by JA Huss
“She won’t.”
“How the fuck do you know that? She’s mentally unstable, Jordan. I can’t just let her hurt herself. I can’t—”
“You’re not,” he says. “She’s under the care of a very well-respected psychiatrist. This treatment was planned for a long time. We know what we’re doing.”
“We?” I ask. “We? You’re not a fucking doctor.”
“Correct,” Jordan says. “I’m just the partner who arranges her treatments.”
I open my mouth to say something. Like, What kinda fuckin’ game are you playing now? Or, Who the fuck would trust your twisted mind with people who need mental guidance? Because both of those questions are valid.
But the call drops. Like… three this-convo-is-over beeps hit me like a goddamned slap in the face.
A flash of movement on the monitor makes me look up.
Evangeline Rolaine has opened the bathroom door.
Chapter Eight - Evangeline
The powder room is small, and cramped, and the mirror is way too big for my comfort. My image staring back at me is the last thing I need to see.
But in the dark… this place is almost perfect. I can’t see the mirror. And the walls are close. The heat is on, so it’s cozy and warm. The rug is soft.
Jesus Christ.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m extolling the virtues of being locked in a five-by-five room.
I am one sick woman.
But I’m out of here. I might be sick, but this is sick too. Cameras? Everywhere? Some stranger watching me? What the fuck was I thinking?
Thank God I still have my phone on me.
I fumble with the phone, trying to press the little icon for contacts, but my hands are shaking so bad I hit just about every app surrounding it. Messages, then photos, then camera.
“God. Fucking. Dammit!” I don’t even care if my watcher heard that. Finally my trembling finger hits the right one. The contacts come up—I only have about a dozen, so Lucinda’s is in the middle of those. I force myself to hit her name and not the Chinese restaurant I order takeout from, or my building concierge, and get it on the first try. This small success should not be enough to make me happy, but it does.
“Don’t tell me you’re out already?” Lucinda asks.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, breathless from the panic attack.
“Did something happen?” Her voice is so calm, and normally I love that about her, but right now I just find it irritating.
“I’m in a strange house filled with cameras. I think everything about that qualifies.”
“OK,” she says. “But you were ready for this. You made a decision. And you packed your suitcases. And you got into the car and got out of it again. And you went inside. Which was only about twenty minutes ago, Evangeline. So what happened?”
It’s almost imperceptible. But I can hear it in her voice.
She’s annoyed with me.
And for some reason that makes me smile. I’m not playing games with her. I’ve been pretty straightforward, in fact. No, I haven’t told her everything. There are some stories that should never be told. But I’ve been sincere.
Now I don’t feel like being sincere. Because this whole thing is fucked up.
“I don’t think I can deal with the cameras,” I say. “Can’t the watcher take some of them down?”
“Evangeline,” Lucinda says, an even more annoyed edge to her words. “It’s called flooding for a reason. You need to be inundated with the stimulus that causes your fear in order to get over it.”
“I understand that. But I need some time—”
“You don’t have time. You’ve got a performance in two weeks and you haven’t even picked up a violin in over a decade. If I were you, I’d be a lot more worried about that than some silly cameras.”
“Well, you’re not me,” I snap. “I’m the only me there is. So you wouldn’t understand why this is important. And I don’t want to hear how many stupid degrees you have. You’re not me!”
“I’m going to hang up now,” she says. “And if you call again, it better be to quit.”
I open my mouth to say something, but I get three short beeps letting me know the call has ended.
“Bitch!” I yell to the ceiling. And then I throw the phone down on the floor and the screen shatters into a million little spiderwebs.
“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching over to pick it up. “Fuck.” It’s still working, miraculously, but it’s useless. Because even though I try to hit that little phone icon like seventy billion times, the screen is cracked so bad, the touch won’t register.
I guess I just have to quit then. I can’t stay here without a phone. What time is it? One in the afternoon? Maybe?
I think this through rationally. If I wait until dark I can probably… I don’t know. Walk home? Jesus, how far away am I from my building? It took about twenty minutes to get here. So miles away.
But if the reward at the end of the night was being back at home, locked up tight in my own apartment, I could do it.
I could call the concierge at my building at a… fuck. There are no phone booths these days. But if I could find a phone in the house… yes. There has to be a phone in this house. What kind of mansion has no landline, right? Surely there’s one tucked away in an office or something. I could call the building, ask the concierge to have a car come pick me up.
I’ll need the address. I don’t even have the address. I think I could manage a trip outside to get the street and house number though.
Yes.
That’s exactly what I’ll do. Wait until dark, go outside, get the address, come back in, find a phone, call the concierge, have him send a car, and go the fuck home.
There’s a few holes in that plan. Like, what if there’s no phone here? If that happens, and I wait until dark, then I really will have to walk. And I don’t even know this city. I haven’t been more than a few blocks from my apartment since I moved in. I could get lost. And end up having to ask a stranger for directions. I might be so lost, I don’t get home before dawn. Then I’ll be outside in the light, lost, and probably losing my mind.
I should check the house for a phone first. Then call the concierge immediately, tell him what I need and that car can come as soon as it gets dark.
Perfect.
I stand up and straighten myself out—I’m still wearing my winter coat, so my whole body is covered in sweat because this bathroom is small and the heat is blasting out of the vents. I take it off and say, “You can do this.”
So I reach for the doorknob and pull it open, confident I will enact this plan and be home soon. This whole nightmare behind me.
It’s quiet when I peek out. And empty. And not well lit because it’s cloudy outside. I creep forward along the hallway, back towards the front door, glancing all around me just trying to get my bearings, and find myself in a wide living area.
I search for a phone and in doing so, look up and gasp at the beauty on the ceiling. They’re coffered, but not in the typical box pattern. It’s rectangles and quarter-circles with an intricate hand-painted design that goes perfectly with the Italianate exterior.
Quite striking.
The room is long. Like a ballroom where people throw parties. There are several sitting areas, a floor-to-ceiling fireplace with woodwork as elaborate as the coffered ceiling, and gorgeous side tables with lamps. Several windows are tall arches with fancy trim. But others are rectangles and have long, overflowing sheer curtains that sweep along the inlaid hardwood floor.
I stand there admiring the entire presentation, picturing parties. Maybe even a string quartet over there in that corner by the arched windows. And the two credenzas on either side of the fireplace filled with food. Triple-tiered trays of sweets, and platters of finger food. And punch bowls. The kind that have ice cream floating in them, perhaps.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Focus, Evangeline. That’s the dream of a child and you’re not a stupid child.”
I look up again, but this time my eyes skim past the decorated ceiling and land on the cameras. Whoever put these up didn’t bother to hide them. They’re mounted on the walls. There’s one on the mantel and two pointed at each of the double French doors that open into other rooms. One of which is pointed right at me.
“I hope you got a good look,” I growl, moving along the hallway. “Because I’m out of here tonight.”
There was no phone in that room, but up ahead is a kitchen. If people are gonna have a landline these days, they’d put it in the kitchen.
And for some reason, that makes me think of how it must’ve been before phones were portable and could fit in your pocket. In old movies there was one phone in a house and it was either in some special phone niche in a hallway or in the kitchen.
So yes. The kitchen.
I move forward into it and stop, once again taken aback at the beauty of this place.
It’s white, and gray, and light blue. Which sounds a little bit boring, but it isn’t. There’s a huge farm sink. Huge one. And I know they’re trendy today (I watch a shitload of HGTV), but as I get closer and notice the small chips in the enamel, I realize it is, in fact, made of cast iron underneath that white enamel. I get the feeling this sink is as old as the house itself.
It’s a modern kitchen in all other ways. Many shades of blue glass tiles on the backsplash. White marble countertops, black soapstone on the island, and stainless-steel appliances. The stove has a million burners on it with those fancy red knobs that let everyone know you overpaid for that thing and probably don’t know how to use it. Painted cabinets. Not traditional white as one might expect, but a dark gray color that warms the place up and makes it feel… homey.
I scan the room for a phone as I make my way around the large center island, but once again come up empty.
Hmmm.
The office, I decide. I stumbled into an office in my panic to find the powder room. That’s where I head next.
The hallway continues, like all the rooms branch off this corridor. It’s not completely closed in, which bothers me. If this were my place I’d wall up all these French doorways that lead back to the kitchen and living room. Open-concept isn’t for everyone, after all.
It’s not my place, I gently remind myself. You’re only going to be here a few more hours. So stop playing fixer-upper, ya dingbat.
A smile creeps over my face at my internal monologue. It is a beautiful house though. Like, if I were to ever sell the penthouse I could see myself living in a house like this. It’s got a wall and a gate. And I bet the backyard is also surrounded by those thick, high hedges that give you a sense of privacy in the city.
The next set of double doors are closed. So I pull them open at the same time and find myself staring at a library.
Shelves and shelves and more shelves of books. Two soft, butter-yellow velvet couches face each other in the middle of the gigantic room. And there’s a light gray upholstered ottoman that spans almost the entire space between them with glossy magazines sitting in a neat pile on top of a tray.
I get lost in this room for just a moment. Allow myself to appreciate how beautiful it is. Wonder what it would be like to sit on those velvety cushions and read a book on a wintery afternoon—just like this one—free of all the worry, and panic, and fear.
But that all stops the second I see what’s propped up in the far corner near a bright window.
And I think I forget how to breathe.
Chapter Nine - Ixion
She creeps out of the powder room like a frightened mouse. Or a small child making her way through a haunted house, knowing someone is going to jump out at her, just not when.
I never liked haunted houses. I don’t see the point in knowingly scaring the fuck out of yourself, acting like a dumbass the entire time you’re in there, and then patting yourself on the back when you come out because… because what? You made it through fake shit, screaming like it’s real, and didn’t die when it was over?
Please. There’s enough real scary shit in the world to go around ten times, no one needs to make it up. Society is really on a downward spiral, if you ask me. Making it through a haunted house is the kind of stuff we’re calling courage these days.
Movement on the large screen in the middle of my semi-circular control panel brings my attention back to Evangeline.
She’s inching her way down the hall. Going so fucking slow, I just want to turn on the microphones and scream at her to hurry the fuck up. I mean, how slow can a person walk? How timid can one woman be?
A momentary flash of shame washes through me, because I know damn well how timid women can be. And why.
She glances up at one of the hallway cameras just as I think that thought. Eyes still covered by her ridiculous dark sunglasses. Cheeks blotchy red. Sweat pooled on her upper lip.
I place my hands on the console table and lean in to see her better.
Jesus Christ. She’s almost hyperventilating. Her chest is rising and falling so fast, she must be making herself dizzy.
She lowers her gaze and continues to inch down the hallway until she’s standing in the open double doors of the main ballroom, which has been turned into sort of a grand receiving area.
My family home has one of each. The ballroom is empty most of the time. Just a sad, open room with extravagant wood floors and tall rectangle windows with sheer curtains, much like these, that pool down onto the floor and always made me think of how much dust they must collect.
And our receiving area looks more like a men’s club than a living area. Large wing-back chairs upholstered in soft leather and seams held together by large brass nailheads.
This house is smaller than ours. And really, who needs a ballroom? So Jordan—or whoever the fuck owns this place—has turned it into a formal living area. A place to talk with guests and be served afternoon tea, and just generally be ostentatious.
She scans the room, looking for something, but then gets distracted by the ceiling.
I don’t blame her for that. It is a nice ceiling. But a few moments later she snaps out of her awe when she finds the cameras.
She mumbles something which I can’t understand and will have to replay later, and then moves on towards the kitchen.
Same shit in there. She looks around. Perhaps impressed, perhaps not. I mean, she is Evangeline Rolaine, right? I think this is a pretty cool mansion, but does it impress me? Are you fucking kidding? This might as well be the children’s playhouse compared to what I grew up in.
She was quite the little worldly globetrotter as a child. She played for Saudi princes and the Queen of England. I bet she’s seen her share of swank.
But she touches things in there. The red knobs of the stove. The smooth, cold countertops. The dark gray cabinet doors. Perhaps picturing herself living here. Or maybe comparing this place with hers, the way I’m doing with my own family dwelling.
She looks around, again, like she’s searching for something, then backs out into the hallway, like she’s reluctant to leave.
I wonder if she cooks?
It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal. I literally cannot remember the last time I didn’t grab food from a restaurant.
Her steps are quicker now. Still tentative, but less so than before she entered the kitchen.
And that’s when she stops.
My smile is automatic. Because this will be the room she falls in love with.
She reaches for the double doors, pulls them both open at the same time, and then…
Stunned silence as she takes it all in and then… and then she sees what I’ve been wanting her to see since I first discovered it myself.
I grin wide. Because I was right. This room will…
She walks in, hand over her chest, that terrible fast breathing making her sound like a panting dog, and stops next to a yellow velvet couch, reaching for it, like she might fall over.
“Can it…” but that’s all I catch as she begins to mumble out a cons
tant stream of words.
She rushes towards the violin in the corner. It’s a beautiful violin. Soft, subtle shades of red. Ebony-black knobs. The strings look silver in the dim light filtering through the long, sheer curtains.
She gets about a foot away and stops, her head shaking back and forth. No, that shake says. No. And then she backs away from the instrument. She trips over the rug, bumps into the arm of a couch, and falls to the floor.
No. That’s not what happens. She crumples to the floor.
I lean in again, trying to see more than the camera allows. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask the screen.
It only takes me a second to realize she’s crying. This chick is seriously disturbed. Flat-out fucking crazy. I sit down in my chair to watch—because that’s my job—and grab a pen and piece of paper sitting off to the side for notes.
Jordan didn’t ask for notes, but it’s just part of my process. I’m not normally so… uninvolved in the surveillance process. I typically work with husbands—or wives—who think their wives—or husbands—are cheating on them. Occasionally I work for parents concerned about a teenager. Or some rural sheriff’s department that doesn’t have the right resources. Which was how I ended up in Wyoming last month and just… never left. And even the side jobs get notes. It’s the least I can do for those women.
“Why do you do it?” Jordan asked me that a couple years ago. He called me on Christmas. Why? I have no idea. We hadn’t talked in years. No one died. Nothing to report. Just a fucking out-of-the-blue phone call. “You’ve got more money than God. You could buy any house you want. Hell, dozens of them. Get a fucking yacht, private jet. And if there’s such a thing yet, a spot on the next space shuttle to the moon, or Mars, or wherever the fuck people book tickets for in space.”
My answer… “There’s no space shuttle anymore.”
To which Jordan responded with a grunt.
And that was the end of that.
He hung up and never called back.
No, he just showed up to bail me out of jail couple weeks ago.
