Lourdes turns to walk back to her room. I lower my arm and the elevator doors close, but rather than push the button for the thirteenth floor, I press for the lobby. If Elias used to enjoy the parties, what changed his mind? I can’t help but think it has to do with Catherine. And again there’s that spike of jealousy.
When the doors open to the lobby, it hits me how bizarre the night has been. I cross the expansive room toward the front desk, reflecting on my conversation with Lourdes. The story of the Ruby itself. The terror I felt at the fountain. A cold sensation drifts over me, and I lift my head to find Kenneth behind the desk, smiling as I approach.
“How may I help you this evening, Miss Casella?” he asks pleasantly. I look for a hint of the sinister man the staff described, but Kenneth is all business. His uniform is tidy, his eyes curious and helpful. I don’t buy his bullshit, though.
“Good evening,” I say, trying to sound mature. In reality the muscle relaxer has slowed me slightly. “I was wondering if you could help me.” I lean my elbows on the counter, steadying myself. “How exactly does one get invited to the party in the ballroom?” I ask. “Is there a way I can go?”
Kenneth doesn’t flinch, only stands there motionless, waiting to see if I’ll go on. When I don’t, he tilts his head apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The party is invite only.”
“I know,” I respond. “But I was wondering if I could have one of those invitations.”
The concierge turns to his computer, tapping quickly on the keys. He looks at me and smiles. “I’m very sorry, Miss Casella. You’re not on the list.”
“But my father and brother have both gotten one.” My adrenaline starts to pump, and my politeness is beginning to fade away. “We came here together.”
“Very sorry,” he says again, folding his small hands in front of him.
That’s all he’s going to say? I’m starting to feel light headed, but I don’t want to leave here without some answers. Why would both my father and Daniel get an invitation and not me? “Is there someone else I can talk to?” I ask the concierge. “Who makes the list?” My voice has taken on a hint of panic at the thought of being left out of my family.
Kenneth’s face tightens with concern. “You don’t look well, Miss Casella,” he says kindly. “Perhaps you should return to your room and get some rest.” He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and holds it out. I don’t take it, and he winces apologetically. “You have a little . . .” He motions to the side of his forehead and then stretches the cloth out to me again. Hesitantly, I press it to the side of my head where he indicated and feel a sudden sting.
“Ow.” When I pull away the handkerchief, I see a small splotch of blood on the cloth. My stomach lurches, and I press the fabric to my head once again. “What happened?” I ask, although I don’t see how he would know the answer.
“You must have hit your head,” he says. “Nasty little gash. Get some rest, Miss Casella. If I see your brother or your father, I’ll let them know you were here looking for them.”
I’m shaken by the blood, trying to remember when I could have hit my head. On the roof? At the fountain? Maybe I accidentally scratched myself while the concierge was refusing me an invite. My body suddenly sways, and I catch myself by grabbing on to the counter. I want to lie down, even as I toss a longing glance at the closed doors of the ballroom party.
Why can’t I go? Without a word of thanks I keep the handkerchief to my forehead and start toward the elevator. Every step is like walking through deep sand—my legs are tired and heavy, my muscles burn with exertion. For a moment I entertain the thought that Lourdes inadvertently poisoned me, but when I get to the elevator, I’m slightly better.
The doors close, and once I’m alone, my heart calms and the ache fades. I turn toward the mirrored wall and slowly lower the handkerchief to inspect my wound. Only there is none. There is no gash, no blood. There is nothing there at all.
I fall back a step, confused and a bit scared. But I saw blood on the handkerchief—felt the sting of the cut. When I go to check the cloth, it’s no longer in my hand. I spin, checking to see if I dropped it, but there is only the burgundy patterned carpet.
“What the hell?” I murmur, checking my reflection once more. I even turn around and look over my shoulder to make sure the handkerchief hasn’t stuck to my shirt. It’s gone.
The elevator doors suddenly open and I jump. I didn’t hear the signal for the thirteenth floor. Wait, did I even push the button for my floor? My breathing quickens, and the emptiness of the elevator, the silence, sends a streak of fear through me. My throat clicks when I swallow, and I take a tentative step out of the elevator. I glance down the hall one way and then the other.
Empty. Quiet.