Deciding to leave the note in the mailbox on the way out, I hurried back down the tunnel-like space. Now that the kitchen’s light was at my back, I saw several doors punctuating the long hallway and noticed that one was slightly ajar. A warm light was glowing from inside. Maybe this was the housekeeper’s room. “Jeanne?” I called in a low voice. There was no response.
I stood motionless an instant before feeling myself driven forward by an irresistible impulse. What am I doing? I thought as I stepped through the doorway. Heavy curtains blocked the outside light, like in the other rooms. The only illumination came from a few small lamps scattered around on low tables.
I stepped into the room and softly closed the door behind me. I knew it was insane. But the rational part of my brain had lost the battle, and I was now on autopilot, trespassing in someone’s house in order to satisfy my curiosity. My skin felt like it was being pricked by a million tiny adrenaline darts as I began to look around.
To my right, bookcases surrounded a gray marble fireplace. Above its mantel hung two enormous swords, crossed above the hilts. The other walls were hung with framed photographs, some in black-and-white and others in color. They were all portraits.
There seemed to be no sense to the collection. Some of the people in them were old, some young. A few pictures looked as if they were taken fifty years ago, and others looked contemporary. The only thing tying them together was that they were all candid: The subjects didn’t know their picture was being taken. Weird collection, I thought, shifting my gaze to the other side of the room.
In one corner stood a massive four-poster bed hung with translucent white cloth. I walked toward it to take a closer look. Through the gauzy fabric I could see the shape of a man lying on the bed. My heart froze.
Not daring to breathe, I pulled the curtain aside.
It was Vincent. He was lying above the covers, fully clothed, on his back with his arms to his sides. And he didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like he was dead.
I lifted a hand and touched his arm. It was as cold and hard as a store mannequin’s. Recoiling, I cried, “Vincent?” He didn’t move. “Oh my God,” I whispered, horrified, and then my eyes fixed on a framed photo sitting on the table next to his bed. It was of me.
My heart stopped in my chest, and holding my hand to my throat, I backed away until my shoulders hit the marble chimney and I let out a terrified scream. Just then, the door burst open and an overhead light switched on. Jules stood in the doorway. “Hi, Kate,” he said ominously, and then, turning the light back off, he nodded and said, “Looks like the game’s up, Vince.”
Chapter Eleven
“YOU’LL HAVE TO COME WITH ME.” JULES WORE A grim expression. When he realized that I was incapable of movement, he took my arm and led me toward the door.
“But Jules,” I said, my shock worn off enough to allow me to speak, “Vincent’s dead!”
Jules turned to me and stared. I must have looked like a trauma victim. I know I sounded like one, my voice coming out all quivery.
“No, he’s not. He’s fine.” He took my hand and pulled me into the hallway. I jerked it back.
“Listen to me, Jules,” I said, starting to sound hysterical, “I touched him. His skin is cold and hard. He’s dead!”
“Kate,” he said, sounding almost annoyed, “I can’t talk to you about this right now. But you have to come with me.” He took a gentle hold of my wrist and began leading me down the hallway.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Where should I take her?” he asked himself. It wasn’t in a pondering tone, like people use when they ask a question they already know the answer to. It sounded like he didn’t know and expected someone else to answer.
My eyes widened. Jules was crazy. Maybe he had been brain-damaged in the subway wreck, I thought. Maybe he was criminally insane and had murdered Vincent and left him on his bed, and now he was taking me somewhere to kill me, too. My thoughts were spinning out of control: I was now in slasher-film mode. Terrified, I tried to yank my hand from his grasp, but his grip tightened.
“I’m taking you to Charlotte’s room,” he said, answering his own question.
“Who’s Charlotte?” I asked, my voice wavering.
“I’m not trying to scare her!” Jules said, coming to a stop. He turned to me, looking exasperated. “Listen, Kate. I know you had a shock in there, but your being in that room is completely your own fault. Not mine. Now I’m going to take you somewhere to calm down, and I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Can I just leave?”
“No.”
A tear rolled down my cheek. I couldn’t help myself. I was too confused and frightened to be calm, and too horrified that I was crying to look at him: Looking weak or fragile was the last thing I wanted. I stared at the floor.
“What now?” he said, dropping my hand. “Kate? Kate?” His rough manner softened. “Kate.”
I met his eyes as I wiped my tears away with shaking fingers.