Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It takes everything in me to wait.
But I do. Simon and I slip away to change clothes before returning downstairs.
Once the house finally quiets down, the adrenaline of the day wearing off even the most excitable guest, everyone begins heading to bed.
Simon is one of the last to make his way upstairs, making sure the few remaining guests have everything they need.
When he does, he pauses in our doorway. I meet his eyes and try to look merely tired rather than terrified.
“I’ll be right back. I forgot to grab a glass of water. ”
“The bathroom sink is on the same filtration system as the rest of the house. You can get it up here.”
“Yes, but we only have the little paper cups. It’s okay. Just a second.”
He gives me a soft smile—the one that used to make me melt—and disappears inside.
I count to ten.
Twenty.
Then I move.
The stairs creak under my feet as I head downstairs. When I reach the first floor, all is quiet. It’s cooler now, without all the body heat. I make my way toward Pierce and Rachelle’s bedroom, freezing when the floor groans.
I breathe.
Wait.
When their door isn’t ripped open and no one appears to demand to know what I’m doing, I press on. I round the corner to what I always believed was a closet and wrap my hand around the knob. The cool metal presses into my palm, and I push the door open.
The smell hits first—stale air and dust. A metallic taste fills my mouth, my throat too dry. The room hasn’t been lived in for years, I suspect. Perhaps it was a nursery when the kids were very young, until they aged out to their rooms upstairs.
It doesn’t look like it belongs in Morning House. There’s hardly any furniture in the small room, but at the top of the wall, there’s a bit of peeling yellow wallpaper. The sheer, white curtains blow in the breeze from the vent.
I move forward, looking around. What could she have sent me here for? There’s nothing here. At the end of the room, there’s a small, open doorway. I pass through it, flipping on the light.
It’s an oversized closet. This is clearly where the clutter has found itself over the years. Christmas decorations, jackets, extra tubes of wrapping paper, an old bed frame, a plastic tote full of books. And then?—
The box.
Just like last night, my name is scratched across the cardboard in black marker, jagged and uneven.
My breath shudders as I bend down next to it. I kneel on the rough carpet and check over my shoulder, then peel the tape back. It splits with a sharp, tearing sound that echoes far too loudly. I hold my breath, waiting for footsteps that do not come.
I breathe.
Press on.
The contents of the box are jumbled, a few things wrapped in tissue paper, others thrown in haphazardly. It takes just a few seconds for me to place them. My missing things.
My hairbrush.
My perfume.
My phone. I tentatively tap the screen, then the button on the side, but it doesn’t come on.
Slipping it into my back pocket, I dig deeper into the box. My running shoes. I hadn’t even realized I was missing them.
There’s…my extra contacts?
Why? Why would they take this stuff just to store it in here? Just to scare me? This doesn’t feel like the kids playing a prank. And even for Duncan—the only one I can imagine would go through the trouble for such an elaborate joke—it seems to have very little payoff.
There’s also a metal square item, like a box. I pick it up carefully, turning it over. It doesn’t open, but there are several barcodes across the top of it and a small opening that sort of looks like a speaker. Maybe it’s a recording device of some kind.
“What the hell…” My voice cracks.
Who would…
I drop the metal box and sit back on my heels, struggling to breathe. Why would anyone have taken my stuff? Who would take it? Why move the box from the shed in the first place?
Did Marlie move it?
Or someone else? Pierce?
The room spins. My head throbs.
My thoughts come in fragments, broken. Charred. I close the box altogether.
This space feels smaller suddenly, like the walls have inched closer. I stand, legs unsteady, and search around for anything else. For the radio, which is still missing.
My eyes land on the far wall, on a strange rectangle built into it that’s barely noticeable in the shadows of the clutter stacked around it. It’s been painted bright yellow to blend in with the wallpaper here.
A door.
Oh my god, it’s a door.
No knob, just a metal latch where a knob should be. I step closer.
I should go back to bed. Simon will be waiting, wondering where I am. Any longer and he could come looking for me, and how would I ever explain this? What would he think of me sneaking around? Would that finally be the last straw?
Does any of that matter at this point?
Cool air leaks from the narrow gap beneath the door, hitting my toes. My pulse thunders as I slide the latch and push. I have to know. I have to protect myself from the danger that might’ve always been lurking.
I have to make sense of this.
The door opens into noisy blackness. Forced air. Ventilation that drowns out all else. I fumble for a switch, my hand scanning the wall blindly until it connects with something. A fluorescent light flickers to life overhead, buzzing angrily.
As the room and its contents finally come into view, I suck in a sharp breath.
Screens come to life at once—dozens of them.
Mounted along the wall, they’re the old, bulky monitors with rounded glass like you’d see in a mall security office in an old movie.
I imagine an incompetent security guard spinning circles in his chair, eating a sandwich, dropping toppings on his lap, always turned away as the suspect crosses the screen.
The screens glow faintly with footage. Every angle of the property. The living room. The kitchen. The hallways. The backyard. The shed. The driveway. The garage.
The guest house. Every room of it. I knew it was coming, but that doesn’t make this any easier.
My throat closes, my vision tunneling. I can’t make sense of this. It doesn’t feel real. Possible.
Simon has mentioned the Mornings’ security in the past. How it ramped up after particular incidents. How they hired personal security until things blew over. But nothing he’s talked about ever hinted at a setup like this.
I know they have a home security system, but this is…
This feels different. Invasive. Purposeful. There’s a very good chance someone has been watching me all week.
My stomach twists violently.
I look at the shelves surrounding the screens. There are several more thin metal squares like the one I found earlier, stacked in neat rows.
Some of them have labels. Months, years, initials.
None belong to me.
I force myself to breathe, though it burns. A faint clicking noise snaps my attention to the desk directly in front of the screens. A dark object rests on it.
The CB radio.
Or…another one?
I don’t think this is the same one I had before.
I step toward it, reaching out, my fingers grazing the worn plastic?—
CRACK.
A door behind me slams shut.
Hard.
The sound explodes through the small room, ricocheting off the monitors. I spin around. The door has snapped back into place on its own, sealing me in. There’s no obvious way to open it from this side.
There has to be a way, though. A button somewhere.
“Oh god—” I slap a hand over my mouth.
Shadows creep across the floor, under the small crack of the door. Slow footsteps. Measured. Coming closer. I can’t hear them until they’ve reached the door, the noise drowned out by the noisy ventilation system.
I dart forward, unsure whether I want to tear it open or keep it closed. Open. The answer is open. I need to get out.
I tug, but it’s jammed. Or held. I can’t seem to swallow. My muscles are frozen. My mind twists, distorts. The footsteps stop right outside the door. Two long shadows touch my toes.
Someone is standing there.
They know they have me trapped, and now they’re waiting. Listening.