The Writing Retreat(70)

After putting Wren to bed, we’d regrouped in my room. Goose bumps stippled my arms and neck. I felt muddled and confused, unsure if we were taking our paranoia too far. This must be what a conspiracy theorist felt like: It’s bigger than you ever could’ve imagined!

“They’re tiny,” Keira went on. “They can be like the head of a pin. You can put them anywhere. And you can literally buy them on Amazon.” She surveyed the room. “If we found one in the basement, I’d guess there’s more. A lot more.”

“How do you know so much about them?” Taylor’s asked.

“Well, I watch detective shows, spy shows, shows about psycho nannies, all that kind of thing. One day I just got curious about hidden cameras and looked it up.” She pointed to my phone. “Can I use that?”

“Sure.” I watched in a daze as she turned on the light, pointed it upwards, and ran it along the seam where the wall met the ceiling.

“What do they look like?” Taylor twisted her necklace around her finger. “What are we looking for?”

Keira shone the light under the bed. “Like I said, they can be just like a tiny black dot. Usually they have a small wire attached.” She sat up. “Alex, you want to check the pictures?”

“Okay.” I tugged down the nearest painting. Keira ran the light over it. The back of the heavy frame was covered in paper. Keira tore into it with her fingernails.

I held back my shock. Destroying Roza’s property was making this even more real. But she’d left us no choice, had she? Keira and I examined more paintings as Taylor opened the drawers of the nightstand.

“Check the clock,” Keira called to her, indicating the ornate wall clock that hung on the wall near the desk. “Look for little holes. It has to be able to see out.” After Taylor inspected it, Keira placed it on the floor. Raising her boot high, she stomped. The clock rang out as if in pain. Keira sifted through the mass of pieces and broken glass.

Taylor watched, her face frozen in surprise. Our eyes met and I could almost hear her question: Were we going too far?

“Hey.” Keira looked up at us. “Don’t forget: Roza lied about calling the police. Poppy’s missing. And we know there’s at least one camera keeping watch. We have to figure out what the hell’s going on.”

“You’re right.” I turned to my dresser as Taylor went to the wardrobe.

An hour later my room was a disaster. We’d pulled everything off the walls, dumped out every drawer, searched the inner corners of every piece of furniture. Taylor had even stood on the back of the reading chair, Keira and I supporting her, and examined the chandelier.

We’d found nothing.

Tendrils of relief unfurled as I slumped on the floor, leaning against the bed. Taylor sat at the desk, her chin in her hand. Keira was going over the freestanding mirror a second time with her phone.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she muttered.

“It makes perfect sense.” Taylor rubbed her eyes. “We’ve gone off the rails.”

“But the room in the basement?” I asked.

“I mean, who knows.” Taylor gestured. “Maybe it’s a temperature-controlled wine cellar. Maybe it’s a panic room. Maybe it’s a huge safe. There are a lot of possibilities.”

“But she’s lying about the police,” I said. “We know that.”

“Who knows,” Taylor said again, staring at nothing, her face slack. “Maybe the radio’s been broken and Roza never got around to fixing it. Maybe she’s waiting for the phone lines to be fixed so she can actually call. And lied to us in the meantime so we didn’t panic.”

Keira sat on the floor halfway between us, head on her knees.

A tidal wave of dread rose up. If it was true—if there was a reasonable explanation for everything—then that meant Poppy really was dead.

I closed my eyes and pressed my palms into my face, moaning. I felt too tired to cry. But the word echoed over and over in my mind: Dead, dead, dead. Poppy was dead. Regardless of her true name, her true self, I knew her flashing eyes, her quick laughter, her vibrant mind. The brief hope was slipping away, and in its place was helpless anguish and despair.

When I opened my eyes, Keira was staring at Taylor, an unreadable expression on her face. Maybe she, too, was in the midst of it: the realization that despite our minds spinning stories—because that’s what our writer brains did—we couldn’t bring Poppy back. That her body truly was out in the wilderness, frozen and fresh-looking, a Sleeping Beauty who would never awake.

But then Keira got to her feet. She motioned to Taylor. “Give me your necklace.”

“What?” After a second, Taylor took it off.

Keira set the necklace on the desk and picked up a paperweight: a giant, sparkling chunk of amethyst. She raised it over her head and then brought it down. I jumped at the sharp bang.

“Jesus,” Taylor muttered as I joined them at the desk. The rock had already put a huge dent in the rabbit’s belly.

They’re twenty-two-karat gold, so be gentle with them, Roza had told us during the first dinner at Blackbriar. I knew real gold was both heavy and soft; Mom had told me, showing me the few pieces her parents had left her from their jewelry store. No matter how bad it got financially, she’d never sell them.

Keira slammed the rock down again and again. Splinters flew up from the desk: this would not be fixable, put-back-able. Finally she stopped, breathing hard.