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He closed the door before she could ask him why. Conditioned by recent events, she immediately ran over and made sure she could open the door. She opened and closed it three times before she trusted it to stay unlocked.
She set the suitcase on top of the dresser, unzipped it, and dug through her clothes until she found her cosmetic case. Her camera was still inside. He hadn't searched the contents of her luggage at all. Rebecca let out a deep breath.
Three days. She didn't like it. She'd still rather leave right away. But now that she was above ground and the end was in sight, she'd be able to survive. She had three days to find out exactly what was going on around here. The Institute conducted real research. Desmond had convinced her of that. But his methods and his motives remained obscure. And suspect.
Desmond's effect on her went beyond the normal reaction to a heart-stoppingly handsome man. There was something darker, more sinister. How had he manipulated her original agreement? She'd uncover his secret. Even if she never used the information, she had to know. For her own safety.
She picked up her night shirt and walked into the green-tiled bathroom, careful to find the light switch before closing the door. She intended to search everywhere for clues.
A second door opposite the one she'd just come through called for immediate attention. If the room beyond was unoccupied, she could examine it now. She pressed her ear to the wooden door. No sounds reverberated from the other side.
Ignoring the bathroom for the moment, she eased open the door. Another bedroom. This one done in black and dark green Art Deco style furniture. A shiver rolled
down her spine.
Desmond's room, the one he'd said was next to the room she'd be staying in. She pictured him in that big bed, covered only by the satin comforter the same glossy black as his hair and cushioned by a pillow the same brilliant green as his eyes. Maybe she should have run after all.
Rebecca retreated back into the bathroom and closed the door. His bedroom would be the best source of clues about Desmond, but she didn't want to risk being discovered while she searched. Especially not at night. Bedrooms became more than just another room at night, with starlight glittering on the black satin. She remembered the feel of his arm around her when she'd woken from her shock. Warm. Possessive.
It must be the aftereffects of shock and the adrenaline of her escape wearing off that made her tremble.
She ran cold water into the sink and splashed her face until she felt normal. Then she examined the bathroom. It was fitted out with a pale green fiberglass shower/tub enclosure. The lower walls and floor were tiled in the same pale green, with a row of darker green tiles at waist height. The upper walls were a pattern of alternating dark and light tiles. Was green Desmond's favorite color? Or had it been his wife's?
A man's electric razor sat on the dark green vanity counter, along with a bottle of after-shave. She hesitated, her fingers on the cold glass of the medicine cabinet. If she could possibly learn anything, she had to look. She opened the medicine cabinet.
It was empty, except for a rose-patterned plastic cup upended on the bottom shelf. Obeying her instincts, she took it down, and a brown plastic prescription bottle fell out. She picked it up. The bottle was empty. Why would someone keep an empty medicine bottle?
The prescription was for Dr. Olivia Lacroix. Rebecca blinked. A doctor. Desmond had been married to a doctor. She read the rest of the prescription, making a mental note of the drug's name to look up later. Dated three years ago, the medicine could be taken up to eight times a day "as needed for pain." Eight times? She placed the bottle and cup back where she'd found them, and closed the cabinet.
In a daze, she changed into her night shirt and went back to her room. She tossed her ruined suit onto the simple wooden chair beside the window. No wonder Desmond was so determined not to see his daughter go through the same suffering. Was it the same sort of insidious disease that had taken Rebecca's father? She'd been told he lingered for months in the hospital, not dead but not truly alive. When the monitor finally flatlined, it had been a relief to all concerned. Except Rebecca. He hadn't lingered quite long enough for her to find him.
She forced her attention to the present, and searched her bedroom for clues. The dresser drawers and closet had been emptied. Even the night stand drawer was bare. She slid the drawer closed, and heard the faint crinkle of paper.
She pulled the drawer out, lifting it off its track, then reached inside the cabinet and felt around the dry wood. Her fingers brushed across a piece of paper crushed against the back, and she pried it loose. Smoothing the piece of flowered stationery against her leg, she noticed the many cross-outs and revisions. Olivia must have been drafting a letter, and had put it away in the night stand. She'd never gone back for it.
Feeling a bit like a voyeur, Rebecca read the text. Or tried to. Olivia wrote as incomprehensibly as most doctors.
My darling,
You probably think I'm a fool, blinded by love. At first I was. Not anymore. But how could I speak of what was kept silent for so long? Now that it's too late—
Olivia had scratched out four attempts to finish the sentence. Rebecca couldn't decipher any of them, and her tired mind spun fancies as romantic as the Victorian roses on Olivia's stationery. It sounded like an apology of some sort. But for what?
Rebecca sighed. Desmond no longer seemed quite so sinister. Only sad and rather tragic. She forced her sympathy aside. Things happened in everyone's lives. That didn't give them the right to interfere in other people's lives. Past injuries were no justification for present transgressions.
She looked out the plate glass window. It couldn't be opened. A false sash was glued to the outside, so it appeared to be a normal window. But the illusion failed on this side. The inch thick glass was already murky and difficult to see through. The sky was graying in the east, stars fading as dawn approached. The sun wouldn't rise for a few more hours, but the night was over.
She crawled under the crisp cotton sheets printed with sprigs of ivy. The pillows smelled of rain fresh fabric softener. It was a reassuringly normal smell, and she felt the tension draining out of her. But she left the light on.
REBECCA YAWNED and stretched. She'd been so tired, and Desmond had insisted on waking her every hour. He must have finally decided she didn't have a concussion and let her sleep.
She fumbled for her watch. Ten o'clock. She tossed off her covers and padded across to the window. The glass had turned completely opaque. Not the slightest glimmer of light leaked through. She didn't want to admit it, but she was glad Desmond had warned her.
She dressed and opened the bedroom door. A soft glow filtered off the bright white ceiling of the living room, and she realized the room had been designed without windows. The distinctive buzz-click of the keycard lock drew her attention to the front door. She hurried toward it.
"Des?" a man's voice called. A brown-haired man in a black leather jacket pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"Hello," she began. "I'm— "
