The Writing Retreat(72)

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I half expected Roza’s bloodred door to be locked, but it turned easily under my hand. The short hall was dark, but beyond, the lights were on. I’d been in here twice before for meetings with Roza, but it was different, going in alone. Now I felt nervous.

Concentrate. You don’t have a lot of time.

We’d decided that I shouldn’t stay in the room more than twenty minutes, in case Roza got prickly about something and left dinner. They were going to do their best to keep her there, but they couldn’t make promises. And there was no way to text and warn me if she left.

“Okay,” I said to myself. My main goal was to find a passageway, as far-fetched as that seemed. And if there was one, it had to be off a wall without a window. Or the floor.

I inspected the sitting area first, spending what felt like a long time around the fireplace, pressing random stones, examining where it met the wall. I lifted up the oriental rug, but the floor appeared solid.

I was just putting the second chair back on top of the rug when the door creaked open. Horrified, I squatted down. I could tell by the cadence of the footsteps that it was Yana.

If she came into this part of the room, she’d see me.

Metallic fear rose in my throat. Somehow, Yana finding me was worse than Roza. Yana was a wild card. A vivid image arose in my mind: her spotting me, striding over, and lowering her hands to my throat with her usual blank expression.

She swerved right, striding into Roza’s bedchamber, muttering to herself. When she sounded far enough away, I peeked over the chair. The nearest window had thick, red curtains. I tiptoed over and slipped behind them.

Yana reentered the sitting room and went straight to the fireplace. Empty wineglasses clanged together. I struggled to make out her indistinct words. They were in Russian.

Finally she left, slamming the door shut behind her.

I exhaled with relief and pulled out my phone. I’d already been in there for fifteen minutes; I needed to keep going. I went swiftly into the bedchamber. This part felt wrong, encroaching on Roza’s personal space. I remembered the first night of the retreat: standing outside Roza’s door, listening to her orgasm. She must’ve been loud if I could hear her all the way out in the hall.

Focus. I began the same process, working my way behind the bed, then around the side. As I peeked under the bed, scanning with my phone’s flashlight, the question started to tug at me: What are you doing?

The question made me think of Mom, staring at me with a mixture of surprise and disdain. Her imagined perspective suddenly made me feel ridiculous.

You’re looking for a secret passageway? How old are you, eight?

A frustrated sob caught in my throat. This was crazy. The most likely scenario was that the secret room had a reasonable explanation. And even if there was another entrance to it, it could be anywhere.

When were you planning to stop this silly sleuthing and just ask Roza?

Mom was a realist; she’d rolled her eyes at the fantasy and sci-fi books I’d left scattered around the house. The few times I’d timidly given her one of my stories to read, she’d found pleasure in pointing out any improbabilities. This would never happen. I’d learned by age ten to keep my work to myself.

I stood in front of the huge double wardrobe that took up most of a wall. The doors were flung open, showcasing silks, lace, and knits in a rainbow of colors. A deep despair pulled at my gut. The problem with asking Roza is that it might rupture the fantasy. Maybe Keira, Taylor, and I had concocted a story to keep Poppy—Zoe, I had to remind myself—alive. Making her part of a villainous scheme, with Roza at the helm, was vastly preferable to the alternative.

I shoved Roza’s clothes to the side and felt the walls and the back of the wardrobe. My fingers brushed against smooth wood. A new plan was forming. After this, I’d go directly to the dining room. It was time to bring this all out into the open, to give Roza a chance to dismantle our story. And if she did, we had to accept it. We had to acknowledge that Zoe was gone.

Mechanically, I moved to the next wardrobe. A line of fur coats awaited me, sleek and luxurious. I pushed two aside and felt for the back of the wardrobe.

I almost fell.

I righted myself, breathing hard. More carefully now, I extended my hand. Was I misjudging the distance?

But no. There was no back. And, more strangely, I could feel a cool breeze gently emanating from behind the furs.

With a shaking hand, I trained the light. Right behind the furs, there was a doorway, about two feet across and five feet high. Beyond, the passage stretched into darkness; I couldn’t tell how far it extended.

I leaned against the wardrobe door, stunned.

“Okay,” I said out loud. This was discombobulating. This was like half-believing in magic and then finding yourself hovering off the floor.

I’d been looking for a secret passageway; I’d found it.

And I wanted nothing more than to race back to my room and lock the door.

A powerful dread squeezed my ribs, so strong that I doubled over.

You can leave, I told myself. I could lie and say I hadn’t found anything. That’s what they were expecting to hear, anyway.

But of course that wasn’t going to happen. Because I had to know.

I forced myself to stand.

And I wasn’t a liar, anyway. Maybe I wasn’t even a coward, even though I’d always been convinced, deep down, that I was.