Corrupted Queen - Nicole Fox Page 0,37
in particular has always been a curiosity for me. I know what the inside of Gabriel’s office looks like, and the antibug room. I have no idea where the door just off the foyer leads to, or why it’s always locked.
Tonight, armed with a bobby pin, a paper clip, and the knowledge I gained watching a video from YouTube no less than twenty times, I am going to find out.
The marble floor of the foyer is cold on my bare feet. A shiver runs up my spine as I creep across it, turning past the stairs and parking in front of the mysterious door. I pull out my tools and set to work on the lock, glancing over my shoulder at the nearest camera and its blinking red light. I hope nobody is watching.
It takes a little jiggling, but the lock eventually clicks open. I slip through and am greeted by darkness and cold air. I find the light switch on the wall next to me and flick it on, wrapping my arms around myself for warmth as gooseflesh creeps up my arm.
I stare down the wooden staircase ahead of me into the damp, dimly lit space below.
Oh good. A creepy cellar.
Descending the stairs, I peer around me at the exposed beams and dusty bricks. It doesn’t bode well that this area is not finished to the same standard as the rest of the house. Is there any hope that all Gabriel uses this space for is storage? I pray that when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I’ll find lots of boxes labeled things like “Christmas” and “Halloween.”
The flashlight in my phone throws little illumination ahead of me, and most of the room remains shrouded in darkness as I make my descent. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I swing myself around to get a better look at my surroundings. At first, all I see is empty space. Then I move a few paces to the left and the light catches on a metal chair sitting by itself in the middle of the room.
My stomach clenches. I approach the chair, inspecting around it for clues. All I can find is several dark brown patches on the ground below it. The scent of bleach prickles my nostrils, as though the area has been cleaned recently.
This is too much. I know what Gabriel does and that it’s not all sunshine and rainbows, but seeing this chair and the bloodstained cement is another thing entirely.
As if on wheels, I whirl backward, tiptoeing up the stairs as quickly as I can without making noise. I peek out the door at the top. The coast is clear, so I hoof it back to my room, heart racing. I can’t tell whether the spike in adrenaline is due to my sprint up two flights of stairs or the grim discovery I made at the very bottom. Either way, I collapse onto my bed and gulp down mouthfuls of air. My brain whirs.
I keep seeing the chair, the stains. I remember a very similar chair in a similar room that I was the guest of for three long days. I have always considered Gabriel and Andrew Walsh to be separate entities in my mind, but what if they’re not so different after all?
My bedroom door whispers open and my head snaps toward the noise. Gabriel’s shadowed form appears in the doorway, and he glides across the room to the bed. He hovers over me, and I try to calm my breathing, try to make the whole scene of my lying on top of my covers, hyperventilating, seem less conspicuous.
“Are you okay?” Gabriel asks, clearly noticing that I am not asleep.
“Nightmare,” I huff.
“Ah.” He shucks off his shirt and pants, climbing into the bed next to me.
Usually this is the part where he will start to kiss me or grind against me, but he doesn’t even touch me. He just lies there on his back, hands at his sides.
I roll over. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Silence makes the gap between us seem like an endless chasm. I reach over, half expecting not to be able to reach him on the other side of it. My fingers connect with his chest.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing’s the matter,” he rumbles in a way that warns me not to probe deeper.
I’ve never been good at heeding Gabriel’s warnings.
“Gabriel,” I say softly. “Something’s bothering you. I can tell.”
He knocks my hand away and sits up. “I’m tired.