The Dollhouse - Fiona Davis Page 0,41

of explanation.

Rose nodded and ducked inside.

As she made coffee, she heard voices in the hallway and stuck her ear to the door. The doors were cheap, not like the ones in the renovated apartments, and the conversation rang clear.

“Who are you?” Alice appeared to have resumed her guard duty.

A young woman’s voice explained that she was Stella’s grandniece, Susan, and she was picking up some of her things. Stella would be staying with her and her husband in New Jersey while she recuperated.

Rose stepped out into the hallway and introduced herself. Susan wore dangly gold earrings, skinny jeans, and a friendly smile.

“Stella asked me to take care of a neighbor’s dog while she was away,” Rose explained. “How is she doing?”

“She’ll be fine. She thought it was something to do with her nerves, but it was a heart condition. They caught it early, thank God, but she needs to take it easy. I’ll be stopping by to get her mail and water her plants. Since I work in the city, it’s easy enough.”

“Tell her I said to get well soon, and that I’ll take care of the dog in the meantime.”

Rose retreated back into the apartment and leaned against the door. She shouldn’t be in here; she was risking the story, her job. Miss McLaughlin might even call the police when she found out. But she hadn’t stolen the key. Stella had given it to her, then an emergency had come up. And who else was going to take care of her damn dog?

The ceiling creaked above her. Griff must be home, with Connie. They were probably wandering through the apartment, figuring out where their divan would go, how quickly she could replace the king-size bed. Rose had been reduced to a memory. She wanted to throw her head back and scream at the ceiling, release all her pent-up anger at him for not knowing his mind better, for having fallen in and out of love so quickly. She should have been more wary of him, but he was a force of nature. It was part of what made him so good at his job. She’d been sucked in by his charm.

In any case, she was alone. She’d end up like Darby, living in a cave, no family left to worry about her or care for her. When sad-old-lady Rose, homeless and ancient, hobbled down the street, young women would look away quickly, worried that her fate would be theirs. She’d add a catalog of physical pains to her mental anguish until she petered out, unceremoniously.

Jesus, she sounded pathetic. She gave herself a good mental shake and resolved to think positive. It’d been a week since Griff had blown up their life, and who knew what the future held? She didn’t do herself any good sulking around like a petulant teenager. Back in high school, when she’d flung herself facedown on the couch after getting a less than flattering haircut, her father had drily observed: “At least you have two arms and two legs.”

And that was still true today. She was healthy and strong and it was time to buck up.

In the kitchen, Rose poured hot water into a mug. Darby had only instant coffee in her pantry, and no matter how many spoonfuls Rose put in, it tasted watery. She wandered over to the small bookshelf and studied the spines. Several historical romances, along with a couple of biographies. Old LPs by jazz greats like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Sarah Vaughan, and Thelonious Monk filled two entire shelves.

A silver-framed photograph on the highest shelf caught Rose’s eye. She reached up and moved it into better light. It was a black-and-white studio portrait, the kind they did back in the fifties, of a young woman with glowing skin and lustrous hair. She was pretty enough, but her eyes were truly astonishing. Large and liquid, almost alive. Even though Rose knew it was silly, she shifted the frame from side to side to see if the girl’s gaze would follow her, like an old portrait in a haunted house.

To Darby, with love was written on the right-hand corner in loopy cursive letters. Rose removed it from the frame and turned it over, but the back of the photograph contained no clue to the identity of the sitter, nor the year taken.

The photo had been placed upon a large tome that lay on its side on the top shelf, too big to fit upright. At first glance, it looked like an old