Chapter 8
The apartment isn’t as scary in the daytime.
I stand in the petit salon on the second floor. Spring sun filters through the windows, falling on antique tables, gilded frames, and an elaborate crimson rug. The room has excellent morning light.
Which is why I’m here.
I need three things to film my audition. Enough wall space, a clean background, and natural light.
The windows face east, which means they also face the courtyard, but the higher floor provides privacy. No one walking by and peering in while I work.
As if to assure myself, I move to the windows and stare down at the cobblestones. No activity. No one in sight. The mansion may feel forsaken and covered with gargoyles, but at least it’s quiet.
I spent the morning reading the script for a second time, taking notes on the narrative and the character arc. To nail the audition, I need to understand Claudia—her past, her hopes, her fears.
Once I understand her, I ask the questions that will bring her to life. How will I approach her character? Will I be believable in the role? What scene should I choose?
I can’t afford to play it safe.
The choice I make needs to be strong. Bold. So even if I take things in the wrong direction, a risky scene choice will show the directors I’ve studied my craft. I’ve done the work.
If only I had someone to help me run lines.
The thought is like a blade to my heart.
Mackenzie used to run lines with me. She and I shared a living space on location for The Last Wave. Neither of us were top-tier stars, but we ended up loving our roommate situation.
Mackenzie isn’t a nepo-baby like me, but a girl who grew up on a farm in Virginia. Bright, funny, and so very talented. She won me over the moment we met, asking if my soy milk would be offended by hers from a cow.
The memory makes me laugh.
Then I feel the sting of tears.
Please, let her be okay.
Emotion tightens my throat, so I march from the room. Despite what my mother might say, I need a distraction. And I need it now, while I’m on the verge of a good crying jag.
The wide stairs loom before me, their gleaming steps an invitation. This is a good time to explore the top level.
Moving up, I find the same wide steps and ornate railing. The paintings on the wall are different, though. Landscapes and buildings instead of portraits, but with the same moody colors as the ones below.
As soon as I reach the top floor, I sense the change. The air is heavy, the shadows longer, and the space oozes with a sense of neglect.
I hug myself and look around. Every door is closed, blocking natural light from the surrounding rooms. I move to the nearest door and open it, allowing sunlight to brighten the landing.
The layout is the same as downstairs, so I work my way around—small salon, bedroom, another bedroom, media room with a large TV. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Until I have only one place left to search. A closed door on the back side, cloaked in shadows at the end of the hall.
Running my hand along the wallpaper, I edge up to the door, turn the brass knob, and step inside. The smell of dust hits me.
This must be the storage room Luci mentioned.
Furniture crams against every wall, even blocking out the windows. Stacked boxes and paraphernalia litter the floor, all of it creating a musty maze of shadows.
Fighting off a sneeze, I quickly back out and shut the door. “No, thank you.”
With all the other doors open, sunlight floods the space, and as I round the landing, a panel in the wall leaps out at me. My brain is picking up on an inconsistency, but I can’t make sense of it yet.
Then I do. One section stands out, slightly misaligned.
I walk over, place my palms on the wood, and push. The panel gives slightly and pops open.
Old hinges protest the movement, groaning as the door opens to reveal the servants’ staircase. I almost forgot it existed. Steep, cramped, dark. No frills or flourishes here. Only plain wooden steps and bare walls.
I fumble for the light switch, flip it up and down.
Nothing happens.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and turn on the flashlight. Dust motes and cobwebs glisten in the glow.
Cobwebs mean spiders. And I’m not good with spiders.
But the webs drag and stretch, telling me they’re old, not recently inhabited by little eight-legged biters. And I’m already inside, just a short trip to the floor below.
I pull the door behind me, turning the stairwell into a tomb. My first step is slow and cautious, but the boards are sturdy. As I continue, I slide my hand along the wall, only pulling back when my fingers touch grime.
A few more steps, and I stop on the next floor. The door is outlined by thin lines of light.
I’ve made it this far, might as well keep going.
Moving with more confidence, I make it to the main level. The piano should be right on the other side.
Below me, the stairs disappear into darkness, descending into what must be the basement.
I shine my light down and take a step. And one more. Cool air moves past me, and I taste must and mildew. I feel a wisp of a cobweb.
Then tiny legs tickle along my cheek.
With a shout, I swat at my face and hair, turning to rush back upstairs. I burst through the door and into the entry hall, wiping at my clothes as I dance in place.
I’m still shuddering all over when I hear a knock. Someone is at the door.
I pause, my hands mid-swipe. Who’s here? Luci?
Sidestepping, I peek through the glass from a distance. A man I don’t recognize stands outside.
One more pat for my hair, and I open the door. He stands on the steps, chocolate-brown hair, casually handsome. He wears blue jeans with a button-down, and something about his stance tells me he’s American, even before he speaks.
“Hi,” he says, both the greeting and accent confirming my guess. “Sorry to bother you.” He angles toward the courtyard. “I live in the other apartment and thought I’d introduce myself.”
“Hello,” I say, and wait.
He grins at me. “Oh.” With a shrug, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Noah. That’s the introduction part.”
I’m not sure if it’s his charm or the fact he’s from the States, but my shoulders relax. No pressure to impress or apologize for my presence. He’s just another tenant, and not part of the family.
“Noah Marteau,” he says, and my muscles bunch again. An American Marteau, approachable and attractive. But still one of them.
Shaking his hand, I force a pleasant expression. “Brooke.” I leave off my last name. It’s certainly not a household name, but I can’t risk recognition.
He shifts on his feet, as if I’m making him nervous instead of the other way around. “I won’t keep you. Thought I’d come over, in case you ever need anything. I’ve been here a couple of years and know my way around. And I speak French.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say. “All of you have been so welcoming.”
“Really?” Something I can’t read flickers on his face, but he covers it with a grin. “Good.”
I remember Chantal’s cold reception. “Well, most everyone.”
He laughs, and I relax even more, sensing a we-don’t-fit-in fellowship with the stranger on my steps.
He edges back, signaling his exit. “Like I said, if you need anything I’m right next door.”
“Great, thanks. And I guess I’ll see you at dinner tonight?”
“Sorry?”
“At the main house. Family dinner?” It’s a safe assumption he’ll be there.
“No.” He drags out the word, smiling oddly as he diverts his gaze. “I wasn’t invited.”
“Oh.” Discomfort ties my tongue, and I’m not sure what else to say. There’s a story underneath his tone, one he’s not willing to share.
However, since he’s here. . . “Any tips on what I should expect tonight? And what I should wear?”
Noah chuckles. “As long as it’s not jeans or shorts, you should be fine.”
“So, business casual or Sunday clothes?” I join in the joke, feeling the camaraderie again. Two outsiders from another world.
Or maybe he is from this world, just slightly removed.
“Exactly,” he says. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. And the food is always excellent, so enjoy yourself.” He walks down the steps. Pauses.
When he faces me again, the friendly smile is gone, replaced by a wary expression. “One thing, though.”
He grits his teeth, like he’s chewing over what he wants to say.
“Be careful with Ric.”