Page 23 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“Or they cut off his hand first and then murdered him,” I say, rifling through the cabinet behind Cyrus, revealing thick cakes of black tea leaves and dried tendrils of brown and green stored inside jars. There are little square notes stuck beneath each jar, all typed out in Chinese. I attempt to read them myself before giving up and turning to Cyrus. “What do these say? Are they clues?”
He sets the hand back down and reads over my shoulder. “Hard to tell—it’s about the tea itself.There are six main types of Chinese tea: green tea, black tea, oolong tea, white tea, pu’er tea, and yellow tea.Then it dives into the history and health benefits of each …”
“Keep reading,” I suggest. “It could be relevant.”
He goes through the notes, translating each one patiently and thoroughly like a scholar showcasing his life’s work, and by the end of it I can’t identify anything that could help us leave the room faster, but Idonow know that black tea is apparently super rich in antioxidants, and that according to some legends, Shennong, the second emperor of China, discovered green tea by accident when a leaf fell into his boiling pot of water.
It’s the kind of thing I wouldn’t usually pay attention to if I were lectured about it in a classroom, but there’s something compelling about Cyrus’s voice that draws you in and keeps you hooked. I’m almost disappointed when he finishes reading the last note.
“Okay, so maybe we’re still not looking in the right place,” I conclude. I flip open the menu lying on the counter, thumbing the laminated pages, which separate with an unpleasant sticky noise. Bloodied fingerprints have been smeared over the list of cold dishes too. “They really went wild with the blood. It’s on, like, every second page.”
“Hang on.” Cyrus crosses over to my side in a single stride and studies the menu, waiting as the lights plunge us into darkness again before spluttering back on. “I think there’s a pattern here. Look, there’s blood on page two, but page three and four are completely clean. And then there’s blood on page five, but none on page six—if it had been spilt naturally, then at least some of it would have gotten on the next page. These are markers.”
“It’s not just blood though. It’s fingerprints,” I realize. “There are two fingerprints on the fifth page, but four on the first page. That’s not natural either; you wouldn’t be grabbing the menu with just two fingers.”
Cyrus’s eyes light up. “That might be the order of the numbers.”
“And it fits the length of the passcode,” I say, catching on, excitement fizzing through me. “Wait, I’ll read the pages out—”
He’s already waiting by the door, his fingers poised over the lock.
“Five …” I almost drop the menu in my eagerness to turn the page. “Nine … two … seven … one.”
I hold my breath as he enters the final number. There’s a beat of perfect silence, both of us staring hard at the door as if we can somehow unlock it with our minds, and just as doubt starts to creep in, the lock buzzes.
“Oh my god, we aresogood at this,” I say, grinning wide as I spin around and lift my hand in the air for a high five.
He blinks in surprise. Then he high-fives me back, and for only a moment, I see an alternative history sprawled out between us, where we might have been childhood friends instead of enemies, playing made-up games under the shade of an old oak. Where he hadn’t devoted his life to making mine miserable. Where he hadn’t lied and destroyed everything.
The whine of the door snaps through my thoughts.
I can’t see where it leads. It’s pitch-black on the other side; if I weren’t factoring in the escape room’s limited budget, and all the potential lawsuits such a setup would invite, I’d think there was a gaping void waiting for us to fall straight in.
“Let’s go,” Cyrus calls. “Stick close to me—”
But he’s barely spoken when something leaps out at us from the darkness.
Cyrus lets out a high-pitched, Oscar-nominated-horror-movie scream.
This is far more noteworthy than the ghosts that have surrounded us in the crimson glow of the main dining area. I only really glance at them—their blood-splattered faces; their long, tangled wigs drooping over their pale robes; their bright red contacts—out of politeness and appreciation for their efforts. Despite my complete lack of reaction, they’re still throwing themselves into their performance, moving their limbs jerkily as they reach toward me.
I turn away from them to raise my brows at Cyrus, so many taunts rushing into my mind at once that I almost give myself a headache trying to decide which one to aim at him first.
“Don’t,” Cyrus says with a warning look before I can even open my mouth. “I was merely startled—”
“That was definitely a scream,” I say.
“That was a small sound of surprise,” he argues. “A stranger’s face appeared out of nowhere, and I behaved how any normal person would.”
“Yes. By screaming.”
“You know, we should be looking for our next clue,” he says, aborting his previous defense strategy—denial—and opting for the classiclet’s-turn-our-attention-elsewheretactic instead. He steps forward in as dignified a manner as possible for someone who’s just leapt back three feet. The ghosts don’t block our way, but they don’t disperse either. They simply continue haunting us as we study the setup.
Half the space has been dedicated to private rooms, each with their own flower and poetic name—at least, I’m assuming it’s poetic, based on the calligraphy and the fact that I don’t recognize a single character—printed above the carved lattice doors. The rest of the floor is taken up by round tables and silk-cushioned chairs in various colors, a few of them pushed back as though the guest had risen bare moments ago, the double-layered trays still wet with spilt tea. A folding screen has been propped up by the window, its surface overgrown with moon-white and sun-yellow chrysanthemums, their petals curling inward as if protecting a secret.
“Does it have anything to do with the flowers?” I venture. “Like, I don’t know—maybe the number of flowers is important. Maybe we should be counting them, or the petals—”
“I don’t think this is one of thosehe-loves-me-he-loves-me-notsituations,” Cyrus says.
