Page 130 of Lessons in Cruelty

I suppose my brain is trying to keep things age-appropriate, and there’s nothing appropriate—age, or otherwise—about me waking up beside Professor Rooke.

I take another few bites of ice cream as I soak in the luxurious ambience.

I’m interrupted by a very rude, but very intriguing thought.

God, how could I forget?

The spoon dangles from my mouth as I hurry over to Bastian’s bookshelf with its dark, gleaming wood. I squat so I can peer into the bottom row of books.

What the fuck?

Just a bunch of paperback novels. Where are the spiral-bound notebooks I saw the last time I was here? The ones I could have sworn were Activity Logs?

He must have moved them, but why?

Because he saw me looking at them?

Nah, that’s a stretch, even for my insane levels of paranoia. But now I’ve got an itch that needs to be scratched, a tub of rocky road for a faithful sidekick, and permission to help myself to anything I desire.

Answers, Sir.

I’ll have some answers, please.

One of my knees pops as I stand to look around.

The professor’s house is a large rectangular block. The master bedroom spans the entire width of the east wing, with the living area between it and the kitchen area. There’s a wall with another inset sliding door like the bedroom has, except this one has always been closed.

Thankfully, it’s unlocked.

I assumed it was an office or a scullery.

Turns out it’s a long passage with a study at the end. Dark furniture, thick slate gray carpets, even darker art prints. If it weren’t for the wraparound glass windows opening to such a spectacular view of the surrounding woodland, it would be depressing as fuck in here. But this feels almost like an animal hide, a place where Professor Rooke can observe without being seen.

“Wow,” I murmur, trailing my fingers over the soft leather of a dark gray office chair. Everything in here looks like it costs a couple thousand dollars, especially the massive glass ball with a blue butterfly trapped flawlessly inside the crystal.

There’s another bookshelf in here, much smaller. Journals and stacks of paper covered in hand-written notes, like discarded drafts of a book. I rifle through some of them, but it’s all psychobabble that is way too highbrow for me to decipher.

Something shiny catches my eye. I turn to the desk and stare at the big gift-wrapped package near Bastian’s computer keyboard. I walk over and run my hand down the beautiful black paper, the embossed gold design skimming against my fingertips.

Must be a gift, but there’s no card, no name.

I gently pick it up, weighing it. I thought it was a box, but it’s too floppy.

Heavy, too, and unfortunately still sealed up tight. If I could have peeled off the tape without damaging the paper, I’d have risked opening it.

I search the rest of the room, but I don’t find the spiral-bound notebooks. I’m just about to leave when I see a practically invisible door beside a monochromatic painting. The wood is painted the same color as the wall, and even has a rough texture applied to it, as if to make it blend in.

I dismiss the painting until I get close enough to make out the details. I thought it was an abstract, but it’s a high-contrast print of a black-and-white photograph, washed in a pinkish sepia.

It’s a photo of an electric chair, the wall behind it washed in deep shadow. There’s a small signboard near the top right of the wall, nearly indistinguishable.

SILENCE

I’m surprised this wasn’t included in Bastian’s presentation on cruel art the other week. Dante and Virgil have nothing on this cruelty. I look away from the chilling artwork and try the handle on Professor Rooke’s mystery door.

Screw that. I’ve made it this far. A silly photo won’t scare me off.

But the door is locked.