Pandora's Key

by Nancy Richardson Fischer

“Look,” Raphe said, pointing to a small, square panel at the base of the door—it was a cat door.

  Evangeline knelt beside Raphe and tentatively pushed the plastic flap. Nothing leapt out or grabbed her hand. She put the flashlight in her teeth and poked her head through the opening. Steep wooden stairs led upward. They weren’t dust-coated like the ones in the rest of the building. They were spotless and the railings on either side were a smooth stainless steel that reminded Evangeline of her godmother’s modern taste.

  Feeling a tug around her neck, Evangeline looked down. The chain and key weren’t lying flat—the key was pulling on the chain, floating in midair, pulling her forward. Evangeline closed her eyes for a split second. Stop imagining things—it will only scare you and you’re already maxed out! When she opened her eyes, the key was once again obeying the laws of gravity.

  The deafening chimes of the clock tower suddenly began to peal the opening strains of Edelweiss. Caught off guard, Evangeline dropped the flashlight. It’s a sign. Shoving her sneakers against the floor on the far side of the door, Evangeline forced first one shoulder, then the other, through the cat door, feeling its rough edges scraping along her arms, ribs, and hips.

  “What are you doing?” Raphe hissed.

  Evangeline used the edge of the first stair to pull the rest of her body through. “I’m letting you in.” Quickly she grabbed her flashlight, stood, and unlocked the door, easing it open.

  “Don’t just go and do something without telling me first,” Raphe said, and then he pulled Evangeline close and kissed her. This kiss was longer than her birthday kiss and Evangeline felt her insides start to melt. Raphe’s hand rested on her hip, his thumb touching the skin showing beneath her hoodie and lighting it on fire. His lips lingered, gently tugging. They pulled back slowly and then peered up the stairway behind them.

  “Ready?” Evangeline whispered, forcing the incredible kiss out of her mind and focusing on the danger ahead.

  Raphe nodded. “When did you get so brave?”

  “I don’t know—I guess when I had to.”

  They started up the steps, stopping when they reached the door at the top. It wasn’t locked. At the very moment Evangeline turned the knob, the clock tower’s chimes sounded their last note. Nothing will ever be the same after I walk through this door. Nothing is ever going to be the same, anyway, is it?

  Evangeline took a breath, opened the door, and crossed the threshold.

  Chapter Twenty

  Evangeline’s flashlight beam illuminated bits of gleaming wood floors, colorful Turkish carpets, sleek black leather couches, and large portraits hung on every wall. Additional paintings and portraits, large and small, oval, square, and rectangular, leaned against the brick. If any place looked like an art agent’s lair—like the exact kind of place Samantha would own—this apartment was it.

  An elegant mahogany table stood to the left of the entrance with modern silver candlesticks set in the center. Evangeline reached for the box of matches beside the candles. Raphe grabbed her hand.

  “What if she’s here?” he mouthed.

  “I want to find her,” Evangeline whispered, pulling her hand free and striking a match on the side of the box.

  “Samantha!” she called out, feeling strangely bold and entitled to answers. “Where are you?”

  “Jesus,” Raphe said, clutching his chest. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  “Sam, come out and face me,” Evangeline shouted. “Tell me why you tried to kill my mom! You owe me that!”

  There was no answer. Evangeline felt her hopes plummet. “She’s not here.”

  “She could be hiding.”

  “No. If she was here, she’d show herself.”

  Grabbing a candlestick, Evangeline walked into the center of the space. Unlike Sam’s office and loft, this place felt more lived in—almost inviting. Does this place reflect the real Samantha? Walking toward the longest expanse of brick wall, she held the lit candle up to illumine a portrait.

  A beautiful woman was depicted in dark oils. She wore the same kind of clothing that Evangeline remembered from a movie about Elizabeth the first—a black velvet dress with a V-shaped bodice decorated with intricate gold embroidery, wide, padded shoulders, and six-inch lace ruffs around her neck and wrists.

  The woman’s blonde hair also reminded Evangeline of the movie—it was parted down the middle and captured in a wide bun at the nape of her neck. There was a small diamond tiara on the woman’s head and several large sapphire rings on her fingers. It was not until Evangeline held the candle higher that she noticed the glint of a necklace resting on the ruff at her neck. It was a radiant black key dangling from a platinum chain.

  “Whoa! Isn’t that the same necklace you have?” Raphe whispered.

  Yes! Evangeline walked to the next portrait—another very pretty woman. She wore a tall, narrow white hat encircled by a black ribbon, with a broad brim hiding all but a few tendrils of platinum-blonde hair. She had a lace ruff around her neck, too, but it was smaller than the first woman’s. Her sleeves were tight to her plump arms, and the pale-pink bodice of her ivory dress was embroidered with green flowers. This woman wore no jewelry—except for the same key on a platinum chain. The long fingers of her right hand were touching the carved black stone. For a heartbeat Evangeline thought she saw the woman’s fingers caressing the key. She felt her own key pulling toward the painting. Stop it—it’s the flickering candlelight and your own nerves.

  In the next portrait, a different woman wore a yellow dress that matched the color of her hair, which was mostly hidden by a lace cap. The top of her dress was an upside-down triangle with a strategically placed piece of yellow lace covering her cleavage. The rest of the dress looked like the bottom of a tulip, perfectly round and floor-length. This woman’s eyes were a lighter blue than the others and slightly downcast. The same key necklace rested in the delicate folds of lace.

  Evangeline’s mouth was dry as she continued along the row of portraits. The next woman was dressed in a lilac skirt, white off-the-shoulder blouse with large bell-shaped sleeves, and a matching wide-brimmed lilac hat topped with a massive bow. And the key necklace.

  “Look how small her waist is,” Evangeline said. “She must be wearing the kind of corset Scarlet wore in Gone With The Wind.”

  “Never saw that flick. Who are these women? What’s with the key?”

  “I don’t know.” Do I?

  In the next portrait, the woman looked like a southern belle with her dark-blonde hair in barrel curls, rosy cheeks, and a flirtatious half-smile playing on a mouth that seemed too wide for her face yet somehow worked to make her even more beautiful. The key necklace was visible on the woman’s chest.

  From portrait to portrait, four things remained constant: beautiful, blonde hair, blue eyes, and key necklace. The latter rested on the severe pointed collar of a woman wearing an ornate hat in the shape of a comma and a tight bodice of blue silk with enormous puffed sleeves. The glitter of the key was half-buried in a narrow mink stole draped around the neck of another elegant blonde bedecked in a gray silk gown that showed off a curvaceous bust and hips. And, yet again, the necklace was resting on the flat chest of a blonde woman, with thick bangs and chin-length straight blonde hair, bedecked in a gold flapper-style dress.

  “I’ve seen this woman before,” Evangeline said, stopping in front of a portrait of a woman wearing an elegant off-the-shoulder beaded gown. The woman stood by a piano, her blonde hair falling in waves, the black key resting above her 36 C-cup cleavage. Evangeline’s cheeks burned. “She was an opera singer—Italian, I think. She was spoiled, but nice, too. She died in her bathtub…electrocuted.”

  Raphe stared at Evangeline, dumbfounded. “E, how the hell do you know that?”

  “I dreamt about her.” Evangeline shrugged. “And that one,” she pointed to a portrait of a woman whose hair was twisted in a low knot and covered by a black velvet riding helmet. Tan riding britches and a matching jacket clothed
the woman’s tall, athletic frame. The key was resting in the folds of her tailored cotton blouse. “This woman was named Penelope. She wanted to prove to her husband, Louis, that she was still young. She was very jealous of the attention he paid to her daughter’s friends…she died in a riding accident.”

  “You can’t possibly know that!”

  “I know…but I do.”

  A portrait on the far wall caught Evangeline’s eye and she walked over to it, unable to shake the sensation that she was inside one of her dreams. This woman couldn’t have been more than thirty-years-old. Her blonde hair was piled high and held in place with a ruby clip. She wore a lace blouse, the key glinting in its folds. The woman’s hands were pressed together in what seemed like a prayer and her nails were painted cherry-red. Evangeline studied her face. She was delicately built, with high cheekbones and wide-set cornflower-blue eyes that appeared very sad. They took on a gleam and suddenly tears were overflowing and running down the woman’s cheeks. Evangeline was instantly bathed in a cold sweat.

  “Holy crap, do you see that?” She backed away.

  “What?” Raphe’s voice was concerned. “What, E?”

  “That woman in the painting, she’s…crying—please tell me you see it, too!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Really! Touch the painting—her cheeks are wet!”

  Evangeline stared at the woman’s eyes, which met her gaze and then blinked, spilling more tears. “You’ve got to have seen that!”

  Hesitantly, Raphe walked over to the portrait and touched the woman’s cheek. “It’s dry, E. Look,” he held up his fingers. Evangeline touched them—bone dry. She stared at the painting. There were no tears and the woman’s eyes were flat paint once more.

  “Evangeline, it was just an illusion—probably the candlelight and shadows or whatever.”

  “I’m losing it, Raphe,” Evangeline said, digging shaking fingers into her damp hair. “Seriously. You don’t understand.”

  Raphe put his arms around her. “I want to—try to explain, okay? I want to help.”

  Evangeline rested her head on Raphe’s shoulder, too mortified to let him see her face. “I’ve dreamt about a lot of these women. The one I thought was crying? I had a nightmare a few days ago that I was that woman and I hung myself in a barn. Here’s the crazy part—my mom was having nightmares right before she went into the hospital. She was having crazy delusions, too. I really saw that painting cry. And that’s not all.”

  Disengaging from Raphe’s arms, Evangeline took some deep breaths, trying to stay calm, trying to find the words. She started to pace. “Lately I touch things, like my mom’s paintings or a mailbox made to look like a waterfall, and it’s like they become real for a second. I can feel them and smell them and the waterfall even soaked through my sneaker.” She hesitated—afraid to say the words and make what she believed was happening to her real. “I think maybe I have a brain tumor, too.” She started to cry and Raphe came up behind her and hugged her tight.

  “I don’t know what to say, E—I don’t get what’s going on—but if you are sick, I’ll be there for you, okay? I promise—I’m not going anywhere.”

  Evangeline turned to face Raphe. He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. “What?” she asked, wiping her face and feeling totally embarrassed.

  “E, the weirdest thing about all this is that all the women in the paintings look they could be related to you.” Raphe walked over to one of the portraits and pointed to the woman. “I mean, look at this one. She could be you mom’s sister, you know? Do you see it?”

  Evangeline recognized Cleo from one of the few photographs her mom had of her grandmother. In the portrait, the prima ballerina was dancing on a stage, sculpted arms outstretched, one lithe leg held high, the other balanced en pointe in pink ballet slippers. She was wearing a white leotard and tutu and the key and chain sparkled between her collarbones.

  “Yes, that one is definitely related to me. Cleo Theopolis was my grandmother and a famous ballerina. She died in a car crash when my mom was only seventeen and already pregnant with me.”

  “And look at this!”

  Evangeline turned to the portrait Raphe was gaping at and she felt all the air suddenly evaporate from the room. It was her mom. She was dressed in her usual paint-splattered white T-shirt and ripped Levis. Shafts of weak light accentuated the pale-gold of her hair and the brightness of her eyes. Her bowed lips curled into the soft smile she always made when Evangeline came down to breakfast. And resting at her mom’s throat was the gleaming black key. Evangeline felt her own throat tighten. When did mom pose for this painting? Did she even know it was being done? Why was it done?

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, E, but this is weirding me out. I think we should get out of here before someone finds us!” He pulled out the asthma inhaler he always carried in his jeans and took a puff.

  “Okay, in a minute,” Evangeline said.

  After seeing her mother’s portrait, Evangeline couldn’t deny her growing certainty that every single one of the women depicted in these paintings were her ancestors. Why else would they look like me? Why else would they be wearing the same necklace? And then she saw the next portrait. Don’t look at it. But it was too late.

  “You look beautiful,” Raphe said, staring at the painting Evangeline’s mother had made for her sixteenth birthday.

  “It was a present from my mom. But it doesn’t look anything like me.”

  “Come with me for a sec.” Raphe led her by the hand to a silver filigreed mirror hanging over the front hall table. He took the candle and held it up so she could see her reflection. “What do you see?” he asked.

  Wild curls framed a heart-shaped face. Cat-like eyes of storm-cloud-blue drank in the candlelight. Her lips were wide, full, provocative.

  “You’re beautiful,” Raphe said. “I don’t know when it happened, but it did.”

  He’s right.

  It was as if all the pieces of her jigsaw-puzzle face had fallen into place and found a strange balance. It wasn’t a conventional beauty…but the result was the same. Evangeline had always been the ugly duckling—until now. Why now? Why me? The key resting on chest seemed to glow in response to her question and she felt it pulsing as if had its own heartbeat.

  Backing away from the mirror, Evangeline tripped over the edge of the carpet, her shoulder knocking into an end table, toppling it, and spilling the contents of its half-open drawer. “Still clumsy, though,” she said, grinning up at Raphe.

  A pile of photographs had fallen out of the drawer and Evangeline turned to pick them up. The shot on top came to life in the flicker of the candlelight. It was a picture of Samantha with two other women and a teenage boy. One woman was Evangeline’s English teacher, Mrs. Hopkins. The second woman was athletically built, wearing a tailored gray business suit—it was Beca Petersen, Raphe’s mother. Standing beside the three women, his arm casually draped over Sam’s shoulder, was Raphe.

  “You okay?” Raphe asked, kneeling to help Evangeline up. She scrambled away from him. “E, what’s wrong?”

  And then he saw the photograph. He stared for a split second and then turned to Evangeline, a confused look on his face. “That’s me and my mom with her two best friends, Mrs. Hopkins—which is weird for me at school, so I didn’t tell anyone, and Sammy, who works with my mom in sales. I don’t know what it’s doing here…”

  Sammy? That’s Samantha! You know her—your mom knows her—and Mrs. Hopkins—she’s connected to Sam, too?

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Samantha Harris?” Evangeline demanded. Raphe can’t be part of this—he can’t be—he’s my friend—he’s more than that.

  Raphe took another puff of his inhaler. “I—I didn’t know that I knew her until I saw her picture in this morning’s newspaper. To me, she’s always been Sammy, my mom’s partner at work. I never even knew her last name. And I was going to tell you, but everything started to happen so fast. One
minute we were in the hospital and the next, we were breaking into this building. E, seriously, I don’t know why that picture is here, but you’ve met my mom—there’s no way she’d be involved with Samantha and her fellow freaks.”

  Stop being paranoid. Raphe cares about me—he helped me, didn’t he?—he likes me—he kissed me—he can’t be part of this…can he? But why would a guy as cool and cute and popular as Raphe like a girl like me? A small voice in the back of Evangeline’s mind whispered. If things seem too good to be true, they usually are.

  She continued to back away from Raphe, feeling overwhelmed, nauseated, terrified. Raphe and his mom are friends with Samantha. They know Sam. Their picture’s here, in Sam’s lair. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck…they’re part of this thing, too.

  Raphe took a step toward Evangeline and she backed further away. “E, stop it! You’re looking at me like I’m your enemy. We’ve been friends for a long time—we’re more than friends. I’m here to help you!”

  An overwhelming premonition of danger washed over Evangeline. Raphe helped me break into this building—and it was easy—maybe it was too easy. Is that it? Sam wanted me in her apartment. This, right here, right now, is a trap laid out by Samantha and Raphe so that Sam can try to kill me, too! But why? Evangeline’s mind screamed, scrambling for answers. It doesn’t matter—just get out—NOW!

  Whirling, Evangeline bolted by her grandmother’s portrait. “Beware,” Cleo cried, one graceful arm darting out of the painting. She felt her grandmother’s fingers grasping at her hair, pulling out a few strands as she ducked beneath her pale hand.

  A chorus of women’s voices shouted after Evangeline: “Beware!” She ignored them all and raced toward the door, leaping down the steps five at a time. Raphe called out to her, but Evangeline didn’t dare stop.

  Tearing down the hallway of the floor below Sam’s, Evangeline heard Raphe’s footsteps behind her and accelerated, skidding to the top of the stairs and leaping the first set to the landing in one bound. She landed hard, her right ankle twisting, pain shooting around the joint and up her leg, but she ignored it and plunged down the next flight, using the banister to swing around the corner and—