Chapter 44
I don’t have a floor plan, and I haven’t had that much time to snoop, but I do know that upstairs consists entirely of bedrooms and bathrooms—on my side at least—so I stay on the ground floor and head under the stairs, towards the dining room and the drawing room .
. . because there were other rooms there too.
All the doors are closed now. I pull open the one beside the dining room and find a sitting room with a couple of pale yellow sofas on either side of a coffee table.
But the fireplace is immaculate and clean, and there are no papers or books strewn around; I focus in on the floors.
With Red Flannel Jeff’s blood pulsing through me, my vision is razor sharp, even sharper than normal, and I can see a thin layer of dust with no footprints on it.
Nobody has been in here for at least a week or so.
I rush out again, closing the door behind me so nobody knows I’ve been in there, and stride across the hallway towards the room I saw yesterday, when I was looking for Mrs Parker to fix my dress—the one I thought looked like a library.
And now that I think about it, it was as I pushed the door open that Oscar called for me.
That must be it. It’s in there. I just know it.
The walls creak. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end.
I stand dead still and listen for a moment. What if I’m wrong, what if someone is home? But then comes the howl of wind outside, and the rattle of windows. Other than that, it’s silent.
I twist the doorknob and go inside.
The room is huge and smells like dust and old cigars, with dark wood panelling and ornate cornicing.
Even without Oscar in here, I can feel his energy swirling, warning me of consequences I dare not even imagine.
This must be his office. The walls are filled with books, most old, some modern, there are two spiral staircases that lead up to the second level of books, and there’s a large spinning world globe in the corner that looks like it’s from another time entirely.
On the far right, is a solid timber desk with a laptop charging in the middle of it.
I bet it’s in there.
I rush towards the desk. Where would he have hidden it? I pull the drawers open, one by one, rifling through cigars and paperclips and expensive-looking pens and a Rubik’s cube that’s half solved, but it’s not in any of these.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe it’s in one of the other rooms. Maybe in that big set of shelves in the drawing room with the Christmas tree?
I’m about to give up, leave, search another room, but then I see .
. . a box. It’s dark wood and sitting on his desk.
My pulse speeds up a tiny bit and I reach for the latch, pull it up and open it.
Inside sits an old brass kaleidoscope, the kind I haven’t seen in a very long time. The kind where you twist it and the sands shift, creating new and beautiful patterns.
But there, beneath it, is my phone.
A lightness moves through me—I found it! I really found it! I’m hit by relief, hope . . . and then a massive wave of fear.
What if Jonathan really did it? Really turned his profile to private and blocked me?
Frantically, I reach down, touch the screen and wait for it to glow to life.
But it’s out of charge.
Great.
I’ve got a charger upstairs, I could go and get that, but then I see one.
Right there by Oscar’s laptop, threading down the back of the desk.
With shaky hands, I plug it in, then stand shifting from foot to foot, waiting for that little white Apple logo to flash up at me and put me out of my misery.
It’s just Instagram, I tell myself.
But it doesn’t feel like just Instagram. It feels like this one moment will define me forever. Like it’ll confirm whether I am in fact completely and utterly unlovable, whether even my soulmate could just delete me with the click of a button and walk away, without so much as a backward glance.
Finally, my phone turns on.
The screen lights up; it sees my face and unlocks. And then quickly, breathlessly, ignoring the notifications on the screen, I tap straight through to Instagram. My stomach churns as I navigate to Jonathan’s profile.
As it loads the room around me gets fuzzy, and I’m holding my breath. Please don’t have done this. Please!
But then . . . his profile loads, and it’s all okay.
He hasn’t blocked me and he hasn’t posted anything new either. Not to his stories and not to his posts.
I flop down on the chair by the desk and start to laugh. Of course he wouldn’t block me. Why would he?
So I move through to my texts now. Maybe he sent me a Merry Christmas text . . .
Nothing.
An ache rings out beneath my ribs, that little string tugs. It’s okay, I tell myself. He will, just give it time.
I tap on the one message that is there instead.
Daphne: WORST BOXING DAY EVER! I SWEAR KENNY IS STILL HAUNTING ME. WHERE ARE YOU??? She’s sent a photo showing a mangled tangle of bras from a change room.
I type back: Home soon. Miss you!
But I really should get out of here, so quickly I tap through to the VHC website, and go straight to the posting board, hungrily scrolling, scanning for Kenny’s name.
There’s a post entitled PARIS METRO ATTACK and one called WOMAN INJURED AFTER BIZARRE ATTACK . . . But it looks like I’m in the clear.
So I’m about to log out before someone comes home and catches me in here. But then: FUUUUUUCK.
There, glowing back at me like the Grim Reaper’s eyes beneath his hood, is exactly what I don’t want to see.
URGENT LONDON MEET-UP. RE: KENNETH brAWLEY
My vision gets wavy as I tap on it and speed-read the full post.
Title: URGENT LONDON MEET-UP. RE: KENNETH brAWLEY
Location: London
Posted by: @Vampitup
Calling all London members. We are organising an urgent meet-up to discuss the death of Kenneth Brawley.
I have important information to share from my police contact.
There were indeed bite marks on the victim’s neck, I saw the photos and took copies.
While these could be attributed to foxes, I’d say it’s worthy of further investigation.
Especially since we might have a lead. There is CCTV footage of a black Aston Martin pulling up and parking near where the attack took place.
I have more information that I will share with you on the night.
BUT THIS IS IT. OUR MOMENT. Come and meet with us so we can strategise and find the vamp who did this!
We will be meeting tomorrow night at the usual place in Carnaby Street at—
Oh god.
It’s happening.
Every part of me gets ice cold.
And not just because of Oscar’s black Aston Martin, which will soon be parked outside again. Not just because @Vampitup said he has more information and what more could there possibly be?
But because: a meeting.
Sally has a vested interest in this case because of me, she’ll Zoom in for sure.
And what if Sally and Riley both join the meeting?
Then I truly will be fucked.
Because the information they each have about me individually is a little compromising but combined . . . it could be catastrophic. The room sways as I imagine how it might play out.
First, Sally would excitedly mention that one of our members worked with Kenny, that I knew him personally, he was my boss.
Then everyone would ask her who I was. Sally would tell them that my name is Margot, and Riley would pipe up and say, ‘Hang on, I’ve met her.
You say she knew him personally? Interesting. She might be a suspect.
‘Because her name isn’t Margot, it’s actually Aubrey. I always suspected she was hiding something, otherwise why lie? She was really cold to the touch, even in summer. Had pale skin and golden rings around her irises and I could barely feel her pulse.’
He’d ham it up, of course. He’d make me sound like a monster.
Everything would go downhill from there.
Sally would be so hurt that I’d lied to her about my name, her trust would evaporate.
She’d start wondering about what else I’d lied about.
She’d think about all the times I messaged her through the night, how I was empathetic to vampires, how I hated Kenny—HATED HIM—that I’d wished him dead and sent her a screenshot of exactly where he ran, the very night he died.
She’d tell the whole lot of them this.
They’d think I killed Kenny, for sure. Even I think I sound guilty.
I’m spiralling, I have to stop.
Because it’s also possible that neither of them will join the meeting. That all this threat is in my head. But I can barely breathe and it feels like the entire world is closing in on me.
I sit forward and clench my eyes shut and bang down on the desk. It rattles and thuds from the weight of my fists—ah shit, I forgot blood from the vein makes me stronger.
And then, I hear the clink of something small and light falling to the floor.
What was that? Have I broken something?
I look down, under the desk.
And there, lying on the floor, is an old-looking box.
It’s small, like a match box, and wrapped in very old, faded wrapping paper.
I pick it up; it feels light. I shake it, but there’s no sound from within.
The edges have been worn down by time, the paper now delicate and fading, has little cherubs and birds on it and I vaguely recognise the pattern.
There’s a tiny card attached to it, made from the same wrapping paper that’s covering the box. I open the card.
Darling Oscar,
This is a box of my love. Never open it, just carry it with you knowing that I will always love you.
Yours forever, Aubrey.