21
Elodie leads me away.
And the second we’ve made it safely out of Arthur’s hearing range, she says, “I know you’re mad, but someday soon, you’re going to thank me for bringing you here.”
“You sure about that?” I stop in my tracks and stare hard at the wall, so angry, so close to the boiling point, it’s a moment before I notice the painting in front of me.
It’s of a woman standing in a graveyard, her back to a grove of tall, barren trees. Her golden red hair is long and thick, and she’s dressed in a filmy black gown that reveals her bare breasts underneath. In one hand, she carries a skull with a crown. In the other, an hourglass with time dwindling down.
“Vanitas,” Elodie says. “The painting. It’s by Leon Frederic, a Dutch artist.”
“Belgian,” I correct, surprised by the mistake. Art class was where we first met, and what Elodie lacked in talent, she made up for in knowledge. Even our teacher was impressed. It’s only when I see the smug tilt to her chin and the gleam in her gaze that I realize she was purposely baiting me.
Ugh, fine. Score one for Elodie.
“Can’t we just leave the past behind and start over?” she asks.
A silent pause stretches between us, and I know she’s waiting for me to go off the rails, to make a big scene. But I’ve said all that I will for today. My only goal right now is to prove just how little she knows about me.
“Whatever.” She sighs. “You’ll come around. They always do.”
She turns and motions for me to follow, but we aren’t in high school anymore, and last time I followed Elodie, it didn’t turn out so well.
Still, I have to admit there’s basically no chance of me finding my room on my own, so I reluctantly trail a few steps behind as she leads me down a series of hallways and up a few flights of stairs before finally stopping outside a glossy red door.
“If you need anything, Song is the purple door to your left,” she says. “I would tell you where to find me, but I don’t think you’re interested.”
I stare at my own door. It doesn’t even have a handle, so I give it a push, but it refuses to budge.
“It’s biometric.” Elodie gestures toward the keypad. “Your thumb print opens it. It’s already set up.”
“Wait—what?” I turn toward her, only to find her expression as annoyingly sweet-faced and placid as ever. Still, the fact that I’m here pretty much proves Mason was right.
I never should’ve believed her.
I should’ve listened when he tried to warn me that she was ruthless and fake and that hanging out with her would lead to no good.
“You know, you’re going to have to learn to trust me,” she says. Her tone is gentle, but it still sets me on edge.
“Pretty sure we’re way beyond that,” I snap.
Her gaze runs the length of me before returning to mine. “You better hope you’re wrong about that. Someday soon, your life may depend on it.”
Without another word, she hurries down the hall, leaving me with a deeply seething anger and a long list of questions.
First among them:how the hell did Arthur get ahold of my thumbprint?