I’ve never been on the third floor before.
There are fewer doors along the hallway, but the rooms are bigger. I open them up one by one, but each is the same as the next. Simple, tasteful furniture, a few paintings on the wall. It’s like walking through an abandoned hotel in purgatory.
Until I step through one doorway into a room that doesn’t look anything like the others.
This room belongs to someone. It has personality. Presence.
I shut the door behind me as silently as possible and venture into the room. “Hello?” I call, so quietly that my voice comes out in a squeak. I try again, this time with more confidence. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
The room is silent, thankfully. I wander towards a huge bureau with a tall, ornate mirror set in front. The surface is clean. But when I open the cupboards, they reveal a collection of gorgeous jewelry. It’s all statement pieces: large, gaudy gems and thick chains, dazzling in the light.
The exact kind of jewelry Isabella used to wear.
I pick up a bracelet dotted with turquoise stones. She had something similar to this. Except the stones were much smaller and it had cost ten dollars from a street market. I’m assuming this one had several more zeroes attached.
I feel a beat of sadness for the girl who had come so close to being my sister-in-law.
She had found her place in our family seamlessly from the day Rob first brought her home. She was pretty and open and laughed unreservedly. We loved her for all those things.
But more than anything, we loved Isabella because of how happy she made Rob. He was by far the surliest of the three of us, especially after we lost Dad, and she managed to make him soften his hard edges. He smiled and laughed more when he was with her.
I blink away the flood of memories and set the bracelet carefully back onto its velvet bed.
“You were pure,” I whisper to myself as I think of Isabella. “It’s why we liked you so much.”
I know I should get out of this room before someone catches me snooping, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to leave. There’s an air here that feels familiar. Comfortable.
When I realize I’m standing on shag carpeting, I take my flip-flops off and run my toes through the softness.
“Who are you?” I murmur. “Who do you belong to?”
I look around the room, waiting for the answer to present itself.
Nothing does. So I keep searching.
I wander into the walk-in closet. The space smells musty, and I don’t think anyone has been in here for a long time. But the clothes themselves look pristine. I trail my fingers over the fabrics and they all feel luxurious. Thick cottons, buttery suedes, smooth silks. Most of them still have their tags.
I’ve never been the type of girl who enjoys playing dress-up. But if anything was going to make a convert of me, this place would be it.
I pick out a navy blue power suit and, without thinking, disrobe and pull on the pants.
They’re well-fitted at the waist and thighs, but they flare out at the knees just enough to give me added height. They’re long, though, so I pick a pair of black Jimmy Choo heels from the built-in shelves to keep the hems from dragging on the floor.
Then I put on the flowing white blouse that goes underneath the blue jacket. It fastens up the side with a black zipper.
When I put the jacket on to complete the look and turn to the mirror, I can’t help but stare.
I look… good.
I’m not accustomed to seeing myself this way, and I find that I like it more than I expected to. I strut up and down, enjoying the confidence the outfit gives me.
At least, until I trip several times and am forced to abandon the heels completely.
More drawers demand my attention. I riffle through in search of a name or a piece of handwriting or an ID. Something, anything, to tell me who this stuff belongs to.
“Who are you?” I whisper again to myself as I open each drawer in turn.
I find drawers of sunglasses, drawers of gleaming wristwatches. The third one holds a bunch of scarves. I’m about to close it… when I notice a little flash of red that catches my eye.
“Wait.”
I pull out the red scarf. It’s not nearly as fancy as any of the other items in this whole room, but it makes my heart stutter in my chest.
I know even before I unfold it that I’ll find small strawberries embroidered around the edge.
Because I was with my brother when he bought it.
“It’s a little kitschy, ya know,” I warned.
“She’s going to love it,” he replied, grinning madly. “Isabella loves strawberries.”
He gave it to her that same day, a week before he proposed. She wore the scarf on her head every day for a month like a bandana.
That’s all well and good. But what is it doing here?
My heart hammers hard against my ribs. Aleks told me again and again that he had nothing to do with her disappearance.
But I’m holding in my hand proof that he lied.
Proof that I was as gullible as they come… because I believed him.
The scarf starts shaking in my hand and it takes me too long to realize it’s because my entire body is trembling.
Suddenly, the clothes I’m wearing feel too tight. It feels like they’ll strangle me to death if I keep them on much longer. So I rip the outfit off until I’m standing there in my underwear.
I put my own clothes back on and return the suit to the walk-in closet, though God only knows if it’s in the proper place.
“I… I have to get out of this room…” I stammer under my breath.
I want to take the scarf with me, but I don’t dare. While I’m under this roof, I need to play it safe. No unnecessary risks.
So I tuck it in the bureau drawer and lurch out, leaving the door cracked behind me.
I’m full-tilt panicking, I know that, but I can’t get it to stop. Maybe it’s the overwhelming feeling that that isn’t a room—it’s a tomb. A macabre time capsule of sorts.
Does this mean Isabella is still alive?
Or was she buried a long time ago?
I’m hurrying down the staircase when I hear footsteps coming from the landing below. I quickly assess whether I have time to hurry back up to the third floor and wait out whoever is approaching. But before I can settle on a decision, Aleks steps into view.
Even after what I just discovered, I’m no less aware of his beauty. He is physically perfect.
But the nervousness that jolts through me isn’t just from intimidation or awe—it’s raw fear.
“Olivia?”
Be cool. Be normal. Don’t let him know anything’s wrong.
“I… I was just exploring.”
My tone is stilted and wooden. My body language probably reflects the same. He walks up the staircase and meets me halfway. I clutch the banister, trying to suppress the image that pops into my head of him hurling me over the edge to the granite floors three storeys below.
“Exploring?” he repeats.
I nod, trying to smile. It doesn’t quite work. I pivot in a different direction. “Um… yeah, or at least, I was trying to. But then I started to feel a little… lost?”
He frowns.
“Sick,” I correct quickly. “I meant sick.”
He eyes me. “You do look a little pale.”
“Yeah, totally. I think something is up with my stomach.”
“Too much lasagna?”
I try to muster up a smile for that one. I barely manage it. “Probably. I’m heading to my room now.”
“Safe travels,” he mocks.
He moves to the side, allowing me to pass by him. As I step down, our arms brush against each other, and I feel a static zip between us.
“Oh, Olivia?”
I turn slowly, dread clawing at my chest, feeling certain he’s figured out what I stumbled upon. That he knows what I’ve seen and that being his wife isn’t enough to keep me safe from him anymore.
“Yes?” I say, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat.
“You’ll be having dinner with me tonight,” he says.
My eyes go wide. That was certainly not what I was expecting. “Oh. Um, tonight? I—”
“It wasn’t a question.”
I take a steadying breath. “Okay. Dinner. Got it.”
He nods. “See you tonight.”
He disappears upstairs. I go straight to my room, shut the door, and press myself against it, as if that’ll be enough to keep the danger outside.
“Oh God,” I gasp as tears jump to my eyes. “What is happening? What is happening?”
It takes me several minutes of hyperventilating to calm down. Even then, I’m not very calm. I do laps around the room as I mutter under my breath. It takes me ten circuits before I realize there’s something sitting on the table by the balcony.
A brown-wrapped package. Tall and sort of square, tied with a knot of twine. My name is printed neatly in charcoal pen on top.
Frowning, I undo the knot and peel away the wrapping paper. When I see what’s inside, I freeze.
Half a dozen art books, a case of pristine new colored pencils, a set of pen-and-ink tools.
There’s no note, no explanation, nothing besides my name.
But I know who sent them for me.
I close my eyes and remind myself what I just discovered. When that doesn’t work, I drop down to a seat at the table, feeling drained and helpless.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through this, but I know I have to. For my brother. For Mia. For my mom.
For the girl in the strawberry scarf.
