Chapter 2 - LORELEI’S ROOM
They reached the bottom of the staircase seconds before the first security guard entered from above.
Rosalie led Manuel through a narrow corridor behind the old kitchen.
Dust covered the floor.
Copper pipes ran overhead.
The music from the reception sounded strangely distant through the walls.
A cheerful waltz.
Two hundred guests celebrating while the bride was being hunted inside her own childhood home.
Rosalie stopped before a gray door.
A brass plate had been removed years ago.
Only two screw holes remained.
“This was hers.”
“Your mother’s?”
Rosalie nodded.
She tried the handle.
Locked.
Manuel raised the old brass key.
“Worth trying.”
Rosalie shook her head.
“That key is for a deposit box.”
“Keys open things.”
He inserted it.
It didn’t fit.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor behind them.
Manuel looked around.
No other exit.
Then Rosalie noticed something.
A narrow indentation beside the frame.
She pressed it.
A small metal compartment opened.
Inside was another key.
Rosalie stared.
“My mother showed me this once.”
“When?”
“The night before she died.”
Manuel said nothing.
Rosalie took the key.
Her hand trembled so badly that Manuel had to help guide it into the lock.
The door opened.
The smell came first.
Dust.
Old paper.
Lavender.
Rosalie stepped inside.
The room looked untouched.
A desk stood beneath a covered window.
Books filled two walls.
A faded green shawl hung over the back of a chair.
On the mantel sat a photograph of a younger Rosalie beside a woman with the same dark eyes.
Lorelei Durham.
Rosalie approached it slowly.
“I was told he burned everything.”
Manuel closed the door behind them.
“Apparently he lied.”
“He always lies.”
She said it without emotion.
That frightened Manuel more than anger would have.
He watched her move toward the desk.
She opened the first drawer.
Empty.
The second contained old stationery.
The third was locked.
Rosalie touched the scars around her wrist.
“I used to hide here.”
Manuel waited.
“When he was angry.”
“Emmett?”
She nodded.
“My mother would lock this door and tell me to stay quiet.”
Rosalie looked toward the photograph.
“She said someday we would leave.”
Manuel felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“What happened the night she died?”
Rosalie’s eyes stayed on the picture.
“I was eleven.”
She took a breath.
“My father said she drove after drinking.”
“He said her car went through a guardrail.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I believed whatever made him stop asking whether I remembered anything.”
Manuel moved closer.
“What do you remember?”
Rosalie looked at him.
“A scream.”
A beat.
“Broken glass.”
Another.
“And my mother telling me to run.”
Someone tried the door outside.
Rosalie spun around.
Manuel killed the lamp.
Darkness filled the room.
The handle moved.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
A security guard spoke through his radio.
“Nothing here.”
His footsteps faded.
Manuel waited another ten seconds before switching on his phone flashlight.
Rosalie had opened the locked desk drawer.
Not with a key.
With a thin silver letter opener hidden beneath the blotter.
Inside was a single envelope.
Her name was written across it.
ROSALIE.
Her mother’s handwriting.
Rosalie’s knees nearly gave out.
Manuel caught her.
“You don’t have to open it now.”
“Yes.”
She sat down.
“I do.”
The envelope contained one sheet of paper.
Rosalie unfolded it.
The first sentence changed her face.
Manuel watched her read.
Then she handed it to him.
Rosalie,
If you are reading this, your father found me before I could leave.
Do not believe the accident.
Do not believe Dr. Voss.
And whatever happens, find box 317.
Manuel looked up.
Rosalie was crying silently.
There was one final sentence.
The proof is not inside the box.
The box will tell you where I hid it.
A crash sounded somewhere in the corridor.
Then Maya’s voice came through Manuel’s phone.
“Manuel, we have another problem.”
“What?”
“The police reached Pinecrest.”
“That sounds like good news.”
“It would be.”
May you like
Maya paused.
“If Emmett Durham hadn’t already sent them away.”
