The library is any book lover’s dream. Sturdy bookshelves line the walls around the room. A leaning ladder with wheels at the bottom rests against the far collection. Several armchairs are scattered in the center of the room around a glass coffee table. I walk to one of the closestshelves, selecting a mystery written by one of Marmee’s favorite authors.
A large desk sits in front of the French doors leading to the balcony, which provides an excellent view of the back patio and rolling hills beyond. The door is slightly ajar. I walk across the room and fasten the latch.
As I’m passing the writing desk, something catches my attention. Another envelope with my name on it. My first thought is that it must be a card or gift from Marmee, but then I take in the elaborate handwriting, the exaggerated loops of the letterP.It’s almost identical to the birthday card I received earlier. The one from Oliver.
This can’t be. My shaking hand reaches for the envelope, hoping that the next blink will bring clarity, proof I’m not actually seeing what’s in front of me.
There’s a piece of paper inside. I slide it out, inspecting the thick cardstock with laser focus.
It reads:Are you going to tell any of them the truth about us?
As I read the words, I hear Oliver’s voice in my head, that deep comforting tone morphing into something menacing. His presence is all around me. For a moment, I think I get a whiff of his cologne.
The front doorbell bellows, the sound so unexpected, I jolt. The book in my hand falls to the floor. Marmee installed a system years ago that ensures no matter where you are in the house, a resounding baritone boom will alert you to someone’s arrival. It sounds like a mallet has struck a massive gong right beside my ear.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I look between the note in my hands and the door leading to the hallway. The tall grandfather clock across from me says it’s after nine o’clock. A second message from Oliver. Another unexpected guest. What the hell is going on? The same feeling of imminent dread I experienced after receiving the first letter returns.
As I exit the library, still carrying the note, I turn in the direction of the stairwell. My friends’ voices carry, but it’s hard to determine their whereabouts. Some echo from the cinema, others linger from downstairs. One of them must be going to see who’s here.
“Tippi?”
Marmee calls to me from her bedroom. I look back at the stairwell one more time, wondering what’s unfolding downstairs, before entering her room.
“Tippi,” Marmee repeats when she sees me. “Did I hear the doorbell?”
“I think so,” I say, trying not to show how agitated I am.
“I thought everyone had arrived.”
“I did, too.” I clench my jaw, handing over the book she asked me to retrieve. “Marmee, were you in the library earlier tonight?”
“No, but I’ve heard people up and down the stairs all night. I told Ava people were allowed to tour the house.”
My chest caves as I turn away from her, trying to hide myself. If people are allowed to roam as they please, anyone could have slipped that note into the library. There could be someone else here, another visitor yet to be seen. My mind conjures an image of the intruder in my apartment, his balaclava concealing his identity.
A voice rises from downstairs. Another person in the house who wasn’t here earlier. The sensory overload I experienced in the library returns, an unavoidable sensation that Oliver is near.
“Tippi, is everything all right, dear?” Marmee asks.
“Fine,” I say, backing out of the room. “Try to get some sleep.”
An unexpected guest has arrived.
13
With each descending step,my heartbeat accelerates.
Damien’s arrival was a surprise. What are the odds of another unplanned visitor? And why do the voices drifting upward from the parlor sound friendly, as if the others know this new mystery guest?
As I enter the foyer, Constance is the first to spot me. She beams as she says, “Here’s the guest of honor. The birthday girl.”
She steps to the left, and I’m almost afraid to see who is standing behind her. Relief spreads when I see it’s a woman. She has platinum blond cropped hair and wears a black turtleneck with a red shawl around her shoulders.
“Tippi, I’d like you to meet Opal,” Constance says. “She’s tonight’s entertainment.”
“Entertainment?”
Ava mentioned entertainment earlier, but I’d hoped it was an overstatement. I stare at Opal, trying to predict her talent. She could be anything from a jazz singer to a burlesque dancer.
