The Writing Retreat(65)

I have to show you something. I think I found it. Her voice came back to me. Over here. It’s this wall.

Poppy had known about the secret room. And it looked like she’d gotten in—either by knowing the code, or some other means.

New questions arose, sending an icy chill up my spine.

If she’d gotten in—why hadn’t she come out again?

Who had put the boxes back to hide her trail?

Who knew she was alive, and was pretending along with the rest of us that she was dead?

Okay. I had to stay calm. I had to figure this out one piece at a time. Pressing my ear to the wall, I called: “Hello?” No one answered.

I pressed on all the other cinder blocks nearby, knowing even as I did so that it was useless. There was only one way to open this hidden door, and for that one needed the code.

“What is going on?” I whispered, pressing a dusty hand to my mouth. I did another slow search around the wall, shining the light up and down.

In the deepest corner where the two adjoining walls met the ceiling, something blinked.

I gasped, my hand faltering, then forced the light up again. It was small and round, gleaming like the eye of a cat.

I pushed two heavy boxes into the corner, then heaved one on top of the other. They weren’t terribly steady, but I held on to the rough walls as I climbed on top.

For a few seconds I just stared at the object. The lens wasn’t much larger across than a dime, and it was trained in the direction of the hidden door. I’d never studied one close up before, but it was obvious what it was.

A security camera.





Chapter 24




Wren’s door was closed and she didn’t answer when I knocked. I tried the doorknob but it was locked. Shit. I felt a flash of frustration—I couldn’t even text her in the Blackbriar dead zone—but forced it down.

I knocked louder and called her name, but gave up quickly. Wren was a heavy sleeper, and I didn’t want to wake anyone else until I’d thought this through.

In bed, my mind jumped from thought to thought. I’d initially assumed someone was keeping Zoe in the secret room, but maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe she was hiding.

And maybe this was just another fucked-up trick Roza was playing on us.

But could Roza really be capable of this? Hiring an actor to play one of the participants, one who would disappear in order to stress us out and push us to greater writing heights?

I moaned, turning onto my side. Sixteen days at Blackbriar and my sense of reality had been completely dismantled. If I were back in my Brooklyn apartment, I’d know if I was being unreasonable or if this level of duplicitousness was an actual possibility. Here, where Daphne’s demoness paintings covered the walls and secret chambers lurked, it was impossible to tell.

And I had to wonder, too, if it wasn’t wishful thinking. For Zoe to still be alive. For it not to be—here I forced myself to stay with the idea, no matter how uncomfortable—partially my fault for not noticing she’d gone outside.

I awoke suddenly. Golden ribbons of sunlight stretched from the windows to the floor, at odds with the dark thoughts that immediately filled my mind. Either Zoe was dead or Roza was unhinged. Fabulous options. I stretched, my hips and legs sore from the previous day’s outdoor search. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was nearly nine.

As I got out of bed, I noticed a piece of paper that had been shoved under the door. It was handwritten in winding, cursive script:

Your presence is requested at a special emergency writing meeting. 9 am in the library. Refreshments will be served.



* * *



“Good morning, girls.” Roza said the words gravely as we took our usual seats. She was dressed up, wearing a silky maroon jumpsuit that matched her hair and lipstick.

I’d scrambled to get ready, relieved that I hadn’t slept right through the meeting. Wren and Taylor looked like they’d been up for a while. Now I cursed myself for not catching Wren earlier. I stared at her, trying to get her attention and transmit a thought: I have to talk to you. Wren would be able to tell me if my new theory was logical or not. She could be cold and calculating: exactly what I needed right now.

Footsteps thumped near the doorway and Keira strode in. She ignored Roza as she took a seat, tossing the end of her black scarf over her shoulder.

Roza watched Keira sympathetically. “Hard day yesterday, yes?”

“Where are the police?” Keira raised her head and stared straight at Roza. “I thought they were supposed to come this morning?”

“That’s right.” Roza smiled kindly. “I’ll radio them again. I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough.”

“I packed my things.” Keira’s voice was crisp. “I’m going to leave with them. I’ll just take my backpack for now if they’re on snowmobiles. Unless the roads have been cleared.”

“Of course, dear.” Roza looked down to stir her coffee.

“Are the roads cleared?” I studied Roza. If my new theory was right—if this was all planned—the police would never come, because they hadn’t been contacted. But it couldn’t take more than a day or two to clear the roads, and there were one or more cars in the garage for someone to drive to the nearest station. What excuse would Roza make then?

“Oh, no.” Roza crossed her arms. “It usually takes quite a long time up here: a few days, at least. Our little house in the middle of nowhere isn’t a priority.”