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Oh FUCK.
I picked it up, and realized it was broken. The part at the end with the little skeletal teeth was missing. Presumably sheared off, when I jumped at the lightning strike.
Glancing over my shoulder, I ran to the mystery door and searched around. Maybe the broken end of the key had fallen out. Maybe the piece was on the floor, waiting for me to pick it up.
Damn.
It wasn’t of course. Nothing could be that easy.
Apprehensively I peered into the keyhole and there it was — broken off, deep in the lock. There was no way my fingers could reach it. I’d need a clothes-hanger, or some kind of a long, thin tool. Maybe a centerpunch, or a magnetic screwdriver.
I sighed heavily. I’d have to do it fast, too. If one of them tried to enter that room, they’d know. They’d most likely come to me, asking if I knew what happened. Maybe they’d even ask to see my key…
I jiggled the knob, hoping for a last-minute miracle. Only a miracle never happened.
“Just one more thing added to the to-do list,” I grumbled, slipping back into my bedroom.
Twenty-One
KARISSA
Renovating a place like Southhold was tricky, and not just because it was a hundred and fifty years old. Sure, getting original materials was hard, but it wasn’t impossible. It was the modernization of the place that made things ten times more complicated.
You had to consider that guests would be drawn here for the ambiance and feel of a mid-nineteenth century manor. They’d want to experience the old, the antediluvian. They’d expect all the romantic charm of period finishes and antique furnishings, so they could take a thousand cool photos and make all of their friends Facebook and Instagram-jealous.
But after that…
During their stay they’d want all the more modern comforts of home. In their rooms they’d need charging stations, televisions, high-speed Internet. Bathrooms and showers that not only looked like they belonged back in the eighteen-eighties, but were also comfortable and functional.
I spent a lot of design time hiding mini-fridges in raised wood panels. Running air-conditioning through vents that appeared natural, and putting thermostats in strategically hidden places. I found vendors who could match the style and thickness of two-hundred year old area rugs, but with radiant heating mats woven into them to keep everyone’s feet warm. The whole thing was a challenge, and I reveled in thriving at it.
Today I started early, and finished exceptionally late. The ductwork delivery was short, and the pieces all wrong. I spent half the morning locking down the one person responsible for the mix-up, and the rest of it drilling that person a shiny new asshole.
Sometime just after lunch the correct pieces miraculously arrived. I sweet-talked the HVAC guys into working well into the evening, and after authorizing a whole bunch of overtime they were happy to oblige. I hated spending the extra money because of one person’s screwup, but I planned on taking it up with the supply house manager and working that money back into the budget in the way of favors and future discounts.
It wasn’t until eight o’clock that the last of the vans and trucks finally pulled away. I made my way back inside, grateful that my commute now included little more than a staircase and a few hallways. Closing the big doors of the mansion and locking them securely, I left the shrilling of the crickets and cicadas behind.
Food.
I wasn’t hungry, I was starving. Breakfast had been coffee only, and lunch consisted of a mostly-shattered granola bar I found in the back seat of my car. I’d shaken the contents into my open mouth and washed it down with a bottle of water that had been sitting in the sun just a little too long.
But damn, I’d gotten a lot done.
The kitchen was empty, except for the lingering scent of food. The guys had ordered pizza, apparently. Two empty boxes lay scattered across the table, with a note pinned to the top of one telling me to ‘check the oven’.
I did, and was thrilled to see a plate all prepped for me. Two pepperoni and meatball slices lay beautifully spread across a piece of sturdy aluminum foil, along with half a rice ball and three garlic knots. “We work hard, play hard, and eat well,” one of them once told me, though I couldn’t remember which.
Fifteen minutes later I was a happy girl, stuffed comfortably with meat and cheese and bread. The rice ball had been absolutely delicious. The garlic knots I re-wrapped and put back into the fridge.
Midnight.
The word had lingered in the back of my mind all day. It excited me. Frightened me. Warmed me from the inside out.
Should you still be doing this?
It was a question I’d put to myself in the most honest way possible, trying to put my more sensual appetites aside. Sure, I could do it. Hell, I even wanted to do it — or at least my body did. But then there was the issue of Roderick and the thunderstorm and spending last night in his bed. Sneaking out this morning had seemed the proper move at the time, but afterward I couldn’t help but think I’d done something… well…
Wrong?
