THE NEXT MORNING, I woke to screams.
I bolted up in my bed, disoriented. The cawing cry seemed surreal. At first my fuzzy brain offered up the explanation of a lingering nightmare, seeping into my initial moments of awakening. I had had nightmares often when I arrived at Trouble Island—sometimes the one from childhood of the cellar caving in on me, sometimes that I was back with Pony and couldn’t escape him, sometimes that I was trapped underwater and couldn’t find my way to the surface.
But that morning, I didn’t have the rapid heartbeat, the dry mouth, that usually accompanied my nightmares.
The scream stopped. Silence pulsed in its wake. I blinked in the soft gray light sifting through the curtains, trying to regain my waking senses.
I fumbled for my glasses on the bedside table. At some point, Seamus had gently pulled them from my face, then thoughtfully put them by the table lamp. I knew Seamus wasn’t in my room anymore, but I put on my glasses and glanced around as if wishing for him would make him reappear. I savored traces of him—wrinkled sheets and the lingering scents of his Chesterfield cigarettes, of his body.
I smiled at the delicious memory of the night before. Being with Seamus had been so different than with Pony, the only other man I’d ever slept with. Seamus was slow, languid, gentle. With him, I was a wilder, freer version of myself. Not Susan, not Aurelia. Just me.
But I didn’t know who Seamus really was. I was fairly sure that, although he was in Eddie’s employ, he was not on Eddie’s side. He could be an operative for Marco, or for another gang. He could be an agent for the Bureau of Prohibition. Given my past, none of these options boded well for my future—alone or with Seamus.
“Rosita!” The name was clear; I knew then it was Eddie crying out. Someone pounded on my door. “Where the hell is Rosita?”
I shivered, realized I was naked. I glanced at the bedside clock: 9:45 A.M. I did a double take. It had been years since I’d slept so late.
I quickly pulled on my bathrobe, opened my bedroom door and saw Eddie pacing up and down the hallway. He, too, was in a bathrobe, barefoot, his hair hanging in greasy strands. As soon as he spotted me, I recoiled. His eyes were wild, his manner frantic. He was before me in an instant.
“Where is she? Where the hell is Rosita?”
“I’m sure she’s upstairs as usual.”
“I went upstairs. Knocked. Called. She wouldn’t come to her door.”
Eddie slicked back his hair, and in that gesture, I saw how fearsomely his hand trembled. “I found this under my door when I woke up this morning.” He reached into his robe pocket, pulled out a folded piece of cream stationery, and held it out to me.
I took the paper, unfolded it, and studied it. This note was not written on the cream letter paper that had Rosita’s initials—RMB, R for Rosita, the M the largest letter for McGee, B for Byrne, her maiden name—embossed in gold at the top. She’d used that stationery in Toledo, and since arriving here to give me written orders if she didn’t feel like talking with me. A request for a meal, or a book. Never anything personal, not even a simple “thank you.”
But this note was written on a piece of paper with a ragged edge, clearly torn from a book.
Her red diary.
And this note, though simple, was personal.
Eddie—Come see me in my chambers. Please. Rosita.
Most of the note was written in her neat, block print. Her signature—Rosita—was a scrawl, illegible other than the big dramatic R. How unlike her to reverse her desire to see Eddie. How unlike her to ever say, or write, “please.”
“I only saw it fifteen minutes or so ago,” Eddie mused. “I hurried up but she didn’t come to the door. No sounds from inside—except that goddamn bird!”
I glanced back down at the note. Her printing would be easy enough to imitate by someone who knew her well. As would the dramatic R and the squiggle that represented the rest of her name.
Of the people in the mansion, the ones who could easily replicate her writing would be the people who’d known her a long time before Trouble Island: Claire, the Carmichaels. Douglas. Even Eddie. Yes, and me.
But I knew I’d done no such thing, and why would any of the others want to? To torment Eddie? That was a dangerous game. If Eddie had done so, was he setting up some kind of ruse?
I handed the note back to him. Not having seen Eddie since Oliver’s burial, I’d forgotten how exhausting the McGees could be, by turns fawning over one another, and then a short time later, getting into raging arguments. Wearily—and foolishly—I allowed myself a cruel jab.
“Rosita made it clear yesterday that she doesn’t want anything to do with you. She’s probably just ignoring you—”
“Is this some game you two are playing?” Eddie grabbed my shoulders and began shaking me so hard that my head bobbled. “Is she in there, laughing at me? So help me God, if she is—”
Perhaps I’d already had enough of the McGees’ and Marco’s drama. Or maybe I was emboldened by having finally claimed something I wanted, just for me—the night with Seamus.
In any case, I lifted my heel, and stomped down as hard as I could on Eddie’s foot. He yelped—more startled than hurt—but the shock was enough for him to loosen his grasp. I brought my fists up between his arms, and jerked my forearms wide, breaking his hold on me.
“Mrs. McGee isn’t in Aurelia’s room.”
We both turned at the sound of Seamus’s voice. He stood in the hallway, holding a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of toast. I blushed, realizing he’d been planning all along to come back to my room. He put the tray on a decorative table that was against the wall between my bedroom and the one Claire now occupied, a table that held a vase of flowers in the regular season. Then he slowly put his hand to his hip, right by a holster that held his gun.
As a bodyguard, Seamus was always armed, but his gesture made it clear. He meant for Eddie to let me be.
Eddie’s face turned a bright red. My heart raced, as I feared that Eddie would draw his own gun or summon Cormac. But then the door next to mine opened, and Claire stumbled out. She had on a floral silk robe, but she hadn’t bothered with slippers. Her hair was tied up in a scarf that covered her forehead down to her eyebrows and matched her robe.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice slushy.
“Claire, return to your room,” Seamus ordered.
She puffed her lips into a pout at Seamus. “But I heard something about Rosita being missing—”
Eddie whirled around to her. “Or maybe she’s in your room? Did you see her after we left the music room?”
Claire recoiled. “N-no,” she said. “I—I came straight back to my room.”
I thought back, remembered briefly seeing Claire, who’d been staggeringly drunk, coming out of the bathroom. It was midmorning now; could she still be hungover? But then, she’d taken the decanter of whisky from the music room before coming up. Maybe she’d kept drinking by herself all through the night.
“Enough!” I exclaimed. “I will be given a few moments to change into proper clothes. And then we will proceed to Rosita’s quarters. You’ll all see—she is just fine.”