Page 7

It is not cool.

I put the note down and go to the door. White wood, dark brass knob. I turn the handle. The door doesn’t open. I try again, because apparently the first time wasn’t convincing enough. Nothing.

“Hello?”

No answer.

I pull harder. The knob turns, but the door stays exactly where it is. My headache suddenly matters a lot less. I check the frame. There’s no chain. No deadbolt. Nothing I can unlock from this side.

Okay. Window.

I cross the room and yank the curtains open.

There’s no glass behind them. There are shutters. Wooden ones, painted the same midnight blue as the walls, with tiny silver stars scattered across them. They’re actually kind of beautiful.

I grab the handles and pull. Nothing. I try pushing. Still nothing.

“What the fuck?”

I run my fingers around the edges, looking for a latch. There isn’t one. I stand there for a second with both hands still on them. Then I turn around.

The room looks different now.

The bed. The vanity. The clothes. My boots lined up neatly beside shoes that somehow look like they’re waiting for me. And on the vanity, propped beside three bottles of water: Knock if you wake up before I come get you.

“Oh, fuck no.”

I leave the note where it is.

There has to be something in here that tells me what the hell is happening.

I start with the wardrobe. Clothes. A lot of clothes. For one stupid second, that’s almost reassuring. Then I pull out the first hanger. Black pleated skirt. Silver buckles at the waist. My size.

The next one is longer, sheer over an opaque underskirt, with embroidered black flowers around the hem.

“Oh, that’s pretty.” I stare at it. “No.”

I put it back.

There are sweaters, fitted shirts, soft oversized things I’d absolutely steal from somebody after one wear. Most of it’s black, gray, or dark jewel tones. Nice stuff. Nothing that looks like someone googled clothes for goth boy and bought the first ten results.

There’s a dark green sweater I almost bought two months ago. That sweater. Not just one like it.

I remember the stupid wooden buttons at the shoulder. I remember checking the price tag, deciding groceries were more important, and putting it back.

I touch one of the buttons. “What the fuck?”

The dresser is worse. Underwear. I close that drawer immediately. Open it again. My size.

“Jesus Christ.” I close it harder.

The next drawer has tights, socks, sleep clothes. Everything folded into neat little rows like I’ve lived here long enough to have opinions about drawer organization.

I move to the vanity.

This is where whoever did this apparently lost their fucking mind.

Makeup covers half the surface. Not random drugstore shit either. Palettes I’ve looked at and never bought. Lip colors dark enough that I wouldn’t have to mix two together to get what I want. Eyeliner in black, charcoal, plum, and a metallic gray I pick up before remembering I’m supposed to be investigating my kidnapping.