“I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said finally. I rose and picked up my purse from the table. Jamie stayed motionless, crouched on the edge of the bed.
“I’m going back to my place.” I stopped at the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll plan for Tuesday night, whatever this thing is at Fox Lane.”
He nodded, but right before I slipped out of the room, I saw it flash across his face: Uncertainty. Apprehension. And the coolest little sliver, right behind the eyes, of fear.
I shut the door quietly behind me.
He was starting to get it.
Chapter Twelve
I stood across the street from 7 Fox Lane at midnight, hidden in the coal-black night like a vengeful ghost. The place was a mansion, in a neighborhood full of them, all the houses spaced so far apart no one could see each other. The wealth didn’t surprise me. Neither did the fact that Jamie had looked up the address and it belonged to a John Smith, a dead-end name with no accompanying records. What surprised me was that there were no cars on the street. No people milling in and out, no noises. A few windows glowed behind tightly turned shades, but that was it. A far cry from Tongue-Cut Sparrow and its pulsing dance floor.
I was about to cut across the front lawn when a man in a suit stepped out of the shadows from behind the house and strode to the entrance with a single-minded focus, rapping on the large, ivy-covered door. I ducked behind a tree at the edge of the lawn to watch.
The door cracked open. The man who’d knocked exchanged terse words with whoever was behind it; abruptly, the door snapped wider and the man was yanked inside. I caught a glimpse of the other person: another man, all in black, his outline blending into the darkness behind him. But there was something about his face… It was unnaturally white, his features grotesquely distorted. He scanned the yard quickly before the door closed.
I jerked behind the tree. This didn’t feel right. My gut told me I didn’t want to knock on the door like the woman at Tongue-Cut Sparrow had instructed. Maybe Jamie had been right. He’d begged to accompany me, but I’d resisted because the invitation was for me alone. I’d also resisted his offer to drive me and wait a street over. I’d told him I could do this on my own, and I would meet him at my hotel after. But now that I was here, I felt a quiver of fear turning my hands cold.
A far window caught my attention. A small sliver of light peeked out from where the window had been cracked, curtains nudged apart.
I rubbed my hands together to bring the blood back. The window was low to the ground, practically an invitation. What if I climbed in? I darted across the lawn and peeked inside. Nothing but the shadowy outline of an empty room. It was intimidating, but less so than the man at the door. So I wrested it up, shoes slipping in the slick grass, and hauled myself inside.
***
The house was magnificent but eerily empty. I moved cautiously, unable to tell where the ambient light was coming from. Was it recessed in the floors? Pouring through the seams? The light looked redder than it had from the outside.
The halls were grand and sweeping. Patterned marble floors stretched for what felt like miles, walls supported by tall columns crowned with curling stone leaves, ceilings carved with intricate heaven-and hellscapes. Whoever lived here was frighteningly rich, and not subtle. The house had performed a magic trick. It looked large from the outside, but inside it doubled, the ceilings impossibly high, the hallways impossibly long.
I jerked my head in every direction, convinced I’d gotten something wrong. Where were all the people?
Then I felt it, under my feet: not music, but a percussive wave, a force shaking the floor. Was it coming from beneath me? I took a tentative step forward, and the thunder grew stronger, traveling farther up my calf. I crept, inch by inch, feeling my way to the source.
I turned the corner to find a staircase with black-and-white steps, descending into darkness. The reverberations were strongest here; they came from wherever the stairs led. I had a sudden, uninvited memory of the day I’d found Laurel in the basement, following the sound of her fear, like a thread unspooling into the dark. I crept down the stairs, surprised by how long the journey was, picturing Laurel walking the same steps. Is this where the ground swallowed you whole?