by Anna Todd
“Margaret would have needed someone on the inside—someone who understood the system—to commit such a crime,” you said, stepping back. You felt your heart race as adrenaline began to override your usual sensibleness. Something clicked in your mind. “Like a detective—like Damian Walker.”
There was silence for a moment, a silence that, you felt, was suddenly asking, Could this be true?
“Very, very perceptive. It wouldn’t take long to get rid of the evidence. All of the evidence.” Benedict snickered wryly. “No one thought to check the garden for poison hemlock.”
Your eyes snapped up to his, but his attention was elsewhere. Leafing through the index cards, Benedict pulled out a note filed under D and slid it across the counter to you. “This changes things, you understand.”
The third clue can be found,
Deep below this manor’s ground.
Here is where you’ll resume your quest,
Perhaps, once and for all, my soul will find rest.
Benedict leered. “I’ll give you a head start.” He looked at his pocket watch. The smile ceased. “You have ten minutes left. I think you should start running. Now.”
Without thinking clearly, you backed away from Benedict and ran through the kitchen door and into the main hallway, looking for any signs of Cheeky Boy and the French Twins. You yelled out to them, so terrified that you couldn’t even remember your way around the house. Pushing aside exhaustion, you ran and ran around the first floor, calling out in all directions. You didn’t know what you were doing—you didn’t know what was happening. What if you couldn’t find your way out? What would be the consequences?
Benedict’s low, rich voice came through the PA system again: “Seven minutes remaining . . .”
You found a door to the basement in the hall, opened it, and darted down fourteen old steps into the stench of decay that hit you like a wall, causing you to cover your nose and breath deeply through your sleeve to catch your breath.
The word basement didn’t quite do the underground space justice. Though it was dark and dusty—lit by a single uncovered bulb hanging from the ceiling—it looked as if a grand expansion had been made to the original room. An expansion so massive that it was nearly as large as the manor above. Turning your eyes away from the staircase, you noted two separate doors—one located at each end of the room.
With your heart in your throat, you gathered your courage and ran toward the nearest door as quickly as your legs could carry you. You tried the handle—locked—it was locked! You gripped the knob tightly and pulled once more.
Frantic, you let go of the knob long enough to pull the curious key you’d received out of your pocket and slide it into the lock.
But the key wouldn’t turn.
“ ‘To open me, you need a key. Not the key that rests in your hand, but a key that only I will understand.’ ” You recited the last clue to yourself.
“Hey, Brainiac! Where have you been?” Cheeky Boy called out, rushing down the staircase, jumping the last two steps. “What are you doing down here?”
You could see by the way he was awkwardly tucking his shirt into his pants and adjusting his glasses that he was equally as nervous as you. Relieved, you fought the urge to hug him and punch him in the face. The French Twins followed right behind him, looking somewhat spooked, but mostly disgusted.
“I got a key in the post,” you blurted out, pointing to the door. Your heart was racing and your mind was void of everything else. “It’s all a sham! The Detective—he’s the one—he’s behind this whole thing!”
“That’s brilliant!” Cheeky Boy said, looking sincerely impressed with you. You sensed a smile but you couldn’t see it in his face. “Bloody hell, that’s brilliant! You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, you know that? So what are we waiting for then?”
You stopped him and showed him your clue. “This,” you said, nearly breathless. “It just doesn’t make sense, and this key doesn’t work on this door.”
“Are you sure?” Cheeky Boy asked calmly. “Have you found another way out?”
“This is getting boring,” one of the girls mumbled. She grabbed her sister’s arm and headed toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah,” said the other. “This place stinks.”
Shrugging them off, you looked back at Cheeky Boy. “Listen, you go with those two, they need all the help they can get.” Before he could utter a protest, you ran for the other door, leaving behind a stunned Cheeky Boy still standing where you’d left him.
The PA system cut on with a rattle. “Three minutes remaining . . .”
The door slowly grew closer. You pushed your speed, sliding around shelves and jumping over boxes and all the other junk that littered the basement floor. Even after the halfway point, you couldn’t stop running. Movement was the only thing that made sense to your body. The only thing that mattered was escaping Ashwood Manor.
At last you came to the door. Now within reach, you skidded to a halt, stopping just short of slamming into it.
Okay, you thought, your breath coming in gasps. Stay calm.
You studied the door, your brows puckered in a frown. Aha! It was a combination lock and you had a fairly good idea what number would open it. Your fingers fumbled with the dial on the lock. Spinning the wheels, you stopped the dials at the numbers: 1, 9, 5, 1.
“One minute remaining . . .”
“ ‘A key that only I will understand’!” you yelled to the speakers, opening the lock. Nineteen fifty-one. The year Margaret Ashwood met Damian Walker—the year their lives would change forever.
You opened the door. The moment you stepped inside, Clue greeted you warmly and exuberantly after not seeing you for ten whole minutes. The room looked like a greenroom underneath a stage. It wasn’t as luxurious as you’d imagined one to be, but you were greeted by cheerful smiles, camera flashes, and congratulations. You met Cheeky Boy, who immediately calmed you down and explained that your group won the game thanks to your intuition. Even the French Twins gave you a reluctant eye roll of approval.
With all the excitement, you hadn’t noticed Benedict standing in the back of the room at first. You looked at him, unsure whether to approach him. This wasn’t “the Detective” version of Benedict Cumberbatch. This was the real Benedict Cumberbatch. Big difference.
You excused yourself from the others and moved toward him. He tousled his hair and straightened his white button-down shirt, which was half tucked into his trousers and half-out.
Though you were feeling a little insecure, the tension dissolved when your eyes met his.
“Hello, Detective,” you said with a wink. “I’m here to arrest you.”
“Hello, Brainiac.” A playful smile lifted the corners of Benedict’s lips. “Catch me if you can.”
Best. Night. Ever.
Jen Wilde
Imagine . . .
The doorman tips his hat as he holds the door open for you, offering a warm smile before greeting you. “Welcome back. How was your day?”
“It was absolutely amazing. This is such a beautiful city.” Your first day exploring New York City was everything you had hoped for and more. But now you’re exhausted. You can’t wait to get up to your room and order dinner.
You thank the doorman, walk through the hotel’s gorgeous lobby, and step into an empty elevator, pressing the button to your floor.
“Hey, wait!” a voice calls from the lobby. “Hold the door!”
Without thinking, you get in between the doors and they close on you, hurting your arm before springing back open. You step back, rubbing your shoulder and muttering profanities at the pain.
A woman steps in, trying to catch her breath after running through the foyer. “Oh my God, are you okay? That looked like it hurt.”
You nod and lift your head up to see a familiar-looking girl with short blond hair smiling apologetically. Her wide smile brightens her whole face, reaching her sparkling blue eyes. Freckles scatter across her nose and
glowing cheeks. You know you’ve seen that gorgeous face before. It takes you a second to realize who she is, but the moment you do, your heart leaps into your throat.
Jennifer Lawrence.
The Jennifer Lawrence.
Movie star.
Oscar winner.
Everyone’s dream BFF.
And she’s standing right in front of you, smiling, concerned. She looks like she stepped straight off the big screen and into the elevator, which suddenly seems much smaller.
You offer a nervous smile. “I’m fine.” You almost say, “You’re Jennifer Lawrence,” but decide against it. She knows who she is. You telling her what her own name is would just embarrass you both. So you choose to play it cool. As cool as you can for now.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d literally throw your whole body into mortal danger.” Jennifer’s kind laughter fills the elevator as she talks to you. “Usually I’m the one running into walls and injuring myself. But thank you. I’ve had such a crazy day!”
You laugh shyly. “Anytime. You looked like you were in a hurry to get somewhere, so I’m happy to help.”
“Actually, it’s more like I’m in a hurry to get away from somewhere. This isn’t even my hotel.”
You tilt your head, giving her a confused look.
She grins. “My hotel is a few blocks away. But I was mobbed by paparazzi in the park, so I just bolted across the street and into the first place I saw.”
“Oh, so what are you gonna do now?” you ask.
She grimaces. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I guess I can’t ride up and down in here all night. My hotel is probably surrounded, so I can’t go back there just yet.”
You think for a moment, wanting to help her out of her predicament. “Well, there’s a gym and pool on the seventh floor.” She doesn’t seem enthusiastic about either of those options, so you offer one more. “Or there’s a rooftop restaurant. You could hang out, wait it out. I think there are some private spots up there, maybe.”
She grins. “That’s more like it.” She presses the button for the top floor, then reaches a hand out to you. “I’m Jen, by the way.”
“Hi,” you say, and introduce yourself.
“You wanna join me for a drink?” she asks, and you must look surprised because she laughs. “Come on, I can’t sit up there and drink all by myself. Think of what rumor that’ll start.”
You say yes because all you had planned for the evening was ordering room service and watching The Hunger Games for the hundredth time. Besides, when Jennifer Lawrence asks you to have a drink with her, you say yes. You always say yes.
The doors open to the top floor and a waitress leads you to a table in the corner. By the way the girl stares at Jen, you know she’s recognized her, but she doesn’t say anything.
The view from your table is unlike anything you’ve ever before seen. The New York skyline glitters as the setting sun shines on the endless array of buildings.
Jen looks at the dinner menu and beams. “Holy shit, this is a Mexican place? Score!”
You both order margaritas and tacos, and then it hits you: You’re sitting across from the biggest movie star in the world. Your personal hero is so close you can see the freckles on her nose. You’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be starstruck, and now you know.
“I can’t believe I’m sitting here drinking margaritas with an Oscar winner.”
She narrows her eyes at you and a smile spreads across her face. “So you do know who I am. I didn’t think you recognized me, since you didn’t say anything.”
You feel your cheeks warm. “Of course I know who you are. Everyone does.”
She laughs. “Tell me about it.”
It’s then that you notice everyone in the restaurant is staring in your direction. Most are trying to be subtle, pretending to read their menus or admire the sunset. Others are staring wide-eyed and blatantly snapping photos with their phones.
You suddenly become self-conscious of how you look, straightening yourself in your chair and hoping you don’t have anything in your teeth.
You turn to Jen, wondering if this happens everywhere she goes. “I thought about saying something. But I didn’t want to fangirl all over you and embarrass myself.”
She smiles. “Oh, please—never be afraid to fangirl! You should see me when I meet a celebrity. I become a puddle of socially awkward goop. I either build up the courage to introduce myself and end up humiliating myself in some horrifying way, or I chicken out and run a mile in the opposite direction.”
A Spice Girls song plays through the speakers and you both freak out.
“I love nineties music,” she says. “Do you remember the Macarena?”
“Oh my God. I loved that song!”
“Me too!” Jen stands up and shows off her Macarena skills, humming the tune as she pulls you up to join her. You feel a little awkward dancing in front of all the other patrons, but you do it anyway, laughing all the way through.
The waitress arrives with your drinks and you sit down, trying to process everything that’s happening. You hold up your glass and Jen does the same. “Cheers!” you say before taking a sip.
By the time you finish dinner, the moon is high above the skyscrapers and the city lights twinkle from every direction. With Jen’s down-to-earth attitude and wicked sense of humor, it’s easy to forget you’re talking to a megastar. You feel like you’ve been chatting to an old friend. You tell her about your first impressions of New York, and she gives you tips on places to go and things to see. A group of women sitting nearby giggle excitedly as the waitress places a giant cocktail glass in the middle of their table, with enough straws for all of them to share. One of them wears a pink tiara and a white sash with the words BRIDE TO BE sewn into it. Every now and then they glance over, watching curiously. Eventually, they build up the courage to approach your table.
“Excuse me,” the bride-to-be says.
Jen turns and gives her the sweetest smile. “Hi!”
“Hi.” The bride-to-be bites her bottom lip nervously. “Um, do you think I could have a photo with you?”
“Of course! A bride should always get what she wants.” Jen stands and puts her arm around the excited fan, taking multiple photos and striking different poses for each one. Soon the whole party is getting in on the fun, and you offer to take the photos so everyone can be in a shot.
“Okay, one more,” Jen says, “but let’s be real dicks in it.” She immediately bares her gritted teeth and raises her middle finger at the camera. The bachelorette partygoers laugh and strike their own poses, some sticking their tongues out while others offer their most badass glare.
You snap a few more photos before handing the phone back to the bride-to-be.
“Thank you so much!” Her eyes are wide with glee. She turns to Jen. “And thank you, Jennifer. This means so much to me. Silver Linings Playbook is my favorite movie.”
Jen touches her hands to her heart. “Oh, that’s great to hear—I’m happy that you liked it.”
A woman wearing a pink MAID OF HONOR sash steps forward. “We’re taking the bachelorette party to a rock-and-roll karaoke bar. Do you wanna come?”
Jen seems hesitant at first, but something changes in her eyes and she throws her arms up in the air. “Yeah, what the hell.” She turns to you and asks, “You in?”
“Sure,” you say, excited at the thought of partying with your idol.
You and Jen pay for your dinner and drinks, then join the bachelorette party downstairs, where they wait in a Hummer limousine.
“Whoa,” you say as you climb in. “I feel like I’m in Real Housewives.”
Jen gives you a playful punch in the arm. “I fucking love Real Housewives!”
The maid of honor hands you both a glass of champagne while you all talk about your favorite housewives and attempt your best New Jersey accent—Jen wins, of course.
The limo pulls up to a curb and everyone climbs out one by one. Jen almost trips
stepping onto the sidewalk, but you grab hold of her arm and steady her just in time. The two of you follow the party inside, which heads straight to the bar for shots.
“This is awesome!” Jen shouts over the music. “How did I not know this place existed?”
The bar is dark and loud, with blue spotlights lighting up the stage and cheers roaring from the crowd. A guy with a long beard and wearing a Metallica T-shirt is onstage, clutching the microphone with both hands and singing into it with dramatic enthusiasm. A three-piece band plays behind him, slamming on their guitars and headbanging to the beat. It’s like rock-star karaoke, no prerecorded stuff for you guys tonight!
Jen points to a girl sitting by the stage with a clipboard and takes your hand. “Let’s put our names down for a song.”
You make your way through the crowd, feeling a mix of nausea and excitement at what you’re about to do. You’re not usually the type of person to sing in front of a crowd of strangers, but being around Jen gives you a confidence boost you didn’t know you could muster.
Your names are added to the list, and you head back to the bar while you wait.
The moment the bartender sees Jen, his eyes pop out of his head. “Are you J. Law?” he asks, leaning over the bar so she can hear him.
“That’s what they tell me,” she jokes.
He tells her he’s a huge fan and asks her what she wants to drink.
She looks around the bar, eyeing the many options. “Make me and my friend here the most colorful cocktails you have.”
“Challenge accepted.” He smiles and immediately starts collecting bottles from behind the bar. You watch with curiosity as the different ingredients mix together to make a bright blue concoction, which looks absolutely delicious. He slides the two glasses over.
You taste it. “Whoa.” The sweetness overpowers you. “This is great!”
Jen thanks him and offers to pay, but he waves a hand at her. “On the house.”
