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I don’t go back to my room. Instead, I let my feet carry me downstairs. My body seems to know what I want to do before my brain does. I find myself in front of a supply closet, and inside I find a can of the white paint they’ve been using to touch up the moldings.
My next stop is the formal dining room. I walk right up to the head table, plop down the can of paint, and look up at the portraits. My eyes lock on the one of Carolson. He’s wearing his usual plastic smile in this picture. His perfect mask, devoid of all real emotion. But maybe the photographer was extra gifted, or maybe it’s just because this image has been blown up to such a massive size, but I think I see something in his eyes, too—something proud and aloof. This is the man who destroyed everything. The man who took away my home. The man who screwed over Ward and his mother.
I turn and yank the lid off the paint can. I forgot to grab a brush, but that doesn’t matter at this point. In one motion, I turn and throw the entire contents of the can up at the portrait. It hits with a splatter, speckling me and the ground and the wall on either side. The paint runs in globs down across Carolson’s face, and it looks appropriately like a big wad of bird crap.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say in a mocking voice. “How does it feel? How does it feel to have the world shit on you?” I back away slowly, but even I’m not disturbed enough to think that a portrait might answer me.
I take the long way back up to my room. Now that I’ve defaced the portrait, I feel strangely calm. I’ve finally made the decision to pack my things and leave this place. I feel lighter already.
Part of me expects—hopes—to find Ward waiting for me at my room, but there’s no one there. It’s better this way, I know. Ward was just another distraction, wasn’t he? Another excuse to forget about the horrible things I’ve done. Now I’ve told him the truth, and his reaction was my answer.
Still, something in me aches as I throw my things in my suitcase. This was different. It wasn’t like it was with Ian, when I took comfort and gave nothing in return.
I’m crying again as I zip up my suitcase. But they’re quiet tears. I tell myself they’re washing away all of these confusing emotions. Getting them out of my system. I need to get away from here. Away from my memories and from Carolson and from Ward. I need to go somewhere where I won’t feel completely insane. Somewhere that won’t erode my sanity from the inside out.
I reach up and touch my cheek, feel the wet tracks left by the tears. If only it were so easy to let everything fall away. Let the tears carry my emotions away. Let the skies open and flood all the toxicity out of this house. I glance up at the ceiling. If only the rain could seep down through the roof and—
And maybe I can’t have rain, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get this place a little wet.
There’s a sprinkler in here. There’s one in every room—several in the larger ones. The sprinkler system was one of the many updates they had to make to the house to bring it up to code.
I don’t stop to think. My hair straightener is still on the dresser. I switch it on and look around for something flammable while it heats up. After a few minutes I find the welcome packet Mr. Haymore gave me on my first day stashed under the bed. I yank it out and rip off a piece of paper.
It’s a lot harder to set paper on fire with a straightener than I imagined it would be, but eventually it starts to smoke. The smell is awful, but I don’t care. I leap up onto my bed and hold the stinky, smoldering piece of paper right beneath the sprinkler.
Please, let this work…
It takes a few minutes, but finally I’m rewarded by the fzzzz of it coming to life. Water rains down over me. And if the system’s working properly, it should be starting to rain down in other places, too.
And right on cue, the fire alarm goes off. It’s so loud I wince and nearly fall off the bed, but I manage to get down without breaking my neck. I grab my bag and head out into the hall.
It’s chaos. People are shrieking, running out of their rooms in whatever they wore to bed. Some still look dazed and half-asleep, while others are wide-eyed and clutching prized possessions under their arms, trying to keep them dry. I walk calmly through them all.
But if I thought the employee hall was bad, it’s nothing compared to the madness occurring on the hall where they put all the press people. They’re just as confused as the staff members, probably more so, but most of them are still trying to get their equipment up and running so they can document this whole catastrophe.
“Where’s the fire?” someone shouts down the hall in complete seriousness. “Anyone know what’s going on?” These idiots are willing to charge headfirst toward a blaze for the chance at a good story.
Well, at least some of them are. It’s not hard to spot Asher among the crowd—he’s got a coat wrapped around what I’m assuming is his brand new fancy computer, but I suspect the sprinklers already did their damage. He looks pissed.
I smile a little to myself as I pass. Karma’s a bitch.
And then I make my way down the stairs, ready for freedom.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Apparently, though, after I insisted on staying here against the advice of, well, everyone, the universe has decided that it’s not going to let me escape this place easily.
Staff members and journalists have already started making their way out of the house by the time I slip through one of the side doors. Some are looking up at the house with curiosity, still trying to figure out where the fire is, if there’s one at all. I spot Mr. Haymore (who’s almost unrecognizable half-dressed as he is) running back and forth, his face looking dangerously purple. And there are the Carolsons, standing together—and the look of dismay on Edward Carolson’s face is amazingly satisfying. I can only imagine the damage those sprinklers are causing right now. Carpets, furniture, decor—all getting drenched. Some of it will be completely ruined. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have to consider pushing back the grand opening for a few weeks or so.
I stroll right past them. Everyone’s too focused on the house to notice a single young woman walking down the drive toward the front gate.
But I’m not prepared for the very different kind of disaster I find at the entrance to the estate. The gate across the driveway is shut, as it normally is at this hour of the day, but there’s a car just on the other side. A man has stepped out of the driver’s seat, and he’s having a very heated discussion with a couple of the security guards.
