The Writing Retreat(88)

“Look.” Taylor held it up in the air. “I’m not going to use this if you behave. Got it? I shouldn’t have had to use it in the first place. It’s your own fucking fault for attacking me. That was dangerous.”

Yana tossed handcuffs through the bars. They fell with a clank at my feet.

“K, put those on her,” Taylor ordered.

Keira picked them up and snapped them on my wrists. They were cold and sharp. I felt a dull passivity seep through me.

“Okay. Al, you come here. K, turn around and press your hands on the wall.”

Keira did so and I went to the door. Yana opened it and ushered me through, clanging it shut behind me.

“Good.” Taylor’s shoulders relaxed. “See? Not so hard. Now follow Yana.”

Outside the cell, I straightened to my full height with a sigh of relief. I followed Yana out the door to the basement, where a path towards the stairs had been cleared. The plain, dusty space looked almost homey after days in the concrete cell. My knees ached as we went up the stairs.

At the doorway I slowed. Chitra was at the stove. She kept herself turned away, still as a statue. I felt like I was looking at a display, one of those life-size dioramas at the American Museum of Natural History: Personal Chef for Famous Psychopath Prepares Dinner for the Writing Slaves.

“Let’s go.” The cool nose of the gun prodded at my lower back. We went onwards. The floor beneath my thin socks was warm. The rugs in the hall were unbelievably plush. Up the marble stairs. Down the art-littered hall. And here was Roza’s red door, closed. Yana knocked and opened it. She hung back, ushering me and Taylor through. She stayed behind, shutting us in.

I hadn’t seen Roza since her announcement in the dungeon, only three days before, though it felt like weeks. When she saw me, she rose from the couch. “Hello, darling.” She wore a ruby-red jumpsuit and her auburn hair was pulled back in a chignon. “Have a seat.” She motioned to one of the chairs across from her.

I sat. This opulence felt wrong now, a gold crown on a rotting tooth.

“Taylor, dear.” Roza looked behind me. “Please leave us.”

“But, Roza… you need protection.”

“Fine.” Roza made the Gimme motion with her hand. “Leave it with me.”

“Are you sure?” Taylor glanced at the gun. “I don’t—”

“Leave it!” Roza bellowed, so loud the room seemed to vibrate.

I flinched. I’d never heard her yell before.

Taylor placed the gun in Roza’s hand. She slunk out with a last glare at me.

“Finally.” Roza set the gun on the arm of her chair and sighed. “Never work with fans, darling. They act much too familiar.”

I shifted. My bound hands made the very act of sitting uncomfortable.

“Well?” Roza raised her eyebrows.

It felt like so much effort to speak. I finally roused a “Well, what?”

“You’re barely writing.” Roza crossed her legs. “So there must be something that you’d like to talk about.”

I would’ve scoffed if I had the energy. “Zoe’s dead, Roza.”

“Yes. She attacked Taylor.” Roza rolled her eyes. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Stupid?” Anger flared up in me. “What do you call all this?”

One side of Roza’s lips rose. “Good. Still a little bit of fire in you.”

“Please, Roza.” I shook my head, too exhausted to cry. “Please stop this.”

She tapped her fingers against the gun. “Let me tell you a story, dear.”

I moaned. “Stop with the stories.”

“Just one more. I promise.” She grasped her knee. “This is about me. You know, I always thought my life’s purpose was to be a writer. I used to get good marks in English. And, of course, I read a lot. I just assumed I’d be a good writer, too. It was Mila who showed me my error. We started to write stories for each other, and it was immediately clear that she was much more talented. And if she was more talented, there were probably lots of others.” She shrugged. “It was devastating. And it just didn’t seem fair. It was only when Mila died that I realized my true calling.”

“You killed Mila.” I slumped back against the chair, ignoring the pain in my wrists.

“Well, yes.”

“How?”

She smiled indulgently. “A plant called wolfsbane. I put it in her tea, a little at a time. The doctors just couldn’t figure it out. As she declined, she scrambled to finish her magnum opus, this utterly bizarre story she’d come up with. She asked me to try to get it published so that her name would live on. I didn’t think much of it, but my first year at university one of my professors became quite taken with me. When he found out I had a novel, he asked to see it, then connected me with some publishing contacts in New York. I was as shocked as anyone when they fell all over themselves for it. But then I realized.” Roza raised a finger. “My role is not to create but to facilitate. To act as a kind of midwife to the books that fall into my lap. I edit them, you know. I put my own touch on them. That’s why no one has even questioned me before.”

“Fall into your lap?” I repeated. “Don’t you mean: kill their authors?”

“Only two. With Mila, I wasn’t thinking about the book, I just wanted her to suffer. With Lucy, it was different. I didn’t love having to do that to her. But it was necessary. I’d tried one last time with Lady X—the critical response only cemented my true calling.”