet and nonconfrontational; Ashley must feel like she has to be the opposite. Assomeone close in age to a sister who is very different from me, I can understand that.
On top of that, Ashley has pinpointed the reason I’ve grown sour on this job, despite what I told Viv earlier. To be good at this, to get along onEmpress, you have to know how to play the game. You have to be aware of the power dynamics, know the key players, and do whatever it takes to keep them happy.
I can’t do that. Not anymore. I did that with Sage, and with other female friends before her, over and over. They were all headstrong women, not dissimilar to Viv: bossy, manipulative, sweet when they wanted something and vicious when they didn’t get it. It’s my weakness, I can admit it—being drawn to these types of people. It’s like I feel their power and crave it as my own, hoping that getting close to them will rub it off on me. But it never does. I end up getting burned instead. They steal my partners or my stories or decide they are tired of me.
Not this time.
Fuck the money. Something seriously dark is going on here, and I don’t want to stick around to figure it out. As soon as this storm passes, I’m getting the hell offEmpressand never looking back. I’ll find a different job. I’ll have to anyway—picking up the pieces of the video Viv posted is going to be a whole task and without internet to show me which way public opinion is trending, I’m not sure how it will go.
A familiar sound cuts through my trance, jerking my attention back to the present:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A cold breeze hits the back of my neck, prickling my hair. A salty scent invades my nose, and I shudder. But when I turn, searching for the dripping, the hallway is empty, and the sound suddenly cuts off, as if it was never there to begin with.
Chapter 21
I head back to my room, pausing every few steps to listen for more dripping water or wet footsteps. When I’m sure there’s nothing, I lurch forward, darting into my room.
Slamming the door, I twist the lock as exhales chew my lungs. I lean my forehead against the sturdy door, my own breath warming my cheeks as it bounces back at me from the paneling. I turn slightly, left ear near the seam of the door, listening hard. No dripping. No muddy footsteps approaching. It’s all in my head.
Sighing, I pull back, swiping a hand across my sweaty brow. When I turn around, a woman is standing on the threshold of the bathroom, watching me. Gentle tapping drips melodize the narrow space as water runs down her frayed clothing and mottled skin. Her hair is matted; strands cling to her bloated cheeks. There are chunks of her flesh missing, sliced sections of her throat and chest that might indicate marineactivity. Her mouth opens, and dark water dribbles out, staining her lips and chin, rolling down her neck. A briny, fishy smell envelops the room. It’s reminiscent of low tide and rotten carcasses.
A scream strains against my throat, dying before it can reach my parched mouth.
This time, I think I might recognize her.
“Elena?” I whisper.
But then I blink, and her face changes, shifts, looks even more familiar. There’s salt crusted around her nostrils and in the corners of her eyes. Her skin grays, becomes pocketed with rips and craters—flesh sags around her skeleton as if she’s wrapped in wet paper bags that are slowly disintegrating and falling off her bones.
She reminds me of someone I can’t think about anymore. I gag and clap my hands over my face, trembling uncontrollably. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and then slowly lower my arms, uncovering my eyes.
The figure is gone. My room is empty, untouched and dry. As if she was never here to begin with. I grab my chest as if I can restrain the thumping of my heart. I fight the instinct to whirl around and flee back into the hallway, racing up to the main level, the top floor, anywhere else.
