Page 89 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
There’s plenty to do around the Cruz estate, but I’m tired of sitting on my hands. I was the one who found the killer when no one else could, and now they put me on the sidelines where I’m forced to wait in silence.
Professor Cruz gives us minimal information. They’re working on it, but Caldwell is still evading them.
Great.
There’s more information I could give. I realize this on day two. I’m sitting on secrets others may not know… things like his mother’s shop, like the apartment above it, and the magical nature of the shop.
There’s a chance they already know, or so I reason with myself. It’s a place for their kind, not mine.
Why did Caldwell show it to me? He took me into his world and told me things Iknoware true. He opened up when he didn’t have to… and when it came time for the kill, he didn’t choose me.
Why, after weeks of priming, didn’t he choose me? It would have been easy. We were always alone…
Those thoughts linger, too, but I chase them away. There’s a reason, and I’ll never know what it is. It doesn’t make me special. It just makes him evil.
He killed Poppy.
Margaux and I spend our days watching terrible reality TV, playing card games in her family’s tearoom, and wandering around the strange home.
Each day, I discover something new, like the alchemy room belonging to Margaux, a brief hobby of hers from youth. While I was trying—and failing—at softball, she was trying to discover the elixir of life.
We’ve walked two different paths, and I never knew. How could I have been ignorant for so long?
At night, I return to her father’s study. Margaux warns me against it after the first time, telling me not to obsess over the painting and the room. I can’t help it; the room calls to me.
I spend my evenings staring at the portrait, pouring through his books, and learning about things I’ve never known. The diary of the king of vampires—the first vampire, supposedly—is the most fascinating discovery.
I don’t know how to process a cliffhanger left by a now-dead vampire, but maybe by the end of isolation, I will.
It's the sort of thing I would have shared with Caldwell before everything went to hell. He would understand—or he would make methinkhe does. Caldwell would ask to read the book, and we would come up with our own ending…
I can’t miss him, but I miss who I thought he was.
Margaux is the only one keeping me grounded. Her constant presence in the daytime is adistraction from the horrors that wait for us outside the walls of her family estate.
We sit together for each meal, and tonight is no exception. The dining table is large, spanning across the room. Margaux and I only take up one tiny corner.
She drinks rather than eating, and I’ve grown used to it. While shecaneat, the liquid diet is more important to her body. Her goblet contains a combination of wine—it really is her favorite—and a healthy dosage of AB negative. Apparently, that’s her favorite as well.
There’s no fresh source for her to drink from, but she stopped complaining after the first night. If I were a more generous friend, I might offer her my neck, but I don’t know. It feels too dangerous. I put my life in enough danger already.
They hired a chef just for me, and I don’t know whether to be appreciative or suspicious. It’s a good way to keep me from leaving the house, and I have to remind myself I’m not a prisoner.
Tonight, the plate in front of me is heaped with rice, steak, and asparagus. Each night, the portions are enough to send me to bed with a full stomach, but my appetite isn’t what it used to be.
Nearly dying can do that to a person.
I push the asparagus around on my plate, feeling Margaux’s watchful eyes on me.
“You like asparagus.” She swirls the wine in her glass.
“I do.”
“Then what is the problem?”
Of course, she can tell there’s a problem—but asking what the problem is… it’sstupid. She should know.
I press my lips together to keep from saying as much, not wanting to fight with the only person by my side in this isolated hell.
