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A modern oil painting graces the wall behind the desk.I look at it, mesmerized.I’m not a huge fan of modern art, but this one seems to speak to me.I get lost in the swirls of blue and black, only a touch of red here and there.I have no idea what it represents, or why Rogan chose it for his office.
But something about it calls to me.
I walk toward it, as if being hypnotized to do so.My fingers itch to touch the texture of the paint, but I hold back.Instead, I move my hand under the large frame.I don’t know what I think I might find, but disappointment courses through me when the wall is empty.
No hidden safe.
So why am I here?Rogan knows I’m here, so he wants me to find something.Or perhaps he wants me to find nothing so I’ll stop this search.
I can’t.I’m here, and I need to take advantage of what little time I have.
The painting, though inebriating in a way, is hiding nothing.I must look elsewhere.I sit down in the lush leather chair and smooth my palms—still sticky with blood—over the glossy desk.No blotter, no pens or pencils, no photo frame displaying images of loved ones.
A truly empty desk.
But the desk has drawers.I open the top drawer, and—
A post-it note sits inside the empty drawer, and on it are written only three words.
Open the door.
Open the door?What door?To the bedroom?To any of the other rooms?Clearly this isn’t meant for me.
I slam the drawer closed.
Now what?I continue to search the bare office.Nothing on top of nothing.Perhaps I should be searching his office downstairs—the one inside the high stakes area.By now, though, the bomb threat has most likely passed, and the casino is rocking once more.
Open the door.
The words play over and over in my mind, to the rhythm of a bass drum.
Op En The Door.
Op En The Door.
Maybe the message is meant for me after all.Or maybe I’m going insane.What is insanity, anyway, but a severely disordered state of mind?
Sounds a lot like my mind at the moment.
I touch my lips, sticky from blood.In my mind’s eye is the image of my blood-smeared face.I run my tongue over my teeth, my canines still pointed.
Op En The Door.
Op En The Door.
The bedroom.The door that’s pulsing.
That must be it.
But why?
I leave the office and head, still stumbling slightly, to the door that leads to Victor Rogan’s bedroom.The bedroom where we fucked.Where I passed out from his blood and my own lust and didn’t even remember him taking me back to my own suite.
I grasp the crystal doorknob, surprised that it turns.He doesn’t keep his bedroom locked.I’m not sure why that seems strange to me, as he lives alone as far as I know.The crystal is warm to my touch, almost like it’s alive with a heartbeat of its own.
I slide the door open and walk slowly inside.
The silky black comforter on the king-size bed.
