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“You too?” She sighs and sinks into the worn leather chair behind her desk. “Did something happen last night I’m not aware of?”
Yeah, your freaky-ass mansion is haunted and somehow the spirits are focused on me.
I settle for saying, “I was surprised to hear Craig and Demi checked out too.”
“They cited work commitments in the note they left with their key, but who rushes off like that before the sun is barely over the horizon?” She tsk-tsks. “Are you sure something didn’t happen last night?”
Cora is the last person I’d confide in and I need to distract her. “I’m flattered by your offer to research the history of Arcania, but wouldn’t someone local be more fitting for the job?”
“This is a passion project for me and it requires someone with genuine interest.” Her eyes glitter with enthusiasm. “You seem fascinated with the history by the questions you were asking me and I apologize for flying off the handle. We’ve had people staying over the years who want to disparage what we do here and I can’t be too careful, so your questions triggered me.”
Interesting. Why would anyone asking about the history of Arcania trigger her unless there’s something to hide?
I hate to admit I’m curious. “How long would this project take?”
“I thought you could start your research in person here, then when you get home, you could continue online.” Her shoulders slump. “I’m not sure how long it will take me to find a good ghostwriter, so whatever factual information you can find ahead of time will be an excellent incentive for someone to take this on.”
Okay, so she’s not wanting me to stay beyond the week I already booked, which is good. I’m not sure I’ll last the next few nights, let alone any longer. And despite her offer sounding genuine, I can’t shake the feeling she’s not to be trusted.
“Who has access to the guest rooms?”
My question comes out of left field and is designed to test her. She appears genuinely startled, her eyebrows shooting high. “There are two master keys. One in the kitchen, which Daphne and Spencer can access if needed, and one here.” She points to a metal filing cabinet behind her. “It’s always locked. Why do you ask?”
“Because someone placed a diving suit in my room yesterday and when I woke later, it was gone.”
She pales and grips the edge of the desk so tightly her knuckles pop. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I snap, and she flinches. I already think I’m going crazy; I don’t need her to reiterate it.
“I’ll ask Daphne about it, but it’s highly doubtful she would do such a thing.” Her brows draw together in consternation and I wonder if she’s faking it, because I want to ask, “would you?”
“So what do you say to my offer?” The corners of her mouth ease upward into a smile. “I think you’ll be perfect.”
That makes one of us, because I can’t quell the persistent doubts that this house isn’t good for me.
Chapter34
Cora
THEN
With Arcania heavily booked,it’s another two weeks before I can sneak off to New York City. I tell Daphne and Spencer I’m checking out the newest competition on Long Island, because I know Spencer will interrogate me if he discovers I’m off to the city.
He’s odd that way. Whenever I leave Arcania—which has happened a grand total of three times in the last twenty-five years—he asks me where I’m going and for how long, like he’s afraid I’ll leave and not return. It’s sweet in a way but telling him I’m off on a crazy hunch is a far cry from those other times I left: for Mom’s funeral—I finally reached out to her after a decade here and we reestablished tenuous contact—for a few days in Arizona at a renowned health spa on a reconnaissance mission, and for a uterine procedure when the walls thickened around menopause.
New York City is teeming as usual and as I’m jostled on the sidewalks, I crave the sanctuary of Arcania more than ever. This expedition is beyond foolish and as I enter the small library, I’m holding my breath.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter as I stroll past the carrels and scan the front desk for my supposed double.
But I only see an older woman—Gladys, according to her name tag—and no other librarians in sight. I spend two hours pretending to scour shelves, from biographies to science fiction, mysteries to romance, self-help to thrillers. Gladys approaches me once to offer assistance, and I wave her off. I could ask if other librarians are working today, but that’ll be plain weird.
Besides, if my daughter faked her disappearance, why hasn’t she contacted me in all these years? She may have been terrified of her father, but what did I do? It’s bugged me every time I’ve contemplated the possibility of her being alive, so tipping her off that someone is asking for her won’t help my cause. I’ll just come back tomorrow.
But as I make my way toward the entrance, a door opens to my left, next to rooms marked ‘Student Study’ and a woman backs out, pulling a trolley laden with books.
“Gladys, I’ve finished culling the women’s fiction section, and here’s what I’ll put back on the shelves,” the woman says, and Gladys says, “Thanks, Lucy.”
I pause, and as she turns, my lungs seize.
