Page 87 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
“You wish.” She rolls her eyes, backing out of the room.
Beneath her hardened exterior is the same soft look she’s been giving me all evening, as if I may combust at any moment.
Sometimes, Margaux knows me better than I know myself. I hope this isn’t one of those times.
“Good night,” I say.
“Everything will feel better after we sleep.”
Those are the last words she gets out before I shut the heavy door. My fingers press to the cool wood, and I close my eyes, grounding in the moment.
I hope she’s right, and this is all a horrible dream.
All night,I toss and turn.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, even though there’s nothing in the room thatcanwatch me. Margaux is listening. It’s a comforting thought, but it doesn’t help me sleep. Eventually, I lift my phone to look at the time.
Four in the morning. I’ve wasted four hours in my head, and I need to get out of it… but there’s nowhere to go.
Professor Cruz told us to stay put until the killer is taken care of. He has good reason tocome after us next.
Me. Caldwell might come after me.
That’s the thought that drives me out of bed. I can’t think about Caldwell, someone I was falling in love with, coming after me like that.
I slip on my shoes and pad out of the room, using my dying phone as a flashlight. I won’t leave the house, but I can’t stay in my head. Something—instinct, maybe?—compels me to explore the area. If I’m going to be trapped here for the foreseeable future, I should know the floor plan.
And I should probably find a bathroom. I’ll need one of those soon.
The layout proves impossible to memorize. There are so many twists and turns, as if each hall is never-ending. Half the doors are locked. The other half leads to strange rooms: one filled with coffins, one that looks like an apothecary, one with a giant freezer…
I’d prefer not to think about what the rooms could be used for… especially the one with the freezer.
After weeks at Strode, I’m used to being around vampires and other creatures, but this house still gives me the creeps.
There’s nothing interesting to be found until I push on the door at the end of the hallway. It’s stuck.
I push once, twice, and then—it swings open. I fumble for the light switch and flip it on. The chandelier in the middle of the room fills the space with dim, warm light.
It’s an office. The walls are painted forest green, and the window is large enough to show me the woods and the huge, full moon.
The carpet on the floor looks vintage, not that I know anything about that. Books litter the shelves, hardcovers of all colors, golden words etched across the spines.
I don’t know what prompts me to step inside, but itmay be the same reason I’m wandering at all. As soon as I’m in, I know I’m there for a reason. My heart drops into my stomach as I turn to the left, faced with a giant portrait.
It’s just above the desk.
There it is. The man in the bird mask. The very same portrait from the club. It’s haunting me.
Why?Whyis he following me?
The eyes in the painting, as dark as the night, follow me through the room. His attention is locked on me. It’s just a painting—but it looks so full of life.
It’s like someone is watching me.
Fear prickles at my spine, causes my stomach to drop, and wraps its cruel claws around my throat.
I open my mouth, and what comes out is a blood-curdling scream.
