Chapter Three
She reaches the library, and bursts in, accidentally startling Cate, who’s over by the dollhouse.
“Oh my god.” Millie gasps, her own heart surging in surprise. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Cate lets out a shaky laugh, puts the same hand to her chest. “Sorry! I’m a little jumpy after . . . well . . .” She gestures vaguely, at the room, the house, the, well, everything.
Millie blows out a breath. “I don’t blame you. It’s been . . . a lot.”
Cate bobs her head, tucks a chunk of dark hair back behind her ear, her eyes glassy with tears.
It hits Millie then: Cate is only a year or two older than Freya.
No wonder she’s struggling to cope.
She thinks of hugging her, but then she remembers that the British are all stiff upper lip, no touching please, emotions, how untoward.
(She learned this the hard way after meeting one of her favorite authors at a festival last year, a British literary legend, and when Millie went in for the hug, the woman looked at her like she was a wild animal and backed quietly out of reach before offering a limp hand, and Millie definitely cried in the elevator after.)
So instead, Millie pats Cate gently on the shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
Cate chews on the inside of her cheek and tugs at the hem of her cardigan. “I . . . I honestly don’t know.”
Millie’s been keeping her distance out of—not jealousy, exactly, though it would have been, if Cate had chosen young adult, which loves nothing more than an actual young adult to hype up, even if they don’t have the chops.
The younger the author, the bigger the budget, all that pressure and promise, until the shine wears off (which it always does, eventually, the machine moving on to the next big thing, leaving the author to pick up the pieces . . . or a pen name).
No, it’s more that Millie doesn’t know quite how to perform around Cate. Which version of herself to be. Now she wonders if she should just . . . be herself.
“Hey,” she says. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed.”
Cate’s brow furrows, and Millie’s worried she’s said or done the wrong thing, but then Cate nods. “Thanks.”
Millie takes Cate’s hand, gives it a little squeeze, then flinches when something sharp jabs into her palm. “Ow!”
Cate pulls back suddenly. “Oh, sorry, I guess I broke a nail.” Sure enough, her pointer finger has a jagged edge. She puts it in her mouth and starts to chew. It makes her look like a mouse with a morsel of cheese.
Millie pulls back and looks around. She’s never actually been in the library before. She does a loop around the room, scanning the shelves in vain for a single book that does not have ARTHUR FLETCH written down the spine.
Well, she thinks, so much for finding a character name that hasn’t been used yet. She lets out a small, exasperated huff.
“Looking for something?” asks Cate, glancing up from the model.
“It’s just, when I walked past this room before and saw the walls of books, I thought they were by other authors. I didn’t realize it was just a thousand copies of his own.”
“Mad, isn’t it?” says Cate.
“Try narcissistic. Like, dude, do you even read other people’s books? Or do you literally only own copies of the ones you wrote?”
“It’s pretty impressive, though. Having enough work to fill all these shelves. To see your name staring back at you from every single spine.”
“I guess,” says Millie, even though Cate’s right.
It is impressive. But it’s also ridiculous.
A grim reminder of the chasm between someone like her and someone like Arthur Fletch.
Back when she was just starting out, like Cate, the sight probably would have inspired her.
Now, it just feels like twisting the knife.
“But like, wouldn’t you get bored? Like, oh, think I’ll grab something to read.
” She plucks an Italian edition of the first Petrarch novel from a nearby shelf and flips through it with a groan.
“God, even the paper quality is better.”
She tosses the book onto the leather chair and strolls up to the model, running her finger across the tiny roof tiles. “Now this, I can get behind.”
The model house is creepy, but it’s also impressive. No wonder it’s been given pride of place in the middle of the room. It sits mounted on a pedestal, a copper floor lamp arching over it, the unlit bulb like a sun that’s gone out. Up close, the detail is amazing.
Kenzo’s the one who mentioned that it was a perfect replica of the House That Petrarch Built. And like the house itself, the model’s full of secrets, like the hidden door to Fletch’s room.
She leans close, peering into the other chambers.
“Did you have a dollhouse, growing up?” asks Cate.
Millie laughs—not a funny haha laugh, but a short, sharp hah no. “It wasn’t that kind of childhood,” she says. “What about you?”
“I had something that might have been a dollhouse, once. But by the time Mum salvaged it, it was more duct tape than plastic.” Cate shakes her head. “She used to say there had been an earthquake. That the house was even more impressive because it was still standing.”
Millie smiles. “Sounds like she was doing her best.”
Cate keeps her eyes on the miniature. “Perhaps.” There’s a lot of sadness in that word, and Millie can practically feel the girl’s thoughts sliding somewhere dark, so she says, “Hey. At least she tried. My mom thought toys were earthly burdens that kept us from focusing on God.”
That does it. Cate looks up at her, her face torn between horror and shock.
Millie makes a point of shrugging to show she’s over it and leans closer to the house, putting her face right up against the window of the room at the top that must be Fletch’s own.
The one Jaxon insisted he saw someone standing in.
But for all the tiny furniture and tiny weapons, tiny pictures on the walls and tiny pots in the kitchen and tiny pillows on the tiny beds, there are no tiny people. Not that she can see.
“Do you think it opens?” She glances at Cate. “I mean, it has to, right? How else did they get the pieces in?”
They spend the next few minutes searching for a clasp, and then Cate runs a hand along a miniature drainpipe, and the dollhouse lets out a soft click, one half swinging open. The two of them gasp in twin delight.
“No way,” breathes Millie.
Cate stares, eyes wide in childlike wonder as Millie reaches in, and runs a fingertip along the shelves of tiny books in the tiny library, its own tiny model sitting in the center. It reminds her of nesting dolls, like if she could see inside that tiny model, there would be another, even smaller.
Cate is examining Fletch’s office, where even the miniature safe has little red numbers on the front. But they’re painted on, permanently set to 00:00:01. A single second away from opening.
Millie’s gaze drifts up to Fletch’s bedroom.
The sloping roof, the papers scattered on the unmade bed, the rug askew.
The infamous red hat, the one from all his author photos, hanging from a bedpost. And there’s the hidden staircase, running down from the third floor to her hall.
Kenzo was right—on the model the door is clearly there, right between her room and Jaxon’s.
There’s something else between the walls, but even with the model open, it’s too dark to make it out.
That must be what the lamp is for. Millie switches it on, and warm light spills onto the house, illuminating the rooms, casting shadows on the tiny furniture, falling through the stained-glass windows on the landing like late-afternoon sun.
She tries to move the light so she can angle it into the secret stairs, only to find it doesn’t move. The lamp has been mounted to the floor, the light angled just so.
“Huh,” Millie says as Cate crouches down, entranced by the way the multicolored light lands on the foyer floor, but her own attention keeps going to those stairs.
Or rather, the space behind them, the patch of shadow that looks at first like a solid wall, but on closer inspection turns out to be hollow.
A secret passageway. And not the only one.
The model house is riddled with tunnels, narrow gaps that run between each and every bedroom, on both sides of the stairs. Which strikes her as weird, but then again, she grew up in a ranch house, not a castle.
Millie blinks, eyes tired from squinting. The light—the real light, outside the real library windows—is getting thin, and her stomach has started to growl, and she can smell something good wafting down the hall. So she leaves Cate still studying the dollhouse, and heads for the kitchen.
* * *
PRISCILLA’S AT THE STOVE, GRINDING BLACK PEPPER into a huge pot of spaghetti sauce.
Kenzo is sitting at the long wooden table, tapping away on his typewriter, a few sheets of light-purple paper face down on one side and the ax resting on the other.
Millie glances at the counter, the knife block in Priscilla’s reach, and wonders if she, too, should have a weapon handy. The house has enough to choose from.
“How are you holding up, Millie?” asks the romance writer as she stirs the pot.
Kenzo stops typing long enough to look up and give her a salute.
“Okay, I guess . . .” Millie nods at Kenzo’s typewriter. “Sounds like the writing’s going well.”
He shrugs. “Turns out that being reminded of my own mortality is excellent for productivity. Silver linings and all that.” He goes back to work, filling the kitchen with the harsh clack of keys, and Priscilla looks at Millie.
“Kenzo seems to think it’s a bad idea to be alone.”
“I know a pattern when I see one.” He glances up, sounding vaguely wounded. “Besides, you said you liked the company . . .”
“Did I?” asks Priscilla, but she flashes him a smile before turning back to Millie. “Have you seen Cate? I do think it’s good we keep an eye on each other, all things considered.”
“She was in the library just now.”
“Writing?” Kenzo ventures.
Millie shakes her head. She lowers her voice. “I think she’s too upset to write.”
Kenzo grunts. “What about you, Priscilla? Have you found the ending yet?”
The romance writer wavers. “I’m still . . . considering my options.”
Millie wanders over to the stove. “That smells great.”
“It’s my ex-boyfriend’s mother’s recipe. The only good thing to come of that relationship. . . . Hand me that colander?” She strains the pasta, then adds it to the sauce. “I may have slightly overcatered.”
Millie pulls four bowls from the cupboard, but Priscilla frowns.
“Five,” she says. “Jaxon needs to eat, too.”
“Of course,” says Millie, smacking her forehead. “Sorry, long day.”
“I’ll take him up a bowl,” says Kenzo, pushing back his chair. “I’m stuck on this beat. Plus, I want to see his face when I offer him carbs.”
“I’ll come with you,” offers Millie.
Behind her glasses, Priscilla lifts a brow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Millie chews her lip. “Well, I mean, Kenzo said it wasn’t a good idea to be alone. Besides,” she adds, as Priscilla loads the pasta on a tray, along with a glass of water and a fork, “if Jaxon tries anything, I’m sure he’ll protect me.”
Kenzo lets out a full-throated laugh. “No offense, Millie, but Jaxon Knight could probably snap me like a toothpick. If he tries, you’re on your own.”
“Some hero.” She rolls her eyes.
“Hero? Who said anything about being a hero?” Kenzo takes up the tray. “There are no heroes in horror. Only people who get out alive.”
* * *
KENZO LEADS THE WAY, MILLIE TRAILING IN his wake.
It’s so quiet now, especially compared to the noise of that first day, the bustle of seven strangers vying for rooms, telling jokes, and taking up space.
Now the whole place has an awful stillness, but it’s not the kind that feels empty.
If anything, it feels full. Heavy, the way your lungs are when you’re holding your breath.
Inside, the castle may be quiet, but outside the storm is really picking up.
Wind whistles through the gap beneath the front door, and she can hear the dull roar of waves against the cliffs, even through the walls.
She thinks of the placid beach where she found Jaxon, the water cold but almost still, and knows that if she could see it now, it would be churning.
They pass the library—Cate’s no longer there—and Fletch’s office, where the number of hours on the safe has somehow slipped from 22 to 21, time melting away.
They’re halfway across the foyer when a gust of wind slams into the house so hard it sends a window somewhere crashing open, a door slamming shut.
She jumps, and Kenzo trips, nearly fumbling the tray of food as he stumbles straight toward the mass of antlers on the table.
Millie’s hand shoots out at the last second, steadying him as he in turn steadies the tray, somehow managing not to lose the pasta, upend the water, or impale himself on the morbid sculpture.
His breath comes rushing out in relief.
“That was close.” He looks down at the rug as if it’s hurt his feelings.
It’s gotten rucked up. Millie smooths it and then notices Jaxon’s hoodie—the one with the sleeves hacked off—on the table.
She thinks of taking it up to him, some kind of peace offering, but then thinks better of it.
The two continue up the stairs. This time, both of them avoid the bloodstain on the landing.
Millie’s heart starts to beat a little faster with every upward step, and by the time they reach the top, she wishes she’d stayed down in the well-lit kitchen with Priscilla, instead of here, alone, with Kenzo. But it’s too late now, and at least he didn’t bring his ax.
When they reach the room, Kenzo knocks, but Jaxon doesn’t answer.
Millie rolls her eyes. “Moody, much?”
Kenzo knocks again. “Jaxon? We have food.”
When there’s still no answer, Kenzo shoots Millie a concerned look, which makes her nervous. She’s never seen Kenzo worried before. He hands her the tray so he can dig the room key from his pocket, and slides it into the lock.
“Jaxon, we’re coming in,” he says, before he turns the key and the door falls open.
Millie half expects to find Jaxon standing there, arms crossed, by the window, his back turned as he sulks.
But that’s not what she sees.
The tray slips from her hands, the contents crashing to the floor as Kenzo curses under his breath.
Because Jaxon Knight is sitting at his desk, a length of black wrapped like a scarf around his throat.
And he’s dead.