Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Doors
Becky
I stay frozen for a solid five minutes, staring at the space he left, turning it over in my mind.
All the doors are unlocked.
That thought should be freeing, but instead it feels like a test I didn’t agree to take. What if some of them weren’t meant to be opened? What if curiosity comes with a price I can’t pay?
Through the door, I hear Carrson’s sports car roar away, and from somewhere deep in the house, a clock ticks. For a heartbeat, everything seems bigger, more alive.
Then a slow, creeping smile spreads across my face.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “that was a mistake.”
My heart hammers, not with fear exactly, but with the thrill of going where I shouldn’t.
Each door is a dare, asking if I’m brave enough to open it.
I start down the hallway, my steps slower than they were when I sprinted to the basement.
My hands are steadier when I try the first knob, and I sigh with relief when it clicks open.
This time, there’s no need to rush or hide.
***
The room I choose is on purpose, one I’m guessing Carrson doesn’t think I’ll prioritize.
The funny thing is, I don’t even know if this door was ever locked.
I didn’t try it before.
How could I? He was inside, asleep, while I crept through the house, jiggling handles like a criminal.
It’s his bedroom. The one he’s been using since we got here.
I pause, one hand on the doorknob, wondering if it means something. That the first door I try is his. That the first thing I want to learn about is him.
Does that make me weak? Have I already forgotten my original purpose?
No.
I push the door open.
I have two hours, I reassure myself. Plenty of time to learn about him and The Order. Because that’s the real goal. Figure out what The Order is. How far it goes.
This is part of that, I tell myself. I need to understand how Carrson fits into it.
Yeah.
That’s all this is.
The bed is neatly made. A glass of half-drunk water sits on the nightstand beside a book.
I walk over and pick it up. A portrait of a stern-faced man stares back at me from the cover, all angles and disapproval, as if he personally hates everything I stand for.
His clothing tells me he lived centuries ago, even older than the picture of Carrson’s ancestor.
The one that broke when Carrson and Jackson fought.
I read the title.
Machiavelli — The Art of War.
Okay. That’s not ominous at all.
Some light bedtime reading, huh, Carrson?
Shaking my head, I set the book back down, careful to position it exactly how he left it. I go through the drawers in his dresser quickly but only find clothing. So perfectly folded they could be on a display table in The Gap.
Who knew Carrson was such a neat freak?
The closet has a few shirts on hangers, but that’s it.
The en-suite bathroom is dull. Toothbrush. Toothpaste.
Let’s not talk about how I opened his shampoo bottle and sniffed it.
I come back out, ready to keep searching, but there’s only the bed and a chair. I’m about to leave when I notice his backpack in the corner, leaning against the wall.
It’s gray, the canvas worn soft, the shoulder straps pulled all the way out to fit Carrson’s broad frame. A loose thread curls beneath the zipper, and dust clings to the bottom, probably from when he brings it to the clearing.
It’s a lot like mine back at Rosewood Hall, the one still crammed full of research on him.
The only difference is that Carrson’s doesn’t have the turtle charm on the zipper, the one Remi gave me a few months before she died.
For a minute, I stare at it, remembering all the nights I spent digging through fragments of his life, photos, records, rumors.
Chasing pieces of him from a distance, trying to build something real out of scraps.
There are pictures of this house in my files.
I used to study them, wondering what it would be like to live somewhere so big, so untouchable.
Now I don’t have to guess.
I’m here.
Inside it.
Inside him, in a way I never expected.
I can’t waste that, so I cross the room, unzip the bag, and blindly shove my hand into each pocket until my fingers close over a small rectangle. I pull it out.
Black and white. One of the composition notebooks we use in school.
I flip the pages and find notes on schedules, Ashford House meetings, reminder to call Lou and other names I don’t know.
I’m at the end of the book, almost going to put it back when I hit several pages covered in his dense blocky handwriting.
I bring the book closer and read. The information is in short bursts. One per line. Observations
Avoids eye contact when uncomfortable.
Over-explains when nervous.
Pushes boundaries intentionally.
“Hold on,” I say. This can’t be about me. Can it?
I bend back over the notebook, scanning faster now.
Not afraid of conflict.
Uses humor as deflection.
Doesn’t know when to stop.
Yeah.
That’s definitely me.
A small, hysterical laugh escapes. “Well,” I whisper. “At least he’s thorough.” But my hands have begun to shake.
I turn another page. The handwriting changes. Gets darker. Heavier.
Less observational. More personal.
Stares at me when she thinks I don’t notice.
Another line beneath it.
What does she want from me?
My throat goes dry. I shouldn’t be reading this. I definitely shouldn’t keep going.
I flip the page.
Only two lines are filled on this one. The rest of the page, and all the pages behind it, are empty. These words are centered. Written harder than the rest, the pen pressed deep enough to leave an imprint.
I think about her constantly.
The next line is carved into the page.
And then, below it, pressed so deep the paper dents, there’s one line left.
Written all in capital letters.
BECKY FUCKING DAWSON.
The room grows smaller. Warmer.
I might pass out.
My head jerks up, heart pumping, suddenly sure he’ll be there. Watching me. But the room is empty. The house eerily quiet.
How long ago did he write this?
Did he mean for me to see it? Or did he forget it was here?
Carrson doesn’t seem like someone who makes mistakes.
I flip back through the notebook, rereading everything and that’s when I realize he sees it. The real me. Not the version I show to the rest of the world. Not the one I smooth out, make polite, pleasing, non-intimidating.
This.
The me who’s angry. Driven. A little unhinged.
All those times in the clearing when he was pretending to ignore me, he wasn’t. He was watching, studying. Seeing things I didn’t realize I was showing.
My fingers dig into the page, crumpling the paper.
Is that why he left it here? Not for me to understand him, but proof that he understands me?
Which is comforting, as if I’m not alone in my own head anymore.
But also unsettling, because knowledge is currency. Leverage. A weapon.
If he can read me like this, then he knows where I’m weak. What to push. How I’ll break.
I slam the book closed, annoyed. Every time I think I have the upper hand, Carrson flips it. It’s pissing me off.
Fine. If he knows me, then I’ll learn him the same way. Lips pressed into a line, my shoulders back, I replace the notebook. I pivot and walk out of his room, more determined than I was before.
***
The next room is on the third floor, double doors that I’m pretty sure lead to the master bedroom. There must be a reason Carrson hasn’t taken it over, considering he’s the master of this house now that his dad’s dead.
I open both doors and step into an opulent, sun-filled room.
It’s dominated by a four-poster bed made of dark wood, polished to a mirror-like shine.
Matching nightstands and dressers line the walls, everything arranged with almost obsessive symmetry.
There’s a sitting area off to the side, a couch and coffee table positioned as if they’re waiting for someone who never came back.
Farther in, a doorway leads to a large bathroom. Even from here, the marble floor gleams, a crystal chandelier catching the light and scattering it across the walls. It’s a smaller version of the ones in the ballroom.
It’s beautiful.
And completely empty.
I move through the room, opening drawers, but there’s nothing inside. The closet is also bare, no hangers, no dust, nothing to suggest anything was ever kept here at all.
Everything is spotless. Clean but also maintained. The kind of clean that requires daily attention. As if the room isn’t abandoned, it’s being preserved.
I drop to my hands and knees and crawl over the carpet, inspecting it inch by inch. I don’t consciously tell myself what I’m hunting for, but I know.
There are no dark stains. No faint traces of red.
I even peer under the small Persian rug at the end of the bed.
Finally, I reach for the bedpost at the foot of the bed and pull myself upright.
“Ouch—” I jerk my hand back.
A splinter is buried in my palm, a tiny drop of blood welling around it. I bring my hand to my mouth, sucking the sting away. Blood spreads across my tongue, the taste of iron and earth.
Wondering where it came from, I turn back to the post. The wood is smooth except for one spot, right at eye level. I lean closer.
A rough, uneven tear mars the finish around the post, the varnish broken like something struck it, or rubbed against it hard enough, long enough, to wear it down. It forms a perfect circle of white, revealing the unfinished wood underneath.
I step back, my gaze lifting to the rest of the bed.
That’s when I see the second mark.
On the opposite post at the foot of the bed.
Same height. Same shape. Same unbroken circle.
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?