Chapter Ten
LUCIA
When Gio leaves with the promise of checking on my things, I sit on the edge of the bed with my palms pressed into the coverlet and survey the room for the third time.
I don’t know what to do.
It’s just a bedroom.
A large, beautiful bedroom, but still a bedroom. It has a bed, a dresser, and curtains framing tall windows.
Just like my last one.
Except this door locks from the inside.
I cross the room and test it again.
The lock turns smoothly beneath my fingers. When I open the door, nothing beeps. No guard appears in the hallway. No one tells me to close it.
I lock it again.
Then I turn toward the bathroom.
It’s so large that it looks as though someone dropped plumbing fixtures into the middle of a bedroom and covered everything in pale marble. A soaking tub sits beneath the window. The glass-enclosed shower has three different handles and a showerhead wide enough to qualify as indoor rain.
Neatly folded towels fill an open shelf. Glass jars hold cotton balls, bath salts, and soaps wrapped in white paper. Everything is new and waiting.
I can’t decide whether the shower or the tub looks better.
So I use both.
I start filling the tub, then turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat.
My donated leggings and T-shirt fall into a pile on the floor.
The spray beats against my shoulders when I step beneath it. Bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash line a recessed shelf. None of them have been used.
I open the body wash.
The scent is soft and clean, faintly floral without being sweet.
I use far too much.
For the first time in years, I don’t have to listen for someone outside the bathroom door. I don’t have to wonder whether Ivan will knock to tell me I’ve taken too long or whether Viktor has sent someone to summon me downstairs.
I wash my hair twice.
When I’m finished, I wrap it in a towel and step into the soaking tub.
The water rises almost to my shoulders. A glass jar filled with pink crystals sits on the marble ledge. I remove the lid and smell roses.
I tip some beneath the running faucet.
The crystals dissolve, and their fragrance fills the room.
At Viktor’s house, I hated everything pink because he had chosen it for me. Here, the color drifts through the water and disappears.
I turn off the tap, lean back, and close my eyes.
When I open them again, I have no idea how much time has passed.
The water has turned tepid, and the pads of my fingers have wrinkled.
I climb out and wrap myself in the white robe folded beside the sink. It’s so soft and thick that I briefly consider never wearing real clothes again.
I could get used to this.
The thought should frighten me.
Instead, I tighten the robe around my waist.
I remove the towel from my hair and comb my fingers through the damp strands.
A soft knock sounds from the bedroom door.
My entire body goes still.
“Lucia?” Gio calls through the door. “I have your things.”
I clutch the robe closed.
For a moment, I can’t answer.
“I’ll leave them out here,” he says.
His footsteps retreat down the hallway.
No handle turns.
No one tries the lock.
I wait until the house is quiet again before crossing the bedroom and opening the door.
A gray hard-shell suitcase sits in the hallway.
A note is tucked beneath the handle.
Thought you might want your things.—G
I look down the empty corridor.
He could have asked me to open the door. He could have waited until I did.
Instead, he left.
The consideration warms me and unsettles me in equal measure. I’m not accustomed to someone recognizing a boundary without making me defend it first.
I pull the suitcase inside and lock the door again.
The suitcase isn’t mine. I’ve never owned one.
But everything inside belongs to me.
My toiletry case rests on top. Beneath it are the clothes Grace sent to the hotel, folded into neat stacks. The book I bought from the hotel shop is tucked along one side, along with the few odds and ends I left scattered around the suite.
My entire life fits inside a carry-on.
I put everything away slowly and methodically.
I open drawers and divide the clothing between them. I hang several outfits inside a walk-in closet larger than my bedroom at Viktor’s house. I arrange my toiletries beside the bathroom sink.
The few belongings barely occupy a fraction of the available space, but I give each one a place.
When the suitcase is empty, I set it on the closet floor and close the door.
I select a pair of soft pants and a light sweater. Nothing too fussy. I doubt I’ll be going anywhere today.
I twist my damp hair into a loose knot and unlock the bedroom door.
The hallway is empty.
I stand at the top of the stairs and listen.
A vacuum hums somewhere far off in the house.
No footsteps approach.
I make my way downstairs.
The foyer is empty.
No guards stand beside the front doors. No one watches from the base of the stairs.
A potted ficus occupies the space where a man with a gun should be.
I almost laugh.
The house feels different without Gio narrating it. Larger. Quieter. The hallways branch in directions I don’t remember, and every open doorway reveals another room I have not yet entered.
I wander into the living room. The curved blue sectional faces a television large enough to occupy most of one wall. An ivory rug softens the marble beneath my bare feet, and several books have been left on the low table.
My fingers trail over the back of the sofa as I move toward the hallway.
The vacuum sounds farther away now.
I pass the gaming room and pause outside the study Gio said once belonged to his mother.
The door is open.
I step inside.
A desk faces a pair of glass doors overlooking the eastern grounds. The shelves along one wall contain books arranged according to height rather than subject, as though whoever organized them cared more about symmetry than finding anything.
A single picture frame sits on the desk beside a fountain pen that has long since dried.
The photograph shows two boys around seven years old.
One is smiling.
The other looks as though he has been asked to carry the weight of the world.
I don’t need anyone to identify them.
Marco and Gio.
Even as children, Gio was slightly taller. He has one arm slung around his brother’s shoulders and a front tooth missing from his grin. Marco stands straight beside him, solemn gray-green eyes fixed on the camera.
Close enough to be unmistakably related. Different enough that no one looking carefully would call them identical.
A smile touches my mouth.
I leave the photograph where I found it and back out of the room.
The library waits across the hall.
Books cover three of the four walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows fill the last, with double doors opening onto the pool terrace. Deep chairs occupy the corners, positioned to catch the afternoon sun.
I walk along the shelves.
The books are arranged alphabetically by author.
Strange neighbors emerge.
Tolstoy sits beside Taleb, as though Anna Karenina only needed someone to explain the consequences of poor decision-making.
A laugh slips out.
I select a novel and carry it toward the windows.
The chair there is comfortable. The light is perfect.
But after six years spent looking at the world through glass, I can’t make myself sit inside.
I open the double doors.
They swing outward easily.
No electronic beep. No alarm. No one comes running.
I step into the sunlight.
The east terrace is quiet. Water moves gently across the surface of the pool, scattering reflections over the pale stone. Beyond it, a winding path edged with low borders disappears among rows of rosebushes. Some are already flowering. Others hold tightly closed buds waiting for warmer weather.
The glass conservatory rises beyond the garden.
I cross the warm stone and dip one toe into the pool.
Heated, naturally.
I follow the path through the roses and stop outside the conservatory.
The door is unlocked.
This entire house is an open door.
The air inside is warm and damp. Sunlight filters through the glass ceiling and catches on broad green leaves. Flowers bloom in nearly every direction—white, yellow, pink, and deep violet.
The conservatory smells of damp soil, citrus leaves, and roses warmed by the sun. Gravel shifts softly beneath my feet as I wander without a destination, touching waxy leaves and bending to test unfamiliar fragrances.
At the far end, I find a chair tucked into a sunny corner.
I settle into it and open my book.
I’m about thirty pages in when I hear footsteps.
My back straightens.
A woman appears around a row of flowering plants.
She looks to be in her late fifties, with dark hair streaked generously with silver and twisted into a loose knot at the back of her head. Fine lines fan from the corners of warm brown eyes. Linen pants and a simple green top make her look as though she belongs among the plants.
She carries gardening gloves in one hand and pruning shears in the other. There is soil beneath her fingernails and a faint smudge of it along one cheek.
Her smile is genuine.
“Oh, there you are. Marco said you’d be joining us for a while.”
I close the book.
“I’m sorry. I was just...”
My gaze drops to my lap.
Her eyes follow.
“Reading,” she says. “Yes, that was my assessment also.”
“Am I not supposed to be in here?”
My voice comes out small.
I hate it.
“Oh, goodness, no. You have the run of the house. I’m Angela.”
“I’m Lucia.”
“I know.”
There is no suggestion in her voice that knowing my name entitles her to anything else.
I smile.
“Gio mentioned that you run the house.”
“Don’t tell Marco that,” she says.
She pulls on one glove and nods at the book in my lap.
“Is the book any good?”
I brush my fingers across the cover.
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to finish a paragraph without getting distracted by the flowers.”
She laughs.
“Which ones are causing the most trouble?”
“The roses.”
“Perfect. We’ll get rid of those.”
I must look horrified because she laughs again.
“The ones in here are ready to be cut. They’ll give us new growth.”
She finishes tugging on her gloves.
“Would you hand me that basket?”
A wicker basket rests beside my chair.