I haven’t been able to get more information about the Elites, because we often meet here and he’s not the type to be milked unless his dick is involved.
Jeremy, who’s in a ‘we’ll murder Landon’ phase, told me he’s up to something, but I can’t figure out what exactly that something is.
So, my other option is going into the lion’s den.
Yes, I’ve been in the Elites’ mansion before, but only for Bran, and aside from doing some thorough research to pull off that blood bath episode, I didn’t snoop much when it came to Landon.
Time to change that.
So here’s the thing. My plan is fairly simple, but it requires a certain level of cunning behavior—without my actually looking the part.
I got Bran to invite me over—sorry for using your good hospitality so shamelessly, Bran—and we spent the last hour playing, but I said that I need to use the bathroom.
Obviously, that’s a blatant lie.
Because I’m heading to Landon’s room.
Snooping much? Absolutely. This is the only chance I’ll have since his studio is locked with his thumbprint and I’m not in the mood for dismemberment today—might change my mind the moment I see him, though.
Apparently, there’s a spare key for the studio somewhere, but neither Remi nor Bran is willing to disclose that information. Besides, I don’t think there’s anything different in his home studio compared to the haunted house one.
He probably doesn’t like having others look at his creations before he’s done with them, which is why he has all those half-finished statues in an unsuspecting place.
He didn’t seem to mind when I watched him, though. So who knows? Maybe, like with everything else, it’s up to his ever-changing mood.
At any rate, this is the perfect place to launch an investigation. Figuring out which one is Landon’s room is easy. The other day when I came over, Bran said he’d pick up something from upstairs and I followed. As we were passing by, he pointed at this room, “Stay away from that one. It’s where the evil twin hibernates before plotting everyone’s demise.”
Apparently, I’m blind to red flags, because I slip inside and slowly close the door behind me.
Landon’s room is as meticulous as his haunted house art studio. There’s an air of great detail put into the positioning of the furniture and the elegant masculine color scheme.
One corner is occupied by a tall platform bed with a leather headboard that’s as black as his soul. In the center, there’s a matching sofa and two elegant standing lamps.
What catches my attention, however, is the desk in another corner topped by a few books.
I tiptoe in its direction and read the titles of books mostly written by artists and professionals in the sculpting scene.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a notepad. After casting a fleeting glance on either side of me, I open it.
The pictures that greet me rob my lungs of their last breaths.
3D statues lie in front of me, glorious in their details and absolutely stunning in their elegant disposal.
One pattern that exists throughout the notepad strikes me.
None of them have faces.
Some are half finished like the statues in the haunted house, as if he couldn’t find the right image to draw, but most of them have been left blank.
As I go farther, I notice a few silhouettes of absolute chaos—intertwined circles, crossed lines, and meaningless figures.
The stark difference between these objects and the perfect statues is so jarring that I double-and triple-check them. It’s impossible to believe both were made by the same person.
Maybe he was in a different state of mind when he sketched these.
I run my fingers over the intertwined lines. What was he thinking of when he drew these? Usually, he’s focused to a fault during the creation process—posture erect, eyes like a hawk, and lips slightly parted.
Art mode looks brutally elegant on him.
I have no idea why I want to see him when he’s making these loops of nothingness. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve noticed a break in his perfectly perfect fa?ade.
Landon can get petty, antagonist, and absolutely insufferable, but I’ve never actually seen him angry. Maybe he doesn’t even know what anger is.
Movement comes from behind the door and I return the notebook to where I found it and frantically search the room for a place to hide.
Shoot. None of the furniture is able to camouflage me.
The door opens and I jump behind the tall curtains and catch my breath. The balcony door behind me is open and the chill seeps into my bones.