try the second key. It turns easily. With my heart in my throat, I push the door open.
The room is still and clean, sunlight flooding through the uncovered windows. It’s a billiards room, with a massive mahogany table in the center and a rack of poles hanging on the wall. I confess I’m a little disappointed.
The second locked door swings open to reveal a home movie theater, dark, with stale air. All the windows here are hidden by thick swags of rich purple velvet. Not a glimmer of sunlight comes through. Three slightly elevated rows of black leather seats are situated in the middle, and the largest movie screen I’ve ever seen in a private home is mounted on the wall.
I move quickly on, from one room to the next, unlocking Ravenwood’s secrets. A gym, an office, and two bathrooms, just as Michael had mentioned. Still, I’m drawn to the door at the end of the hall. Even the ornate wood carvings set it apart from the rest.
Will I be able to unlock it like the others?
“The second master,” I whisper, as though it’s sacred.
I move closer, heart in my throat, listening for the soft beeping of the alarm to alert me to Michael’s return.
Gripping the key I’d used to unlock the other rooms, I slide it into the lock and turn the handle downward.
It releases.
The door opens a sliver, and a draft of perfumed air escapes the room.
I gasp softly, covering my mouth with my hand. I know that smell….
It’s familiar, tantalizingly so, and yet I can’t place it. Shadows cloak everything beyond the threshold, but when I pocket the key and push the door open wide, light from the hall spills into the room.
The layout is identical to the other master, only flipped. The windows here face the Martins’ rather than the sea. The walls are painted soothing shades of cream, matching the mohair rug. It’s fully furnished, with a bedroom set identical to the one we’ve been sharing. Four-poster bed. White duvet folded back. Row upon row of fluffed pillows resting against the headboard. Two nightstands, each with a tall lamp. A crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the vaulted ceiling, splashing rainbows of splintered light onto the walls.
It’s beautiful. I’m breathless, the tension finally catching up with me. So this was what Joanna wanted. All the trappings of her marriage, but with her husband subtracted.
The bathroom is spotlessly clean, as if Michael’s expecting a guest. Hand towels are folded and draped over the edge of the sink. I brush my hands over them and let my fingers sink into their softness. Bottles of body oil and lotion and perfume line the vanity.
“Why couldn’t we open up this room to guests?” I wonder aloud.
Row upon row of the most gorgeous dresses I’ve ever seen hang in the closet, perfectly organized by color and length, dark to light. I wander inside, caressing sequins and silk and fur before spotting shelves lined with purses and clutches, all in their proper place. Feeling a little like Cinderella, I peruse the wall of shoes—Louboutins and Guccis and Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos, arranged by style, and probably dollar amount. Every single pair looks to be the same size.
My insides go ice-cold, and my vision swims. This is someone’s room.
The weight of the realization crashes down on me. I can’t let the truth seep in, can’t believe what I’ve walked into. My stomach twists, and I swear I’m going to be sick.
“Joanna…”
These are her designer shoes, her purses, her clothes. Her immaculately arranged, everything-in-its-place master bedroom. I back out of the closet, nearly stumbling over the rug. Dizzy with a bizarre mixture of confusion and envy, I reach for something to hold on to, something to steady myself. I strike the dresser with the back of my hand. A single framed picture wobbles, and I grab at it to keep it from falling. My fingers curl around an image of Michael