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Allan finished up his call, then switched to speaking in English, his attention going to someone I couldn’t see.
“They’ll be in touch with details.” His voice softened, as he took a step closer to whoever he was speaking to, and I carefully inched forwards, trying to get close enough so I could peer around the corner but still remain undetected. I could feel my heart pounding, and my palms were damp with sweat. “No need to worry. There’s no sign that anyone suspects anything, and Hyde has already assured us that he will keep up his end of the bargain, in return for his promised share.”
“I know. I suppose I feel a little apprehensive, what with the end finally in sight. One wrong move, and all my years of careful planning could come to nothing.”
That was a voice I knew all too well.
My mother’s.
Despite everything, though, until that moment, yeah, I knew she was involved in all this, but until I heard her voice, it hadn’t really sunk in, I guess. The only way I could describe it was…you know when someone tells you something, but it takes seeing it for yourself to really hit home?
I hadn’t realised how fucking much it would hurt.
Leaning forwards, I saw something that made my jaw literally drop, the way you read about happening but never think it happens to anyone in real life. Well, it happened to me. Right then. Allan was standing very close to her, his hand on her arm, squeezing it in a soothing, almost fatherly gesture, and she leaned into him, looking up at him with a… maybe not a loving expression, but the closest I’d seen to any kind of softness in her face.
He looked down at her, then turned his face away, barking out a cough into the crook of his elbow. “My apologies.” He cleared his throat. “All will be well.”
She straightened up, the expression disappearing. “I’m going back to the party. Could you serve another round of drinks to the men?” Then she opened the fridge, muttering, “Where are those blasted olives?” And without wasting another second, I slipped my feet from my high heels, swiped the heels from the floor, and fucking ran.
I reached the stairwell and skidded into the hollow under the curving staircase, placing my hand against the wall, trying to catch my breath. A minute or two later, my mother tottered past with a jar of olives in hand, followed not long after by Allan carrying a silver tray with various bottles and glasses balanced on top.
A sense of determination filled me. It was clear to me now that my mother and Allan both had secrets they were hiding, and I was not leaving here without any answers. I darted for the stairs—now was my chance, while I knew for a fact that Allan and my mother were both occupied downstairs.
Once at the top, I paused for a moment on the landing to shoot a quick text to Caiden. I needed a few minutes to check out Allan’s room, and the last thing I wanted was for the Four to come barging back in the house, rousing suspicion. I knew they’d shout at me afterwards, but realistically, what was going to happen? Everyone else was downstairs, and I was going to be in and out as quickly as possible.
Me: Be a few more mins. Sorry. Warm the car up for me, it’s a cold night!
It buzzed almost instantly with a reply.
Caiden: OK. I can think of a few ways to warm you up…
Yeah, I bet he could. But as much as I’d like to think about that, I needed to hurry up and check Allan’s room. Which way was it? I tried to picture the layout of the house, and taking a guess that it would be at the opposite end of the house to my mother and Arlo’s bedroom, I headed for the end of the long corridor, peering into rooms as I passed.
Nothing.
I reached the last door. This had to be the one. I just had to hope it wasn’t locked. Closing my eyes and reaching out for the handle, I pushed.
The door slid open smoothly, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Slipping into the room, I carefully closed the door behind me, then took a moment to catch my bearings.
The room was large, as all the rooms were in this mansion, but much more simply furnished, the walls a plain, creamy colour with no ornamentation. Heavy, navy blue velvet curtains covered the windows, currently open and letting the view of the moonlight reflecting on the sea in through the window. Light was provided by a floor lamp standing in the corner of the room, bathing everything in a soft yellow glow. A large, mahogany bed with a navy bedspread stood at one end of the room, with a small table next to it. A dresser, again in the same mahogany, stood against the opposite wall, with a large wardrobe next to it. On the nearside wall was a bookcase, filled to overflowing with books, trinkets, and papers. A trouser press stood against the foot of the bed, and a large Persian rug covered the floor under my feet. I noticed a door, slightly ajar, which I assumed led into the bathroom as it was in the same position as the door in the bedroom that had been allocated for me here.
Where should I start? The bookcase was probably a good bet. I riffled through the papers—nothing of interest, mostly old clippings of various sporting events. It looked like Allan was a big football fan, as he’d saved articles on the Premier League going back years. Scanning the books, I noted that he was a fan of the classics—The Count of Monte Cristo, Don Quixote, and War and Peace were all among the hardcover editions weighing down the shelves. I guess I’d been hoping for something obvious, like maybe a book in Russian, or a Russian dictionary. Something to explain how on earth Arlo’s very English butler could speak fluent Russian.
Of course, nothing could be that simple. No conveniently placed clues for me to find.
Where else could I look?
I got down on my hands and knees, checking under the bed, but the only thing I got was a face full of dust. Coughing, I clambered to my feet, casting my gaze around.
Only a few more places I could check in this room.
Crossing to the dresser, I eased open the bottom drawer, figuring if anything was likely to be hidden in here, the bottom drawer was the best bet. I carefully moved aside a scratchy woollen blanket, and my fingertips touched something solid.
Reaching forward, my hand closed around the item, and I lifted it out of the drawer. It was a solid wooden box, slightly smaller than a standard shoebox, with a hinged lid, with intricate carvings running over the lid and around the sides. I quickly pulled my phone out of my bag and snapped photos of the box at all angles, then sat down on the floor, cross-legged, to examine the inside.
I gently opened the tarnished gold clasp and lifted the lid.
It was full of letters, most yellowed with age, the ink faded and illegible.
