in a long braid with glinting gray strands and she wore red-rimmed cat’s-eye glasses: statement glasses favored by those who want to appear quirky and intellectual. (Frances had a pair.) The woman had a flustered look about her, as if she’d only just made her bus and she had lots of other places to be today, and might need to leave early.
The flustered lady was followed by an astonishingly handsome man with high cheekbones and flashing eyes who paused at the front of the room as if he were a movie star walking out onto the set of a chat show to rapturous applause. He was perfectly stubbled, perfectly proportioned, and deeply, deservedly, in love with himself.
Frances wanted to laugh out loud at the sight of him. He was too good-looking even to be the tall, dark, and handsome hero in one of her books. The only way it would work would be if she put him in a wheelchair. He’d look great in a wheelchair. Honestly, she could probably get away with removing both his legs and he could still play the lead.
He sat himself down on a yoga mat in the easy manner of someone with a daily yoga “practice.”
The tendons of Frances’s neck began to ache from the strain of trying to hold her body so she didn’t see the serial killer in her peripheral vision. She rolled her shoulders. Sometimes she exhausted herself.
She turned her head and looked directly at him.
He sat slumped, poking his finger into a hole near the hem of his T-shirt.
She sighed, looked away. He wasn’t even worth loathing.
Now what?
Now … nothing. They were all just sitting here. Waiting. What were they meant to be doing?
The desire to interact was an irresistible itch.
Jessica, who sat directly in front of Frances, cleared her throat as if she were about to speak.
Someone else coughed discreetly at the back of the room.
Frances threw in a cough too. Her cough sounded quite bad, actually. She probably had a chest infection. Would they have antibiotics here? Or would they try to cure her with natural supplements? In which case she’d get sicker and sicker and eventually die.
All this coughing and clearing of throats reminded her of being in church. When was she last in a church? It must have been for a wedding. Some of her friends’ children were starting to get married. Girls who wore fuck-me boots in the eighties were now wearing mother-of-the-bride outfits with pretty bolero jackets to conceal their upper arms.
At least at a wedding you could quietly chat to the other guests while you waited for the bride. Compliment your friend on her pretty bolero jacket. This was more like a funeral, although even funerals weren’t this silent as people murmured their soft condolences. She was paying to be here and it was worse than a funeral.
She looked dolefully around the room. There were no nice stained-glass windows to enjoy like in a church. There were no windows or natural light at all. It was almost dungeonlike. She was in a dungeon on an isolated property with a group of strangers, at least one of whom was a serial killer. She shivered violently. The air-conditioning was on too high. She thought of the inscription Yao had showed her from the convict stonemasons and wondered if the place might be haunted by their tortured spirits. She’d set a couple of her books in haunted houses. It was helpful for when you wanted your characters to leap into each other’s arms.
Napoleon sneezed. A high-pitched shriek of a sneeze, like a dog’s yelp.
“Gesundheit!” cried the handsome man.
Frances gasped. He’d broken the noble silence already!
The handsome man clapped his hand to his mouth. His eyes danced. A wave of laughter ballooned in her chest. Oh God, it was like trying not to laugh in class. She saw the handsome man’s shoulders shake. He chuckled. She giggled. In a moment she’d be crying with laughter and someone would order her to leave the room “until she could control herself.”
“Namaste. Good afternoon.”
The atmosphere changed instantly as a figure strode into the room, altering the particles of air around her, drawing every eye, bringing the coughs and sneezes and throat-clearing to an instant halt.
The laughter trapped in Frances’s chest vanished. The handsome man went still.
“A very warm welcome to Tranquillum House. My name is Masha.”
Masha was an extraordinary-looking woman. A supermodel. An Olympic athlete. At least six feet tall, with corpse-white skin and green eyes so striking and huge