Chương 2
“Can it be opened from here?”
“It used to.”
The door handle jerked again. Emmett’s public voice disappeared.
“Open it.”
Manuel closed his hand around the key.
The metal pressed into his palm through the handkerchief.
“You will never touch my wife again,” he said.
The door shook under a sudden impact. Rosalie looked at him then—not with gratitude, not yet, but with something sharper and more uncertain. He had called her his wife during the ceremony, for the cameras, and twice during the receiving line. This was the first time the word had sounded like a decision.
Another blow struck the door.
The upper hinge groaned.
Maya’s voice crackled from the phone. “Manuel, get away from the entrance.”
He backed toward Rosalie. “Find the stair.”
She stood, caught the dress before it slipped, and moved toward a carved walnut wardrobe against the far wall. Her gait was stiff from the wound at her back and the old pain in her ankles. Manuel followed, lifting the long train before it snagged beneath her shoes.
She gave him a startled look.
“This thing weighs twenty pounds,” he said. “We can discuss symbolism later.”
A sound escaped her that might have been a laugh under different circumstances. It vanished quickly.
The wardrobe was filled with cedar hangers, garment bags, and two unused silk robes placed there by staff. Rosalie swept them aside. The back panel appeared solid.
“There was a latch.”
Manuel passed her the phone so Maya could continue hearing. He searched the carved edge with his fingertips.
Behind the door, Dr. Voss said, “Sir, forcing entry could worsen her agitation.”
“She is not agitated,” Emmett replied. “She is being manipulated.”
Something heavy struck the lock. The brass plate bent inward.
Rosalie found the latch first. It was hidden beneath a wooden rosette near the bottom corner. She pressed it, but nothing moved.
“Painted shut,” Manuel said.
“Everything in this house gets preserved until it can’t breathe.”
He looked at her. She seemed surprised by her own sentence.
Another impact cracked the frame.
Manuel wedged his fingers into the panel seam and pulled. The wood resisted, then released with a splintering sound. Cold air came through the narrow opening. Beyond it lay darkness and the outline of stone steps.
Maya spoke through the phone in Rosalie’s hand. “Take the key, the dress, and any medication or personal documents you can reach. Leave everything else.”
“The dress?” Manuel said.
“The chain of custody matters. If the key was sewn into it, don’t abandon the material it came from.”
Rosalie looked down at herself. “I’m wearing the evidence.”
“Then keep wearing it,” Maya said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“No. I’m not.”
That earned the smallest curve at the corner of Rosalie’s mouth.
Manuel opened the panel wider. Dust and cold stone smelled better than the roses.
The suite door split near the lower lock.
A large hand appeared briefly through the broken wood, reaching for the bolt.
Manuel grabbed the bronze fireplace poker and struck the hand away from the lock. Not hard enough to break bone, he hoped. Hard enough to make the man swear.
“I said don’t touch the door.”
The response was silence.
Then Emmett said, “You have no idea what she is.”
Rosalie’s face emptied.
Manuel had heard men use that tone about bad soil, unstable structures, and workers they planned to fire. It was the tone of someone converting a human being into a defect.
He took the phone from Rosalie. “Maya, stay connected.”
“I’m recording the call through my office system.”
“Can you legally do that?”
“I can legally preserve communications from my client. Stop practicing law and move.”
He handed Rosalie the poker. She stared at it.
“In case the stair has rats,” he said.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m finding that out.”
He entered the passage first. The stone staircase turned sharply downward, too narrow for two people side by side. An old electric bulb hung from a cloth-covered wire, dead for years. Manuel used the light on his phone. Rosalie followed, one hand holding the dress against her back and the other gripping the poker.
Behind them, the bridal suite door gave way.
The wardrobe panel was still open.
“Close it,” Manuel whispered.
Rosalie reached up and pulled. The panel shut with a soft wooden knock just as footsteps entered the room.
For three seconds they remained motionless in the dark.
They heard Emmett inside the suite, no longer muffled.
“Where is she?”
A security man answered, “Window’s locked.”
“Check the bath.”
The doctor said something about blood on the bedspread.
Rosalie’s breathing began to speed.
Manuel turned his phone light away from her face. “Can you do stairs?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t a test.”
“I know what I can do.”
They descended.
The passage had been neglected but not forgotten. Dust lay thick along the center of each step, yet the edges showed faint disturbances. Someone had used it within the past year. At the first landing, Manuel noticed a cigarette filter crushed near the wall. The security staff knew about the route, then, or at least one of them did.
He touched Rosalie’s elbow.
“Someone’s been here.”
“I can see that.”
“Is there another exit before the ground floor?”
“A linen room on the second floor. A pantry on the first. The basement opens near the old kitchens.”
“Which gets us outside?”
“The basement.”
From above came a dull bang as the wardrobe panel opened.
A flashlight beam cut down the stairwell.
“Go,” Manuel said.
He did not wait for argument. He took Rosalie’s free hand and led her down two turns of steps. Her shoes slipped on dust. At the second-floor landing, voices echoed above.
“Mr. Durham, there’s a passage.”
“Bring her back.”
Not find her. Not help her.
Bring her back.
May you like
Rosalie heard it too. Her grip tightened until her fingernails bit Manuel’s palm.
They passed the linen-room door. It opened inward from the passage, but light shone beneath it and voices moved beyond—hotel staff, perhaps, unaware. Manuel almost chose it. More witnesses could mean safety.
