“Go on, dear,” he says when I hesitate.
“I’m not calling my family.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll call Frida. She can call them for me.”
“We’ll see.”
“What do I say?”
“You’re instructed only to tell them that you are alive and well. Also—and this is important—that you’re happy. Nothing more.”
“She won’t believe that.”
“Make her believe it, and hang up. It’s part of doing what you’re told.”
There are times when Norman is short with me, but somehow I know it’s his way of helping. I stare down and dial the numbers. In the early evening Frida is most likely at the apartment, stretched out on our couch. Part of me hopes she’s out with friends, but the part of me that wants to escape—a very large part—hopes otherwise.
Her voice is immediately familiar. “Hello?”
“Frida?”
“Cat—oh, shit. Where are you?”
“I’m safe,” I say, nearly choking on the word. “I’m only calling to let you know that.”
“Where?”
I glance up at Norman. He shakes his head but smiles and points to his mouth, indicating that I should do the same. No matter how hard I try, my smile is not convincing. “I can’t say, but—”
“What do you mean you can’t say? I’m calling the cops, just tell me where you are.”
My swallow echoes in my ears. “Frida, I–I don’t know where I am, please call them, I’m in a m—”
The phone is snatched from me like lightning.
“No, please,” I say, attempting to wrestle it back and finding that Norman is surprisingly strong.
“I trusted you, Cataline. I’ll have to tell the Master of the House about this, and he won’t be pleased.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I say and storm away.
I know my mind; it can’t be distracted with reading now. I return to the cinema, dropping movies from the shelves onto the floor until I can’t take the silence another second. I sit cross-legged on the floor directly underneath the enormous screen as the credits for Hitchcock’s The Birds begin. Squawking fills the dark room as the screen flashes black and white. That might as well be all this is: broken flickers and flashes of a disintegrating existence. I can’t follow the story anyway as I bawl myself deaf and blind.
The look of betrayal on Norman’s face was the same one he had when I threw the log at him. He’s been kind to me, as has Rosa, my motherly maid, and Chef Michael. Norman’s disappointment feels real and palpable. I vehemently tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. But what exactly do they want with me? And how can they be so equally accommodating and cruel?
9
It takes time, but I eventually realize that Norman was right. I haven’t seen Guy since the night of my tantrum. I’m granted a second and final chance to call Frida, during which I understand she needs to hear I’m okay as much as I need to tell her I’m not. The threat of being locked in my room again is all I need. I give her the Andersons’ phone number while Norman nods but hope she won’t use it. I’m just convincing enough, and I’m rewarded with a camera. I recognize the Leica M6 as high-end and far more expensive than anything I could ever afford. I smile when I open the gift and thank Norman. He promptly reminds me it isn’t from him but that he will pass on my gratitude to “the Master of the House.”
I’m at the window in my room when a hand touches my shoulder. I jump, my entire body alerting.
“I apologize,” Norman says. “I called your name several times. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I shudder, brushing my hands over my sleeves. “It’s okay.”
“Shall I close your window? It’s getting colder as we head into winter.”
“No.”
“What do you look at when you sit here day after day?”
“I’ve been wondering. Does the exterior of the house have gargoyles?”
He laughs cautiously. “Gargoyles?”
“Those carved, stone, nightmarish things.”
“No,” he says quietly.
“Seems like it should.” He doesn’t respond but looks out the window, so I do too. “I wish I could touch those roses.”
“They have nasty thorns, you know.” I glance up at him, and he gestures to the nightstand. “I can bring flowers for your room.”
“It isn’t the same thing.”
“I see. Why don’t you photograph them with your new camera?”
“Sometimes I do,” I say. “My favorite—” I pause.
“Go on,” he says with a small smile. “Which is your favorite?”
“It was taken on a wet day.” Raindrops pounded the window, forming liquid sheets that distorted the red roses just beyond the glass.
He clears his throat when I don’t continue. My palm smooths over the hardcover book in my lap.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“The book?”
“No. The bookmarker.”
I slide out the torn paper, uncaring that I’ll lose my spot. Yesterday’s date screams at me. Eight weeks here feels impossible. “I’m sorry,” I say, peeking furtively at the desk drawer where I’ve stashed the calendar. “I took it from the library.”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “It’s been some time since you visited the cinema. Perhaps a movie will lift your spirits?”
“My spirits are fine,” I say and return my attention out the window. “Anyway, when I’m not forced to be in here, I like it.” I don’t mention that I do more than look from my window; I wait. When Hero hears about this and finally comes for me, I’ll be here, at the open window, ready for him.
“Very well. The Master of the House has requested your presence at dinner this evening.”
My head whips back to him, and he chuckles lightly. When the reverberation of his words dies, I’m left with two warring feelings: instinctual fear and a visceral need for answers.
“Please don’t argue or ask to decline,” Norman says.
“I won’t.” I’ve given up my quest for answers with the staff, but I can’t help feeling a new door has finally opened. I’ve been tempted to ask about Guy, but keeping my secret feels like the only thing in my control.
“You’ll need to dress appropriately,” Norman is saying through my thoughts. “Please choose something semi-formal. I’ll send Rosa in to help you.”
When he closes the door behind him, I leave my windowsill to go to the closet. I examine each piece with new appreciation. Money was tight for me growing up, but sewing was a hobby of my mother’s. I never took to it, but I’d often keep her company as she worked. I touch chiffon to my cheek and smile.
In the shower, I overload a sponge with soap and scrub with purpose. I wash my hair twice and condition. Afterward, I take time painting my face, trying not to think of what it means that I want to look nice.
Rosa is in a good mood when she shuffles into my room. I close my eyes and relax as she gently drags a comb through my wet hair, tugging lightly to free any tangles. Her sturdy fingers pull hair off my face, grazing my temples. It’s not often that anyone touches me anymore. My head falls forward, hair creating a dark veil as she brushes. I haven’t even touched myself. My mind makes up for it with occasional wet dreams, sometimes about a shadowed man abusing my mouth. I am guiltiest when I catch myself replaying them during the day.
The floor-length, tea rose pink dress I choose resembles a nightgown. In a way, it’s a small step up from what I’ve been wearing around the house. I’m oddly excited when I slide into heels, even if it’s just to wear them downstairs. I ask Rosa twice in halting Spanish if she’s sure I should wear them at all, and she confirms with a nod.
She accompanies me out but vanishes once we reach the base of the steps. I don’t need her anyway; I could find my way around the mansion, at least the parts I’m allowed in, with my eyes closed.
But no amount of time exploring this place could’ve prepared me for what I see next.
As I round the doorway into the dining hall, everything I know, all my myriad theories, anything I believed to be true shatters to pieces. Beautiful olive-green eyes framed by black rims bring my world to a halt. Where Guy Fowler should be sits Calvin Parish.