Page 19

On the wall across from Anna’s apartment, there’s a doorway—a secret interior room. A peek inside reveals a narrow bedframe and a small dresser in a room without any windows. Ah, these are servant quarters. Cozy. I’ve heard about hidden spaces in these old mansions for staff to move about the house without being seen, but seeing as this is my first time happening upon one, there’s nothing that will keep me from coming back here. I pass another room that has a wall of built-in shelves, probably where they kept linens or something.

The hall ends with a staircase going down. I shine the light down and test the first tread, it creaks and I adjust my footing. It must go to a different part of the basement. The curiosity has me buzzing. I test out each tread before putting weight on them, careful to keep the creaking to a minimum. Every slow step is deliberate, like I’m dodging land mines rather than a loose floorboard.

The steep, tight staircase turns, and when I reach the bottom, the exit is boarded up. Ah, so that’s why nobody has been up here. Now the question is, how the fuck do I get out? I’m left standing in what was likely once some kind of storage cellar in a different section on the back side of the basement from where I entered. I push my weight on it, but it’s not budging.

“Huh,” I muse dryly. “Well, this is a problem.”

Looks like I’ve got a long night ahead of me.

I threw myself into my work over the weekend, plotting, getting caught up on commissions, and tattooing my little heart out while I waited to make my next move. After running into a hiccup last Friday—getting trapped in her fucking walls all night—I had to wait until she left on her jog before I could break back into her apartment and escape out the front door the following morning. I pulled up the hood on my sweatshirt to keep my identity hidden from the cameras and jogged out of there as fast as my legs could carry me. I didn’t even stop to take a piss despite feeling like my bladder was going to explode.

Last night I returned to her place while she was at her Tuesday NA meeting, and I made sure to have a plan. I came back with my tools, two fifty-foot extension cables, a reciprocating saw, a crowbar, and a replacement mirror glass.

The first thing I did was identify the closed entrance to the hidden stairway in the basement and pry off the board. I fixed it with a hinge so it operates like a door, even though it still appears no different. Then I pried the mirror off her bedroom wall and cut a hole behind it like a pass-through window. I saved the piece of wood I cut out of the wall so I can use it to fill the gap—no sense in letting in a draft. The mirror proved a little more difficult, but once I got the old glass out, switching it with two-way glass was easier than I anticipated.

Thanks to last night’s little construction project, I can come and go as I please, and all I need to do to keep an eye on her is pop out the block of wood filling the gap behind the mirror, giving myself a view into her bedroom. Now I won’t have to worry about whether she’s safe.

“Son of a bitch.” I chuckle under my breath. I knew it would work—I built a smaller model at home to make sure of it—but confirming it in action is extra validating. The double pocket doors between her living room and bedroom are closed, but I’m able to make out her muffled voice as she discusses some upcoming fall fundraiser. It sounds like she’s giving a presentation over a virtual meeting.

She’s distracted . . . and I can’t help myself.

I slip through the hinged door—grateful that I greased it last night because wow, was that fucker loud. I don’t need any more close calls like the day I found the hidden passage.

Stepping into her bedroom, I welcome the rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins knowing the only thing that separates us is a pair of pocket doors. Her room is spotless, same as it was the other night. That mound of methodically placed pillows on her bed is too tempting, and I swap two of them. “Live a little, Duchess,” I whisper.

I run my finger over the mantel; no dust. I made sure to cover my tracks and not leave a sliver of wood behind. Last night I was racing the clock, but now I can take my time. I study the framed artwork that leans against the mirror, noting the few pink brushstrokes that pop. Next I tiptoe to her dresser, which holds a small tray with a couple pieces of jewelry and a bottle of perfume. I spray some of it on my wrist and sniff the light jasmine scent. It’s pretty.

It sounds like she’s about to wrap up her work proposal, so I check the floor for footprints before I slip through the hidden panel next to her fireplace. The view is great from behind the mirror. This is a little fucked up, but the novelty is too great to resist. This is for her benefit, after all; it’s like having a guard dog around, but without the hassle of pet ownership . . . and also if that guard dog was a six-foot-seven human. I promise to spy responsibly—or at least promise to try. I’m no saint, and I never claimed to be.

She only leaves the house at regularly scheduled times, and I’m dying to know what the hell she does behind closed doors on the days she hides inside.

Removing the bag of oranges from my backpack, I start peeling one while I wait for her to show up. Faint light streams through the two-way glass; I bet this hallway hasn’t seen daylight for twenty years. It’s much better than sitting in total darkness for my hallway picnic. As long as there’s more light on her side of the mirror, she should never be able to see the hole behind it. Which means I can’t have any flashlights or it’ll give away my cover.

Finally, she parts the pocket doors to her bedroom. Curtain time. My heart gallops watching her, so close and so oblivious. When the doors are open, I’ve got a clear view of the living room too. Awesome.

Her back is to me while she opens her dresser drawers near the door to the en suite, across from her bed. She unbuttons the blouse she was wearing and drops it into the hamper. My gaze fixes on the scar across the middle of her back under her bra strap, angled up slightly on the right side, along with the tattoo outline, and I’m filled with a strange mixture of guilt and pride while leering at my work. It’s beautiful on her. Beneath that is rage at whoever left her flesh with pink, raised jagged lines.

She selects a fresh shirt from the dresser and tugs it over her head, covering up the scar and my anger along with it. She bends over, hopping out of her jeans and I blink one eye closed to give her some privacy. That’s gotta be partial credit. Then she throws on a pair of thick sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt.

What in the Mr. Rogers is up with all the costume changes? Last time she had a separate outfit for after work too. Good thing she has her own washer and dryer, I guess. She spins around and pauses, and her head cocks to the side as she stares at the bed. I bite into a slice of orange, the citrus filling my mouth, and I smile. She examines the pillows conspiratorially for a few seconds longer. Anna moves toward them, then stops and tucks her hands behind her back. God, the tension between her and that pillow is palpable. She wants to fix it so badly.

“Nope. No. Leave it,” she says to herself, walking out of the bedroom.

Well, look who got out of the slow lane. Somebody’s feeling dangerous.

Back in her living room, she picks up her laptop again and taps away at the keys, setting it on the coffee table in front of her and walking down the hall toward the kitchen. She returns shortly afterward with a small bowl of berries and a sucker. She sets the berries next to her laptop and unwraps the candy. Unfortunately her sofa is arranged so that I can’t see her face. Or what she’s doing. Does this girl have another fucking meeting? I was hoping I’d get to see her show off some of those moves from the dance studio. Something more entertaining than work.

A woman’s voice emerges from the laptop speakers. “Hey, Anna.”

“Hi. How are you?”

Her shoulders lift. “Same ol’ same.”

I open my phone, checking her calendar, and my eyes widen. How did I miss this?

Shuffling of papers can be heard on the other end. “I’m good. How has your week been?”

My pulse thrums with excitement. Is this what I think it is? I pop another orange slice in my mouth, and the juice practically drips down my chin because I can’t contain the smile on my face.