Chapter 40
I sit for another moment, clutching the fire poker. Then I launch into action. Whoever’s been coming into the apartment has been using the hidden stairway, so I need to barricade every door. And then, when I’m done, when I feel more protected . . .
I have to finish the journal.
It takes me fifteen minutes to wrestle large pieces of furniture in front of all three doors, and then another twenty to check every single wall panel in the place.
I can’t afford to miss any other secret entrances.
Satisfied I’m safe for the moment, I make sure Clairee is still asleep on the sofa before locking us both in the study.
I no longer chastise myself for overreacting. I no longer wonder if I’m being paranoid. The truth still sounds crazy, but I can’t ignore facts the details recorded in the journal.
One of the family members is a sadistic killer.
Maybe more than one.
Again, I pick up my phone and dial the emergency number. And again, I get a recorded message.
With no other recourse, I curl up on the couch and pick up the journal. Locating the page where I left off, I breathe deeply, swallow the fear lodged firmly in my throat, and resume reading.
The next entries are a nightmare, a transformation from curious youth to depraved monster.
I read several pages in a blurry rush, as if speeding through the words will lessen the horror. By this point, the author of the journal has found a young girl that they’re . . . interested in and has lured her to the mansion.
The following descriptions leave me sick to my stomach, and I can’t help imagining this happening right now, beneath this very mansion.
And happening to Alice.
I’ve got to get help.
I’m dialing 112 again when I’m struck by what I’ve just read. I have the last piece, and all the clues line up. They make sense.
Dropping the phone in shock, I keep my ears attuned to the robotic message as my mind spins. As I connect a timeline to the murder described in the journal.
It’s the young girl found in the catacombs.
She didn’t drown. That’s not how she died.
She was murdered.
And it all happened when Noah lived here.
Noah and Ric. Both young men at the time, possibly teenagers. I think back to the confrontation they had at the dance. Ric called Noah a coward and accused him of running away after the girl was found. The little sister of Noah’s girlfriend.
A vise clenches my chest. I can’t draw a breath. It’s as if the air has been sucked from my lungs.
Was Noah involved?
I turn and stare at the wall, but what I’m really seeing is Noah. The kiss we shared. The safety of his apartment. The note he left me this morning.
Is he really out of town? Or was that a lie? A cover story for why he can’t be reached?
Because he’s busy doing other things.
I feel like I’m losing my mind, but right now, everyone is a suspect. I’m only reading about one murder, but I know there were others.
Like the journal said, it’s a family secret.
Lina Ivarrson was killed in 1985. Noah and Ric hadn’t even been born yet.
Four decades later, Rose disappears. Now Alice.
But how many others in the years between?
I remember dancing amongst all the monsters, and I fold my arms over my stomach. The deaths are a joke to them. The family. And I was there with them. Dancing, laughing, playing, eating.
I’ve known too many wealthy and powerful people, the elite who believe they’re superior. Believe they’re entitled to do whatever they want. Take anything. Hurt anyone. And they continue to get away with their crimes.
Unless someone speaks out.
I pick up the journal. Pages and pages describing murders.
I have proof. Evidence.
And the emergency lines won’t be busy forever.
The folded paper with Rose’s notes lies on the sofa. I flip it over, to the side I haven’t read yet. She lists a few more strange things she experienced in the apartment, but what grabs my attention are the words at the bottom.
Where every other note is written in neat, steady script, the last entry is scrawled diagonally across the page. Large, messy letters, as if written in a hurry.
Photos behind his eyes.
At first, the words make no sense. What photos? Is she being literal or figurative? And whose eyes?
Leaning back on the sofa, I try to figure out what she meant.
Then it hits me. His eyes. The most conspicuous eyes in this apartment.
And a great place to hide pictures.
I’m off the sofa in a heartbeat, grabbing my phone and the poker to take with me. Because this is a real horror movie, and I want to make it to the final scene.
And get the hell out of this murder house.
Glancing outside, I check to see the chest of drawers still blocking the hidden door. Then I dash to the main staircase. Halfway down, I stop to study the oil paintings. All of the Marteau ancestors glare at me, all sharp-nosed and aloof.
But the man in the middle, the largest portrait, his eyes are the meanest. Standing to the side in case it falls, I pull the bottom of the frame away from the wall. The shadow from the painting is too dark for me to see anything.
I pull it farther from the wall for more light. There. An envelope. One end is stuck between the canvas and the frame. The other flops away, weighted by something inside.
Standing on my tiptoes, I grab the envelope and the let portrait fall back against the wall. I open the envelope and tip it to the side.
Photos spill into my hand. Polaroids. Black squares surrounded by white.
I flip them over to see the front.
My brain burns and my psyche rebels.
No. No. No. No. I don’t want to see this.
I shut my eyes and try to block the images. The sheer volume of evil in this house makes me physically ill.
Light-headed and dizzy, I lean on the wall. Try to center myself.
And finally, I open my eyes again. Because I have to look.
I need to know.
The pictures are of a young girl. About twelve years old, that fragile cusp between childhood and adolescence.
Wearing only panties and a T-shirt, she poses for the pictures. Positions and gestures too evocative for her age.
At first, I only glance at each photo, too disturbed to take in details.
But then I look at her face. An eerie distance fills her eyes, as if she’s removed herself from what’s happening.
Sadness settles in the pit of my heart, and I study the background of the shots. Dark, rich wood, the corner of an embroidered chair, shelves of books.
My skin prickles with recognition.
I know this room. I’ve been there. The pictures were taken in the library, here at Maison Marteau.
Homing in on the little’s girl’s face, I slap a hand to my mouth to smother my cry. Oh, no. Oh, no.
The young girl in the polaroids.
It’s Luci.