Say the Word(115)

Within an hour’s time, we’d traversed the entire bottom floor and encountered absolutely nothing of note. Mostly, Labyrinth seemed like a terribly obnoxious though perfectly innocuous millionaires’ club — a watering hole for the über elite.

“We need to get onto the second floor,” I hissed. “There’s nothing down here and you know Charles’ line about ‘renovations’ was utter bullshit.”

“How do you suggest we do that, genius?” Bash muttered back at me. “Do you have powers of invisibility I don’t know about?”

I thought for a moment. “We haven’t checked the sitting room Charles told us about. It’s the only room left.”

“What, are you suddenly craving some ‘light refreshments’?” Bash snorted.

“Something like that,” I mumbled, leading him through a set of doors back out into the atrium. Heading for the entry Charles had led us through on the opposite side of the hall, my mind raced. If there were hors d’oeuvres served hourly in the sitting room, maybe there was a kitchen or back room attached to it.

We nodded to an elderly couple in matching mink-cuffed coats in the atrium, before stepping into the small sitting room. It was dimly lit, with several intimate, two-person tables scattered across the gleaming hardwood floors. Along one wall, a banquet table was laid out with multiple shining silver platters, an array of still-warm appetizers and fine desserts on display. My eyes scanned the walls and I felt a flare of hope when I spotted it — a recessed door set into the wall on the right, so finely crafted it was barely discernible from the cream-papered walls around it.

“Come on,” I whispered to Bash, thanking my stars that the room was abandoned and hoping whatever lay beyond that door would be as well. I made my way over to the entryway, tracing my fingertips along the seam as I searched for a way to open it. There was no visible knob, no switch or electronic panel that might open the door from this side. I felt the hope begin to deflate in my chest.

Before I could wilt entirely, Bash reached over my shoulder, placed his palm flat against the door, and pushed inward. To my surprise, the door was spring-loaded — it popped open easily at his touch, two narrow inches of space appearing between the wood panel and its frame. I turned to him with wide eyes.

“Nice work, Mr. Bond.”

“The basement door in my parents’ house opened like that,” Bash said, his eyes distant with memories. “My mother always hated the look of knobs on closets. She said it created ‘unnecessary eye clutter’ and ruined a room’s aesthetic.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled the door slightly more ajar, peering through the crack to see the connecting room. It was dark but as my eyes adjusted, I saw something that made me want to high five myself for this stroke of intuition: a stainless steel refrigerator, a small range, a long prep table, a china cabinet, a fully-stocked liquor bar, and, tucked into a far corner, the most thrilling object of all — a small, spiral staircase leading to the upper and lower floors.

“Bingo,” I whispered.

“Servants staircase,” Bash noted, his voice full of admiration. “Good thinking.”

I edged into the room and Bash followed, shutting the door behind him. Once inside, he grabbed my hand and shifted my body behind his as we made our way over to the staircase.

“I go first,” he ordered, his tone booking no room for argument.

I nodded.

“Follow me, stay silent, and if we’re caught try to play it off. We’re new, we’re lost — you wanted to see the chandelier up close.” He stared at me intently. “Got it?”

“Got it,” I echoed.

The journey up the dark stairs was painstakingly slow — each step Bash took on the creaking steps made me flinch in horror, sure we’d be detected if we so much as breathed too loudly in the confined space. My heart pounded so fast I was sure its beat was audible from at least two floors away. I was thankful I’d never suffered from claustrophobia, as the walls seemed to press in closer the higher we rose. We passed the second floor, then the third, but Bash continued to ascend, evidently convinced that anything illegal would be as far from detection as possible — on the highest floor, in the most closely guarded room.

I didn’t disagree.

Eventually, we reached the top of the flight, stepping out into a space nearly identical to the kitchen prep room on the first floor, but with no signs of habitation. No lights were left illuminated to aid still-working kitchen staff. There were no utensils lying about, no food remnants of recently-prepared appetizers scattered about the counters — the stainless steel tables were immaculate and not a single tool was out of place.

I held my breath as we crossed to the door, wondering what we might find on the other side. Had this all been for nothing — a misadventure, born of misguided hopes and ill-founded wishes to find Vera? Had I been connecting invisible dots? Seeing illusory correlations between completely unrelated people and places?

Was Labyrinth even connected to my investigation? Because, so far, nothing here suggested anything remotely associated with human trafficking.

Short on the heels of that thought came another — one so paralyzing I felt my throat begin to constrict at just the possibility it might be true. I began to wonder if I really was crazy, after all. Maybe my conspiracy-theory wall mosaic was just that — a conspiracy, feigned and fabricated by a sad, foolish girl who couldn’t cope with the truth. Maybe, without ever noticing, I’d slipped off the ledge of sanity and fallen so far into lunacy I couldn’t even see it anymore.