Page 6 of Five Stolen Rings

What about a painting of a sixty-something lounging on a chaise?

India

Don’t make up words, Stella

Me

CHAISE. It’s a chair-couch.

India

Then why wouldn’t you just say chair-couch??

Me

There’s also a portrait of this same lady lying on a massive bed, surrounded by rose petals and covered strategically with a blanket

Hang on, I’m sending you pics

India

NO

DO NOT SEND ME ANY PICTURES.

Are you gonna get in trouble for taking photos???

ME

Oops. Maybe? Too late either way

I refuse to suffer silently or alone

India

brb, gotta find some bleach for my eyes

I keep waiting to enter a room that isn’t intensely opulent in Maude Ellery’s mansion, but the time never comes. Every single room is richly decorated, overdone, and it seems unbelievable that someone actually lives here full time. I would be entirely uncomfortable in such a stiff, dark environment—it’s seven-thirty in the evening, so the sun has set, but even in broad daylight this place would be gloomy. I would suffocate, as surely as if all that brocade was pressed over my face.

Give me light colors and open spaces and lots ofbookshelves. I want comfortable, squashy couches and fuzzy blankets.

I guess that’s why Maude lives here and I don’t, though.

Someday soon you will move out of your parents’ basement,I tell myself as I stare around the living room, checking to make sure I’ve opened all the windows.

Maude Ellery’s house is going to be two degrees by the time she gets back. She wants windows open in every room, and it iscoldout there. I rub my hands up and down my arms, my sweater soft to the touch, and then I set a timer on my phone. I put it down on a couch cushion and bite my lip, thinking.

Were there any windows to open in the front entryway? I kind of don’t think so. But should I check?

Yeah. I should check. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but if she’s paying me to do this, I sort of feel like I should do it the way she wants.

So I flick the lights off and hurry out of the living room, keeping my eyes away from the awkward portraits, past the kitchen, under the staircase, and into the foyer. The carpet gobbles up my footsteps, and in a weird way, I’m glad. This place is eerie enough without the sound of echoing steps.

There are no windows in the foyer, I’m pleased to see; I nod decisively and turn to go back to the kitchen. No sooner than I do, though, something sounds behind me—a soft, almost ignorable rattle. I freeze in place, my heart skipping a beat or two.

When I clear my throat, the sound is too loud. The birds in the other room seem to have gone silent. Why aren’t they squawking anymore? Are they trying to spite me? Can they sense how desperately I’m suddenly wishing for ambient noise?

I cast a glance over my shoulder at the door, even though I know I’m being paranoid. It’s windy outside. Doors rattle. That’s fully a thing.

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