Chapter 23
My heart skitters.
“Hey,” I call out again, even louder now.
No one responds this time, either, but a second later I hear the faint scrape of metal like something’s being dragged along the corridor outside. What the hell is going on?
“Open the door, please.” I’m nearly screaming now. “I’m inside here.”
I slap at my thigh several times, fumbling for my purse, and then remember I brought the clutch tonight, and it’s on the damn sawhorse by the door, with my phone stuck inside it.
By now fear’s foaming inside me. The lower level is windowless, so there’s no light coming from anywhere. After grabbing the doorframe of the podcast studio, I move cautiously along the wall for a couple of feet.
I try to picture the setup in my mind. There were two additional rooms before this one, I think—the other podcast studio and the meeting room—and if I walk along the outside of them, hugging the wall, I’ll reach the front, and I can feel my way toward the sawhorse.
But there are booby traps on this side of the space—paint cans and rolls of tarp.
It might be better to walk more in the center until I reach the workstations. Then navigate my way around them.
I start with baby steps, sliding my kitten heels across the tile floor with both arms stretched out in front of me, still seeing nothing. It’s like I’ve been submerged in a tank of quivering blackness. I take a deep breath, feeling my panic come to a boil.
Finally, my left thigh connects with something hard—the first workstation, I realize. I grasp the edge of the desktop with my hand and inch along the side of it. I do the same with the next two desktops until I’m finally at the end.
Sweat is nearly pouring from me now, soaking the armpits of my dress. I gulp air, assuring myself I’m almost there. And sure enough, my eyes spot a thin, faint ribbon of light along the ground. That must be where the door is, with the sawhorse just ahead of it.
I start baby-stepping again, aiming for the ribbon of light. And then, horribly, the ground gives way beneath my left foot, and I go pitching forward. For a split second I seem to be falling in space before landing on the ground with a hard thwack.
The conversation pit. I must be at the bottom of it now.
Groaning, I slowly pull myself up on an elbow.
Both my left hip and wrist sting from breaking the fall, but all I care about right now is getting out of the dark.
I crawl around until I find the edge of the seating area, hoist myself onto it, and struggle to my feet.
The ribbon of light is now only feet away. I limp in that direction until my hand finally makes contact with my purse, and once I have it, I dig out my phone and turn on the flashlight. Training the beam toward the wall, I locate the light switch and flick it on.
Almost instantly my panic starts to subside.
I stand there for a moment, getting my bearings and finally focusing on my body.
My hip and wrist are throbbing, but neither seems seriously injured.
My dress is another story, however. Not only is it wet from perspiration, but there’s also a huge smear of dirt on the lower half.
Though it will mean being late for the reception, I’ll have to return to the inn and change.
Yet when I press the door handle and push, nothing happens. I try again, this time using my unbruised hip. The door budges only an inch. Something is blocking it.
I flash back to the scrape of metal I heard minutes ago . . . and then picture the table I saw in the corridor. Maybe that’s against the door now. Did the workmen come back and place it there for some reason, not knowing anyone was inside?
Or did someone do this to me on purpose?
I feel my panic start to simmer again. I need to call Logan and have him send someone to get me out. I quickly tap his number on my phone, only to see that there’s no cell coverage or Wi-Fi signal down here yet.
Fuck. But I tell myself to calm down. At least it’s not dark anymore, and hopefully the people I heard earlier are still on the floor. Besides, if I keep pushing hard enough, I can probably force the table out of the way on my own.
After setting my phone back down, I start on the door again, using both my good hip and hand to shove.
It’s obvious after a dozen miserable tries, however, that there’s no way I’m going to dislodge the table more than a couple of inches.
It feels like one end is jammed into a corner of the hall, creating an unbudging wedge.
But at least there’s enough of an opening for my voice to be heard.
“Is anyone out there?” I yell with my cheek against the door. “Please, I need help.”
I call out several more times, but no one comes.
My hip is hurting even more now, so I drag a metal folding chair toward the door and slowly lower myself onto the seat. I start calling out again, taking small breaks in between. No response. I double-check my phone, hoping a signal has miraculously appeared, but it’s still a total dead zone.
Then I notice the time: 6:22. The reception has already started. Logan is there, of course, vaguely wondering where I am by now but probably assuming I didn’t want to arrive too early and have to mingle. But remarks are due to start at 6:30, and they’re only going to wait so long for me to arrive.
What if I miss his remarks? What if I miss the whole reception?
I struggle up from the chair and start yelling even louder than before, until my voice is strained. Why would someone do this to me?
I need to make more noise. The people who were meeting down here earlier are obviously gone, but there still might be professors in their offices on the second floor.
I glance around. Lying by the far wall are a couple of barrel-shaped metal rods.
After hobbling over and grabbing one of them, I start pounding on the door with it.
It makes an almost deafening sound, and before long I’ve not only chipped paint off parts of the door but also covered the top half with dents.
Minutes pass, then more minutes. I keep pounding, pausing now and then to listen and praying for the sound of footsteps—friendly ones. Maybe by this point, the building has completely emptied.
Chip, I suddenly think. I mentioned to him that I was going to stop here. But I doubt he’ll waste much time wondering where I am.
As I start to pound again, I feel tears welling in my eyes.
I’m going to miss the reception, and Logan will assume I chickened out, that whatever change of heart I experienced about going was overridden by my initial instinct to stay away.
Beyond that, I’ll be entombed here all night, forced to pee in a corner.
Has someone done this to mess with my head?
And then, in between the repeated clangs of metal on metal, I hear it: footsteps, then someone yelling, “Hold on.”
Seconds later, whatever has blocked the door is being dragged away, making a long, earsplitting screech. At last, the door swings open. A fortyish man in gray coveralls is standing there, looking both wary and baffled at the sight of me.
“Thank you,” I blurt out, setting the rod down. I spot the table right behind him, which confirms that was the barricade.
“What happened?” he asks. “What are doing you in here?”
“I was looking around, and someone shut the door, then pushed the table in front. Who would have done that?”
He glances behind him at the table as if the answer is sitting on top of it.
“The workers, maybe,” he says, looking back at me. “To discourage people from sneaking in here.”
People like me, he probably means.
“But why not check first to make sure no one was here?”
He shrugs. “They must have thought it was empty.”
Maybe.
“I’m so sorry for any damage to the door,” I say, grabbing my phone and purse. “I’ll—I’ll speak to President Williams about having it repaired. Thank you again for finding me.”
“You’re okay?” he asks as I move past him to leave.
“Yes, okay.” But that’s not true at all.
I have no time now to go back to the inn and change.
As I race toward Boyd Hall, I use a tissue from my coat pocket to wipe my face and then attack the dirt on my dress, which proves to be futile.
When I finally reach my destination, I have a stitch in my side, my hip hurts even more, and my heels feel nearly raw.
I enter the building and find myself in a large wood-paneled foyer, with the reception happening in a room just to my left.
I steal a frantic glance at my phone: 7:14.
There’s a rolling clothes rack by the door, and a handful of people are already tugging their coats from hangers, preparing to leave.
Deciding I don’t even have time to find a restroom, I approach the reception area.
It’s a beautiful, high-ceilinged room, its walls hung with gilt-framed oil paintings.
About thirty guests are still gathered inside, though the vibe is of a party that’s past its prime.
Almost instantly, I discover Logan standing in a cluster of people. Seconds later, he shifts position slightly, spots me, and stares across the room. There’s a look of bewilderment in his eyes, not an expression from his usual repertoire.
I slip out of my coat, drape it across my arm, and smooth my hair with my better hand.
I step into the room and start toward Logan, but before I’ve gone far, someone is touching my shoulder.
Turning, I see that it’s Alison Handler.
She’s dressed in a flowy cream-colored skirt and pearl-buttoned cardigan of the same hue, almost like an image from one of her paintings.
“Bree, good evening,” she says. “And congratulations on the reception.”
“Thank you,” I say, half in a daze by now. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“I looked for you earlier, but it was so crowded during the first hour, I didn’t see you, and now I’m off to dinner with a friend.”
She obviously assumes I’ve been here the whole time and simply opted for a slightly disheveled, sweat-drenched look for the evening.
“I’m sorry to have missed you yesterday,” she adds.
“That’s my fault for not contacting you first,” I fumble. “Your husband said you were out for the evening.”
“The shame is I was actually in my studio, but in the back room, reading on my daybed. I must not have heard you knock.”
There’s no way I’m going to admit I didn’t knock, that I was simply peering into her window like a Peeping Tom.
“Oh, too bad.”
“Why don’t you come by tomorrow,” she says, holding my gaze. “I’ll be there all morning for sure.”
Is there any point in returning there? Right now, I’m too discombobulated to decide.
“Thank you, but I probably won’t have the chance before I leave for Uruguay.”
“Well, just in case, here’s my phone number.” She quickly extracts the card from her purse and presses it into my hand. “You can text or call me.”
She smiles, then hurries away. I take a few breaths to steady myself and half hobble across the room in Logan’s direction. As I close the distance, he steps out from the group he’s talking to and waits for me in the middle of the room.
He doesn’t say a word when I reach him, just stares with his eyes now dark as slate in the dimness of the room. He looks both hurt and confused.
“I’m so sorry, Logan,” I say. “I didn’t do this on purpose. Something happened to me.”
He reaches up to touch my left temple, and I pull back in surprise.
“Is that blood?” he asks, withdrawing his hand.
Instinctively, I press on the same spot and then find a smear of red on my fingertips.
“I fell,” I say. “And worse than that, I’ve been locked in the Muse office for the last hour and a half.”
“Christ, Bree, what happened?”
“I’m not sure. But, look, let’s save it for later.”
“Are you okay, though?”
“Mostly just shaken. I feel terrible about missing your remarks—all of this.”
He glances back toward the group he’d been standing with. “Can you give me a little time to finish up with a reporter?”
“Was there a good press turnout?”
“Yes, including a feature reporter from the Albany paper who wants to do a big piece on Mel and the scholarships. Give me twenty minutes to nail down a game plan with him and say goodbye to people, and then I can drive you back to the inn.”
I start to nod in consent but realize I don’t have the psychic energy to stay any longer.
“I think I need to go back right now,” I say.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?”
“Yes, I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t coming.”
“I’ll call you soon as I’m done here.”
I nod, then retrace my steps across the room. If Jack’s still here, I don’t see him, and there’s also no sign of Maya or anyone from the dinner Tuesday night. But as I exit the reception room, I nearly collide with Chip Conway, buttoning his coat.
“There you are,” Chip says, and his eyes quickly scoot to the side of my forehead where Logan noticed the blood. “I’ve been looking for you—because I’ve got some good news.”
I stare at him, slightly dumbfounded. What good news could there possibly be tonight? And then I recall our conversation from earlier.
“I found Mel’s stuff,” he adds.
“That’s fantastic,” I exclaim. I barely revel in this news before I see Jeffrey Handler approach the coatrack, too. I certainly don’t want Chip saying anything more in front of Handler. “But I’m in a terrible hurry right now,” I add. “Can I call you first thing tomorrow?”
“Sure, sure, whenever works for you. Why don’t I simply text you a link with directions on how to download the material.
” To my dismay, he also notices Handler and smiles in greeting.
“Hey, Professor Handler. Ms. Winter was wondering if some of Melanie’s writing might be in our creative content archive, and sure enough, I located a bunch of things. ”
Chip returns his attention to me. “Don’t let me hold you up anymore,” he says. “I’ll send you the link tonight.”
I mumble a thank-you and start to back away, but for a moment I’m immobilized, pinned in place by Handler’s gaze. He’s just learned I’m going to have access to Mel’s writing, and he doesn’t seem the least bit happy with the news.