Then I remembered the iPad and nearly leapt with elation.
“Hell to the yes.” I’d run a bath out of sight of the stupid camera and watch the dozen episodes of The Americans I’d downloaded a couple of weeks ago. Nothing like Russian spies wreaking havoc to get your mind off real-life ones. I pivoted and headed for the gravel drive and the Nissan.
I checked to make sure the coast was clear, then slipped between the cars. I pulled at the Nissan’s door handle, but it was locked. Stepping back, I stared, perplexed. I’d left it unlocked yesterday, I knew I had. I scanned the backyard. Empty. But maybe Dr. Cerny had seen me out here. Maybe he’d waited for me to head up the mountain and come back to lock the car.
Or somebody else had done it. You didn’t need the actual key, you could also just manually punch down the old-school lock. But why would somebody do that—other than to mess with me?
I jogged back to the house. In the empty kitchen, I helped myself to a whiskey soda. I knocked half of it back, then poured another slug. Snagging a half-finished bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, I made my escape into the hallway. On my way past the doctor’s office, I peered through the French doors. The sunroom was dark and quiet. I tucked the bottle of wine under my arm and tried the door. Locked.
The front of the house was quiet as well—the salon, library, and dining room all doused in darkness from the approaching clouds. I climbed the stairs and let myself into our suite.
There was no sign of Heath having returned to the room after lunch. Our bed was made and the room looked like it had been freshly vacuumed. I set the bottle of wine aside and headed to the bathroom, whiskey in hand. I was already warmer, pleasantly loose limbed.
I soaked until the whiskey was gone and the bathwater was cold. I dressed, then grabbed the Chardonnay and headed out into the hall, surprised to find our dinner tray outside our door. I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. Both the McAdams’ and Siefferts’ doors were shut, but their trays had already been collected. I tapped on the Siefferts’ door.
“Glenys? It’s Daphne. I was just wondering . . .” I cradled the wine. “Would you like to come hang out in my room? I’ve got a nice Chardonnay, if you like Chardonnay. I wasn’t sure.”
No answer.
I tried the knob. Locked.
Where was she? It was like the house had swallowed them whole, left me to knock around the empty rooms. I crept past the McAdams’ closed door to the end of the hall, where I pushed open the pocket door and eased into Dr. Cerny’s nook. His door was open, the room beyond it dark but seeming to offer an invitation.
I didn’t know what I expected to find, but it looked to me like a pretty normal apartment. There was a bed (queen size, with a gray duvet), a dresser, a small desk and chair, all gleaming Victorian antiques. Also, by the window, there was a wardrobe. A beautifully carved piece, inlaid with glossy burled walnut, with cherubs flitting across the top portion. I set the bottle of wine down, swung open the door, and plunged my hands into the dark depths. Silk, cashmere, wool. I pulled out one shirt, a soft cream woman’s blouse with black pearl buttons.
I moved to inspect the desk and sleek computer. I jiggled the mouse, and the screen lit up.
Counting compulsion—true OCD? Or connected to childhood food hoarding/fixation?
Possibly deprived of regular, healthful nutrition until age 11.
Childhood obesity? Excessive exercise, orthorexia?
Comorbid psychiatric issues?
I felt my face redden. So Dr. Cerny was taking notes on me—or, rather, my secret habits, which weren’t such a secret after all, apparently. I shouldn’t be surprised. He was a psychologist and undoubtedly connected the dots that first night when he caught me in the pantry. And of course Heath had told him I’d been a state kid. But none of that made it feel any less invasive, any less of a violation.
Feeling sick, I minimized the document, and a series of images filled the screen. The window that was already open behind the other document.
I stopped breathing.
Jesus.
It was shocking to see our room this way, viewed from nine different angles by nine different cameras. But that was definitely what I was looking at—our room. Cerny had a whole different surveillance setup for our room. Something way more modern and vastly more extensive. Just for us.
My God . . .
Reggie had been very specific about how there was just one camera, one camera that we were to pretend didn’t exist. I minimized the window, revealing the desktop screen and a row of four files labeled with numbers and letters. I enlarged the program again and pulled down the main menu. Nine cams and no indication of more. So nothing in the McAdams’ and Siefferts’ rooms, unless I was missing something.
I was standing there trying to absorb it all when I heard a sound. The distant wail of a trumpet, coming from somewhere down the hall. I froze, straining to hear it again. A moment passed and the sound disappeared, but I waited, holding my breath, and it returned. The trumpet. And singing. A man singing.
I headed toward the sound. Out on the shadowy landing, I shut Cerny’s door gently behind me, then turned and yelped in shock.
Luca was standing a couple of feet away, beside the attic stairs. There was a doorway behind him, one I hadn’t noticed before. An under-the-stairs, Harry Potter kind of door.
“Luca,” I said. “You scared me.”
We stared at each other, the smoky, sultry voice of Sinatra filling the space between us, then both started to speak—
“I got turned around,” I said.
“Vim para sua bandeja,” he said.
Sinatra hit a high note, and, in tandem, we looked down the hall on the other side of the pocket door. Luca put a finger to his lips. He motioned for me to follow, and we crept through the doorway and into the hall, stopping at the McAdams’ door.
In the dark, our eyes met, and I leaned against the door to listen. The next song started. It took a minute for the notes to register—the clarinet and piano and cymbals—before the memory crystallized in my brain. That song “Why Can’t You Behave?” The one that had been playing that night in the restaurant, when Heath had joked about Sinatra being a deal breaker. And here we were in this weird red house, stuck halfway up a mountain, and the exact same song was playing in the McAdams’ room.
Suddenly, over the music, I heard voices. Two of them, floating up the staircase, a man and a woman. Cerny and Glenys, maybe? I couldn’t be sure, but it definitely sounded like they were fighting. I tiptoed to the banister, careful to keep out of sight.
“. . . doesn’t matter,” the man was saying. Dr. Cerny, it sounded like. “And this is neither the time nor the place.”
I could only hear fragments of the woman’s response. “. . . manipulating you,” she said. “Why can’t you see that? The Hawthorne Effect changes everything . . .”
Luca put a hand on my arm, and I jumped. He was beside me, his hand warm through the sleeve of my pullover. He gave me a little push toward my room. I moved in that direction, but when I looked back, he was already closing the pocket door behind him. I stopped, straining to hear the rest of the conversation.
“Go, lie down,” Cerny was saying. “We’ll talk when you feel better.”
I couldn’t hear all of Glenys’s reply, only the last few words. “. . . you’ve taken away from me . . .” But there was nothing more, and after a few minutes, I hurried back to my room. It was only after I’d slammed the door and changed into my pajamas that I remembered the bottle of Chardonnay. I’d left it in Cerny’s room.