Page 18 of Beautiful Deception

The butler pats his knees to shake off the snow as he recounts the times Peter had asked for water, demanded his food to be warmed to his liking, and wanted his room to be at a certain temperature. Food and water were understandable, but the temperature was out of the butler’s control.

I don’t even think there is a thermostat.

Everything seems a little spookier today.

There is an implied agreement that everyone stays together, a sixth sense of sorts, and walks to Peter’s room. The butler’s knock goes unanswered, and he pauses with loaded tautness. The dread on his face is simply the tip of the iceberg of what he’s feeling on the inside as his hands tremble.

Not only him, but my heartbeats have this hurdle, a glass ceiling, which can’t be jumped over no matter how loud they drum against my ribs.

A sense of danger, an animalistic moment of reflex to eminent danger.

“Mr. Peter,” the butler calls out, “are you dressed? We’re coming in.”

When we don’t hear him again, the butler unlocks the door with his master key. Maybe I was expecting to see a bloody murder scene, an empty room, or him doing something embarrassing.

Peter is cowered in the corner, dried blood stains on his wobbly chin, and his hair is torn out in chunks on the ground. Peter thrashes in response to the butler approaching, frantic gurgling noises pushing past his firmly clamped lips.

“You’re bleeding, Mr. Peter!” the butler shouts as he tries to subdue the injured man with steady force.

Joe runs to assist, but Peter fights the butler even harder. During the fight, Peter never speaks a word, only guttural grunts, which is unusual for someone who had a lot to say at the beginning.

Unless his tongue—

Junnie mutters the same thought I have while Kimberly gasps with disgusted shock. Remo stands in the way of the entry, one of his arms hovering in front of me, shaking his head at us as we try to get a better look inside.

“Ladies,” Dr. Kian says with a comforting smile as he looks from over his shoulder. “It’s best to wait in the dining hall.”

The two maids take us away from the door with diligence as if they were accustomed to these kinds of things happening. Remo kicks Joe out of the room, claiming he’s too young to witness something like that.

He has no choice but to follow us to the dining hall, occasionally speculating on reasonable explanations. Junnie had redirected everyone mid-way to the dining hall, so by the time we were sitting in front of the fireplace, Joe and Kimberly were already bouncing ideas off each other.

They agree on Peter biting his tongue off on his own because there would’ve been a commotion or a fight if it had been forced. Peter would likewise have sought medical attention if his tongue had been removed against his will.

“So, what made him stay in his room?” Kimberly exhales a collective sigh, forming spiderwebs of woven interest in her bubbly grin. “The door was locked from the inside, he didn’t get help, and he did look crazy.”

Joe deliberates with a hum while tapping his finger on his forehead. He snaps his finger, and the epiphany becomes striking jubilation on his face.

It feels off, the way he’s elated about Peter’s condition.

Junnie crosses her arms and digs her nails harshly into the cashmere sweater, one gel nail breaking from the tension and bouncing onto the ground. She keeps her eyes on the two, watching them add unproven details into their narrative as they also fabricate a backstory to Peter’s demise.

“I think it’s one of them,” Junnie whispers.

My lips purse, setting my face as neutral as possible as I lean back on the wall. I sigh in relief, relishing the chill to keep my thoughts from wandering.

To an extent, I get their excitement and being lost in the rationalization. It’s like playing detective without the responsibilities or negatively impacting someone’s life.

I also sense their pettiness when they argue about whether it’s payback for his aggressive demeanor. Peter had insulted them before and was unapologetic about it, even mocking them for being emotional babies.

Junnie cups a hand over her mouth and mutters, “Since Kimberly gave me a knitted doll, strange things have been happening in my room.”

“What strange things?” I ask, unsure to bring up my room’s incidents.

She bends her fingers and counts. “Scratching on the floors and creaking walls, and there are little black balls in the corners.”

I laugh into my hand. “Sounds like a rat problem.”

She gags loudly, strings of saliva catching on her teeth as she holds back from tearing up with a glare thrown at me. What she experienced is on par with a rat living in her room.

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