Chapter 14
I begin my search in the most obvious place. The grand salon is on the first floor, the largest room in the apartment, filled with couches, chairs, tables . . . and a full wall of bookshelves.
After eating at the café, I came straight back to the mansion. I haven’t studied my scene from the script like I’d planned, too intrigued by the journal to focus on anything else.
As I cut through the entry hall, my mother’s voice whispers to me, reminding me about distractions and how they steal your dreams.
Lifting my gaze, I say, “Mom, as soon as I search the apartment, I’ll get back to work. Promise.”
Because I gave my word to Alice.
And I’m dying to know what Rose read in the journal.
In the salon, I peruse the shelves, taking time with any book in the family of blue. When I find one, I check the first pages. So far everything is history or a work of fiction. Nothing in the format of a journal or diary.
After half an hour of scouring the shelves and other potential hiding spots, it’s clear the journal isn’t hidden in the grand salon.
Covering the rest of this floor doesn’t take long, most of my time spent in the kitchen and butler’s pantry. I check every drawer, cubby, and cabinet, even running my hand beneath a sideboard in the dining room.
All the while, curiosity scratches at the base of my skull. The same morbid question echoing again and again.
What did Rose read that was so horrible? The mansion’s nickname floats to mind—house of death—and I roll my shoulder to dislodge the chill.
First floor completed, I go upstairs, pausing to study the grim portraits. When did the dour-faced people live here? What atrocities have they seen?
What secrets have they kept all these years?
When I reach the landing, I put my hands on my hips and survey the area. Then I start the hunt. Like most of the apartment, the second floor is museum-clean. Every closet or cabinet uncluttered and organized. It makes for a swift search.
But still no journal.
By the time I finish with the third-floor bedrooms, I’m drafting a message to Alice in my head. Regret and disappointment tangle inside me. Alice is worried about her sister and suspects the worst. She needs answers.
But so do I.
If Alice’s suspicions are correct and Rose discovered something about the Marteau family, something that scared her, I need to know what she found.
Because I’m living under their roof.
With a sigh of defeat, I return to the landing. I don’t have the journal, after looking every possible place. Every drawer, nook, pillow, and every loose floorboard. In every single room.
Except one.
The storage room.
My stomach clenches, a sense of dread building as I walk down the corridor, creeping into darkness.
The door opens with a low, moaning creak. A sound worthy of any haunted house.
I flip the switch, but the light barely reaches the floor, blocked by taller furniture draped in sheets. The stale scent of neglect fills my nose, and I almost change my mind.
I take a step back, then I remember Alice’s eyes, wide and desolate. Begging for help.
I’ll want a shower afterward, but I need to go in. Boxes and furniture pack the space, leaving narrow, crooked paths to walk the room. Dustsheets cover only a few pieces, as if wrapping the items required too much effort.
This space isn’t as organized as the rest of the apartment, creating hundreds of hidden spots to stash a book.
I doubt I’ll finish this room today, but I can make a cursory check. I start with the furniture, larger pieces built for the purpose of storage. It’s not long before my skin is crawling with filth. Dust in my eyes, my hair, my mouth.
I’m already grungy, so I might as well finish with the furniture, leaving boxes and crates until tomorrow.
Antiques cram against the walls—a porcelain bowl and pitcher set, a violin with no strings, a box of silverware with missing pieces. Even the junk here is expensive.
I’m near the windows facing the park when a bulky shape in the corner draws my attention.
An old steamer trunk, the navy leather turned gray by dust.
Kneeling, I open the locks on each end. But the middle lock doesn’t budge. I grip the ancient latch and give it a shake. The metal holds firm.
“Damn.” A missing journal. An old steamer trunk. An attic in an old mansion. The Nancy Drew of it all has my fingers itching. Should I pry the lock?
No. It doesn’t belong to me, and if I can’t get in, then Rose couldn’t have, either.
I give the trunk a smack of frustration. A black spider scurries from beneath and heads straight toward my foot.
Leaping up, I stutter-step backwards, bumping into a stack of boxes. Dust motes explode in the air and crawl up my nose. Three sneezes and I raise both hands. “That’s it. I’m done.”
I twist and turn my way through the clutter, making a new path to the door. Grudgingly, I turn to the side, squeezing between two tall, heavy pieces. My foot kicks something, and it clatters across the floor.
A silver picture frame, backside facing up. I pick it up and flip it over.
The scene in the photo feels familiar, so I wipe away dust to see it better. An old picture of Maison Marteau. If the sepia tones didn’t give away the photo’s age, the barren land around the mansion would. No trees or shrubbery planted yet, only the residence and cobblestoned courtyard.
A man and woman stand in the foreground, two young boys in front of them. Their expressions are serious, typical of the early 1900s. But what is the man wearing? A type of shawl hangs around his neck, like a graduation stole with a picture or markings on one side.
I peer closer. No use. I can’t make out the details. I pull my phone from my back pocket and turn on the flashlight.
The design is too small. Maybe the letter V combined with other shapes or letters? Finally, I give up and set the frame on top of a box.
The storage room is full of castoffs and abandoned rubbish, yet the photo and frame show no damage. A photo of ancestors, a record of the family legacy.
So why is it in here?