Page 85 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
Caldwell
Please stop ignoring me.
I can explain.
You know it isn’t what it looks like.
I thought you trusted me.
Professor Cruz getsus off campus quickly, and twenty minutes later, the car jostles as we’re led up the winding road to the Cruz estates. It’s a place I’ve never visited, but I’ve always seen the house off in the distance. On top of a hill, accessed only by dirt road, sits a sprawling estate with a gothic exterior.
I’ve spent too long staring at my phone. Texts from Caldwell continue to flood in, each making me sicker than the last. I don’t reply. Ican’treply. He’s a murderer, and he’ll be dealt with soon. I need to trust in that, but it’s not easy. Erasing the feeling of his lips on mine is impossible.
Even bringing myself to look away from my phone is impossible.
“Is he still bothering you?” Margaux leans in, narrowing her eyes at the screen.
“He is—but not for long. They’ll catch him soon…”
“Right,” Margaux says. “And in the meantime…” She snatches my phone from me, swiftly blocking Caldwell’s number. “There. He can’t bother you anymore.”
“But—”
“You don’t need to snoop around anymore. The professionals are on it.” She clicks her tongue, giving the phone back to me. “This is for the best. You’re lucky I didn't confiscate your phone for the weekend.”
“I may ask you to.”
Margaux is right; it’s for the best. It’s not as if Iwantto talk to him. I caught Caldwell at the scene of the crime with blood on his hands. After what we’ve been through, I still can’t trust him. There is nothing more damning than what I saw. There was no one else around, just him.
And he was telling me to leave. There was something he didn’t want me to see.
I turn off my phone, slip it into my pocket, and leave the car.
The drive wasn’t long—no more than twenty minutes—but I forget how to use my legs. They’re shaking as I follow Margaux inside. I only had time to pack the necessities, which the driver carries behind us.
Up close, the house is more striking than I ever realized. It’s a large, dark building with huge windows and vines creeping up the sides.
Margaux walks inside as if it’s nothing, but even in my state, I can’t help but be struck by the beauty of the towering home.
“Hurry up,” Margaux says in a clipped tone. “He could be anywhere, and he’s probably pissed at you.”
I shudder at the thought, rushing inside behind her.
We found Poppy’s killer, but I don’t feel a hint of success. Maybe it will come once he’s taken care of—once he’s no longer breathing. I’ve never known a bloodthirsty part of me to exist until now.
“I don’t think he would be stupid enough to come here,” I say.
“I don’t know about that. He is an idiot.” Margaux turns to her driver, offering him a sweet smile. “Can you bring those up to my room, darling? Thank you so much.”
The driver ducks his head and walks away dutifully, likely used to bending to Margaux’s every whim. As I look around the house, I wonder what it must be like to be her.
The estate is four times the size of my family home, the floor is spotless, and the appliances in the kitchen are shining. They’re new enough that they look unused.
But the room is cold. There are no signs of Margaux’s childhood, no sign it’s her family home, even as we walk further into the house. No pictures, no corny art with comforting words, nothing.
Anyone could live here…
The decoration is dark, well-made, and expensive. Chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The rooms are lit dimly, with white candles strewn about.
