Page 264 of Poor Little Rich Girl

“You think the killer stopped to consult Churchill’s biography before they took their shot?” My brain swims with absinthe dreams, half-formed visions of Eli growing horns out the sides of his head and George crawling around on the floor like a panther, tail and all.

“Just shut up and get down here.”

I glare at horned Eli, but I obey. I untangle myself from Gabriel (whose arms feel stretchy like rubber bands. Boy, absinthe fucks you up) and drop to my knees in front of the shelves. I stare at the spot Eli’s pointing at, but I can’t see anything other than an ugly Persian carpet and a few errant drops of Odette’s blood.

“The rug is pulled in the opposite direction here.” Eli runs his fingers over the fiber. His nail becomes a claw. “I’d never have noticed it because the pattern hides it, but when you touch it, it’s obvious. Something heavy’s been dragged across here.”

My heart quickens as I feel the edges. He’s right. “It’s a half-circle pattern, like… like a door swinging out.”

Our eyes meet at the same time.

“What?” Noah barks. “What’s going on?”

We start yanking the volumes off the bookshelf. Howard Malloy’s Churchills and Sun Tzu and leatherbound volumes of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire are tossed carelessly aside. Eli presses his fingers into every corner of the shelf, frowning when he doesn’t find a spring. We move to the next shelf. I grab a figurine – an Egyptian shabti – but it’s stuck fast.

“It won’t move,” I grumble as Eli slides his hand around the ancient painted figurine depicting a servant carrying a platter of food. The Egyptians left whole armies of these painted shabti in their tombs, believing that the tiny clay figures would magically come to life and serve their ruler in the spirit world.

“That’s because you’re not meant to move it.” Eli twists the figurine sharply to the left. There’s a clicking sound, and a section of the bookshelf swings out toward us. I peer into the dark void – a gap in the walls large enough to admit a person.

A secret passage.

“This must be one of the escape tunnels Howard Malloy was rumored to have installed in the house,” Eli says, his horns bouncing.

I nod, but I’m left wondering how our intruder could possibly know about this tunnel. I remember when the family disappeared and people started to see glimpses of the Malloy ghost (i.e., me), all these articles were published online about the manor’s secrets. There were rumors of secret escape tunnels and underground torture chambers. But they were just that – rumors. No one could find a worker who’d admit to installing such things, and although ghost-hunters scanned the outer perimeter with all kinds of detectors and devices, they never found an alternate entrance or secret torture chamber.

Hell, I’ve lived in the house for more than four years and I never found this hidden door.

A random killer didn’t just stumble on this secret passage.

There’s only one person I can think of who might know this house better than me.

“I can’t believe you have a secret passage.” George leaps over, her eyes shining. “Your house is so cool.”

“Careful.” I throw out an arm to hold her back. “Remember our gunman escaped out there only a few minutes ago.”

Or gunwoman.

One look at Eli’s furrowed brow, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. And something else occurs to me through my absinthe haze – when we had the break-in where Queen Boudica was attacked, I assumed the intruder was Alec LeMarque. I branded his face in punishment before figuring out it wasn’t him. Then I assumed it was Brutus. But what if I was wrong? What if the intruder knew about the maintenance shed because they knew this house as well as I do? And I watched the intruder escape by vaulting the wall like a gymnast.

Or a head cheerleader.

And the person who shot at me and Noah outside the front door… the person who was such a terrible shot they missed with a sniper rifle. What if they’re the same person who couldn’t kill me from fifteen feet across the room?

I stare into the gloomy abyss of the passage. What waits for us down there? What secrets does Howard Malloy have to reveal?

Eli holds out his hand to Noah. “Give me that gun.”

“No fucking way.” Noah holds the weapon across his chest. “I’m not letting the two of you go down there by yourselves.”

“The tunnel is narrow. No way are your monstrous shoulders going to fit. Besides, I’m a better shot than you. Give me the gun.”

Noah frowns, but he hands Eli the pistol. I slide my second knife out of my shoe, ignoring the handle turning into a snake that wriggles in my fingers. No absinthe for me ever again. I nod to Noah and Yara and Madeline. “Call Tiberius. We need him to keep an eye on the perimeter in case she’s escaping on foot. And you’d better tell Antony, too.”

“She?” Noah looks confused. I can’t believe he hasn’t figured it out.

“Yes. My sister’s the only person who could have done this.”

Eli enters first, and I follow him into the dark tunnel. It’s a nice piece of work – the walls plastered and finished. I rap the wood with my knuckles, and find the sound muffled. The tunnel is heavily insulated. Whoever installed this wanted to be able to come and go as they pleased without anyone in the house being aware of them.

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