Page 49 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
There’s a moment of hesitation before he nods, pointing in the distance. “It’s down that hallway. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
For a moment, our eyes meet, and he reflects the uncertainty I feel. It takes me longer to untangle myself from the situation than I would like. My feet are planted on the floor, and I search his darkened gaze for answers.
I scurry off to the bathroom. Sort of.
Of course, I’m not going there. This is the one chance to find something in this dreaded club, and even though I don’t know what I’m looking for, there must besomething.
It’s easy to find the bathroom, considering the sign on the door: a very classy lettering claiming the room is the powder room.
Good to know, but I have more important things to do than wait in the endless line. I sneak upstairs instead. The world around me goes quiet as I move. The music is muffled.
I’m not the only one up here. There are couples wrapped up in each other, pressed against the walls.
The place is as lavish as the rest: gold-framed paintings litter the halls, and flickering red light illuminates the space.
I keep my head down as I wander through, pushing on the doors with the hope that they’ll open.
One door. Two. Three. All locked, and withamoroussounds coming from the inside. Ick.
If there’s anything to find, I would have to get by the happy couples to do it.
Finally, door number four springs open—and the same sounds flood out. Moans and grunts greet me.
But I don’t see the people in the room. I don’t hear their noises. My eyes are drawn to a large painting in the middle of it all: a man in a red velvet suit, wearing a bird mask—the mask of a plague doctor, to be exact. A pocket watch dangles from his hand.
It’s the same mask I found on Roslyn Street. Is the watch the same one I’m holding onto?
I don’t know why, but when I stare at the painting, the back of my neck prickles.
Someone is watching me.
Two people are, actually—I forget until I hear the string of French curses coming from one of them.
“Merde!” It’s the only word I understand, thanks to my friendship with Margaux. Everything else becomes a jumble of French that has me grasping for the three years I took in high school—to no avail.
My eyes widen, and my attention moves to the couple. There’s a man tied up in rope and a woman—well, on second thought, it really is none of my business.
“I’m sorry!” I yelp, shutting the door and rushing away.
Nothing. I found absolutely nothing.
I run down the halls with a terrified look on my face until someone stops me—none other than Caldwell himself.
“You’re lost,” he says.
It’s not a question, not even an assumption, but spoken as if he won’t believe anything else.
“Iam.” My pulse races.
“It’s fine.” He dismisses my disappearance, his hands moving to my shoulders. “We have to go. Now.”
Caldwell uses the grip on my shoulders to lead me through the house. I don’t need to look up to know his expression is severe. He leads me downstairs. The scene is different from the place I left.
It’s no longer the dim-lit den of revelry. The lights are on. The room is quiet. Everyone is huddled around something—or someone.
“What happened?” I whisper, looking up at Caldwell with wide eyes.
