Every Single Secret(67)

He shook his head. I could tell he was worried about me, that he wanted to stay and help, which was sweet. But this was not a time for chivalry. No good could come from either of us hanging around here for one minute longer.

“I’m fine. I’m safe.” I looked over my shoulder. “But Dr. Cerny is crazy—he’s a fucking lunatic—and you don’t need to be in this house with him.” If I could’ve physically pushed him out the door I would have, but he retreated of his own accord, right out the door he’d come in.

I ran back up the stairs and down the hall to Glenys’s room. Correction. Not Glenys, not her room. I squared up to the door, drew in a deep breath, then kicked it as hard as I could. The door rattled in its frame but held fast. Which stood to reason. The thing had been built to last for generations. Twice as thick as modern doors and solid as stone, made from impenetrable, age-hardened oak.

I kicked again, feeling something bitter and strong rise up in me, the fear that had been seeping through my insides since the first moment I’d set foot in this house. It had been leaking from the poisoned well of my past, pooling in all the cracks, drowning me from the inside out. But now, each time my boot struck the door, I felt the fear transform to fury, giving me strength. I closed my eyes and thought of them all.

Mrs. Bobbie. Kick. Mr. Al. Kick.

Omega. Kick. The psychologist. Kick.

Chantal. Kick, kick, kick.

A crack appeared right down the center of the door, and the door banged open so hard, it slammed back and hit me smack on the nose. Eyes watering, I pushed it open again and entered the room.

Or, rather, the suite. The apartment—because that’s what it was—was made up of three identical rooms, just like I’d been seeing on the monitors, only I hadn’t noticed they were actually connected by doors. The doors were opened now, and as I turned a full three-sixty, the realization dawned that the suite ran the length of the entire hall. The room I was standing in was papered in faded brown roses just like I’d seen on the tape, the wood-plank floor worn bare. Cobwebs waved from the ceiling corners and edges of the windowsills. A film of dust covered everything. There was no furniture anywhere in sight. Not a bed, not a table, not one chair. Not even a stray rug or scrap of a curtain. It was completely bare.

No one had been here in a very long time.

I walked all the way through the apartment to the room at the end. It seemed to have been retrofitted for another use. One half was a kitchenette, the other half a makeshift classroom. A large chalkboard with bits of chalk and an eraser in the tray covered the window. I imagined a desk, a child’s desk like the one in the barn, situated in front of it, the board covered in history dates or math equations or diagrammed sentences. I envisioned the sharp point of a pencil as it dug into the soft wood of the desk’s surface. I have no pity.

Against the far wall, in between the two sections, sat a cherry buffet over which hung an enormous, rectangular gilt-framed mirror. The thing was a monstrosity, an overly ornate piece that seemed out of place in this bare, dusty room. I walked to it, drawn to my own reflection. My hair was sticking out all over, wild and frizzing in the humidity, my face flushed. I looked like someone I didn’t recognize. Someone angry and strong and determined. I touched my face, feeling the pressure of my fingertips against my skin.

I backed out of the room, returning to the middle one. This room had the same faded, scarred wood floors, but was papered in grimy gold grass cloth. Along the bathroom door, cut into the vertical wood molding, was a series of pencil marks. A growth chart, a lot like the one Mr. Al made on the garage door of the brown brick house.

So, a growth chart.

A chalkboard.

And a child’s desk.

All of which added up to one undeniable conclusion. Before being used as rooms for Cerny’s patients, they had been someone’s home. A child’s home.

That’s when I heard the music. Frank Sinatra. I looked over my shoulder, back into the bedroom with the faded brown-rose walls. Heath was there, standing in the center of the room, frozen. There was a look of horror dawning across his face. I walked toward him, slowly, as Frank’s velvet purr filled the room.

“Did you turn that music on?” I asked him.

It took a minute for his eyes to focus on me. He didn’t say a word. I walked past him. The iPod was lying on the windowsill, a long, snaking white cable connecting it to a small stereo receiver on the floor below. The iPod was an older generation, one of those oversize models with the big, chunky wheel. I spun the wheel and the screen lit up.

The song title scrolled across the screen: “Why Can’t You Behave?” I hit “Reverse” and saw the playlist. Matthew & Cecelia. All Frank Sinatra songs, scores of them. I felt dizzy.

“Heath?” I turned back to him. He still hadn’t moved. “No one’s been staying in these rooms,” I said. “We’re alone in this house.”

He shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. But look at this place. He lied to us. Made us think we were here with two other couples. But it was a game. He’s playing us.” I looked at him. “Why did you turn on the music?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was calm, eerily so.

I felt like someone had grabbed my heart and was squeezing it so hard it might stop beating.

“Do you remember it—this song?” I asked him.