Chapter 6
Two hours later and the sun has sunk, casting pockets of shade on every street. As I cross the park and head back to the mansion, a cool wind whips through the trees. Two re-usable bags weigh down my arms, bulging with enough groceries for several days.
Along with pens, notepads, sticky notes, and highlighters. Probably more than I need, but office supplies are my secret kink. Other women get excited about jewelry, but I’ll take color-coding over karats any day.
Now that I’ve got supplies, all I need is to find a designated workspace in the apartment. A room with a desk or table, and a comfortable spot to read the script.
As I round the winding trail, I spy the metal bollards rising from the ground. The short poles are my landmark to make a turn, which will take me to the sidewalk in front of the mansion.
Because I am not cutting through the gardens again.
Walking with my head down, I don’t see the young couple until I’m close. Too close to turn around.
They’re loitering near the gates of Maison Marteau. The guy pivots slowly, repositioning in measured turns. He’s holding up his phone. Taking pictures.
When he notices me, he swings the phone in my direction.
Ducking my head, I whip up my hand to shield my face. “Please, don’t.”
“What?” He lowers the phone, looking bewildered. “Don’t what?”
The girl with him moves in closer. “Sorry about him. He gets excited about the tourist spots.”
My hand falls to my side. Tourists. Of course.
My bunched-up muscles relax, and I glance at the grandeur of Maison Marteau. A gorgeous and historic building, one probably photographed a thousand times each year.
“I get it,” I say, risking a return smile as I shift the bags and tug down my ball cap. I forgot to put the sunglasses back on.
But it’s clear they don’t know me, and I doubt they’re paparazzi. Judging by their age, backpacks, and neon-green skull on the guy’s black T-shirt.
That’s the second time today I’ve let suspicion rule my mind. And as my paranoia fades, embarrassment rushes in.
Worrying I’ll be recognized is stressful.
Never being recognized is humbling.
The girl clocks my grocery bags. “Oh, do you live here?”
“Just visiting.” Without thinking, I nod toward the mansion.
“No way.” The guy’s mouth drops open. “This is where you’re staying?”
Wishing I could pull the words back in, I snap my lips shut and give a non-committal shrug.
But he’s latched on to what I’ve already confirmed. “Oh, how cool. Maison Marteau.” The way he draws out the name reminds me of Bill and Ted and their excellent adventure.
“So have you been down to the catacombs? They run under this part of the city.” He edges closer, the neon skull staring straight at me. “The tunnels stretch for miles and miles. We’ve got tickets for the official tour but are trying to hook up with some catophiles.”
“I’m not sure—”
“You know,” he says, “people who explore and hangout down there. They make maps of the tunnels.”
“Illegally,” the girl chimes in, crossing her arms. Maybe not as eager as her boyfriend to explore the deep, dark underground.
“Listen, I know we just met,” the guy says, “but could you get us inside?”
“Inside?” I shake my head, confused. “The catacombs?”
“No. Here.” He thrusts a hand toward Maison Marteau.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. I can’t.” I start to edge around him.
He blocks me, his voice getting higher and faster as he tries to persuade. “Just for a few minutes. To take pictures.”
“I don’t think—”
“Jaden, back off.” The girl steps up and puts a calming hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder. “Sorry,” she says to me. “Dark tourism is kind of his thing.” She sends him an exasperated glance. “Sometimes he gets a little crazy.”
“No worries.” My laugh sounds fake and fluttery. “Sorry I can’t help, but I’m only a guest myself.” I step toward the gate.
Then her words register.
“Wait.” I face them again. “Dark tourism?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “You know, visiting places like Chernobyl, Bodie ghost town, Lizzie Borden’s house.”
“The catacombs,” the guy says, shifting his gaze to the mansion. “And here.”
“Here? Maison Marteau?” An eerie sensation whispers on my neck.
The guy drags his gaze back to me. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
He leans closer with a ghoulish grin. “You’re living in a murder house.”