IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (19 page)

You stepped cautiously into the darkened room, following Benedict through to a cobweb-lined dining room and into the kitchen. His legs were longer than yours, and although he didn’t seem to be moving any more quickly than you, you were gasping with the effort of keeping up with his strides by the time you had reached the kitchen.

The air felt cooler, damper. The cupboards were empty, and half the furniture was covered in sheets, and the counter—the only thing that had not been covered—stood bleak and cold save for a solitary box. Clue sprawled across the floor, his belly pressed against the tile. You stepped over the lazy dog with a smile and joined Benedict at the counter.

“This is all that’s left.” He opened the box and retrieved something from behind a set of index cards. “See this photograph? It’s Lord and Lady Ashwood sixty-five years ago, just before things went bad.” He handed you the photograph. Though damaged along the edges, the center, where the couple stood side by side, remained intact.

“They looked very happy,” you said, staring at the image, but you felt his eyes on you the entire time. You turned the photograph over and noticed the year written in ink: 1951. “I just don’t know how . . .” You paused.

“It’s our business to know what others don’t. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’ ” Benedict said, reciting one of the most famous Sherlockian quotes from memory. “They were happy, for a time. It’s not unusual for people from two different worlds to grow apart, and they have no one to blame but each other.”

“Are you implying that Margaret had something to do with her husband’s death?”

“I’m not implying anything; in fact, I’m saying it plainly. And perhaps with a little help”—he gestured to the copy of
Hamlet
in your hands—“from her lover.”

You took a leap. “What evidence do you have?”

“None. They never left any behind.” Benedict closed his eyes, and his voice was hoarse. “Two months later, Margaret went missing. I’d imagined she couldn’t bear the pain of it all and decided to take matters into her own hands.”

Last time he mentioned her name, it was cool and distant, but this time, he seemed far more invested. After sixty-five years, Margaret was still in control—control of her husband, of the relationships she’d been in, for the most part, so what was Benedict trying to tell you? Why would such a woman leave her lover behind?

“Margaret would have needed someone on the inside—someone who understood the system—to commit such a crime,” you said, stepping back. You felt your heart race as adrenaline began to override your usual sensibleness. Something clicked in your mind. “Like a detective—like Damian Walker.”

There was silence for a moment, a silence that, you felt, was suddenly asking,
Could this be true?

“Very, very perceptive. It wouldn’t take long to get rid of the evidence. All of the evidence.” Benedict snickered wryly. “No one thought to check the garden for poison hemlock.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, but his attention was elsewhere. Leafing through the index cards, Benedict pulled out a note filed under
D
and slid it across the counter to you. “This changes things, you understand.”

The third clue can be found,

Deep below this manor’s ground.

Here is where you’ll resume your quest,

Perhaps, once and for all, my soul will find rest.

Benedict leered. “I’ll give you a head start.” He looked at his pocket watch. The smile ceased. “You have ten minutes left. I think you should start running. Now.”

Without thinking clearly, you backed away from Benedict and ran through the kitchen door and into the main hallway, looking for any signs of Cheeky Boy and the French Twins. You yelled out to them, so terrified that you couldn’t even remember your way around the house. Pushing aside exhaustion, you ran and ran around the first floor, calling out in all directions. You didn’t know what you were doing—you didn’t know what was happening. What if you couldn’t find your way out? What would be the consequences?

Benedict’s low, rich voice came through the PA system again: “Seven minutes remaining . . .”

You found a door to the basement in the hall, opened it, and darted down fourteen old steps into the stench of decay that hit you like a wall, causing you to cover your nose and breath deeply through your sleeve to catch your breath.

The word
basement
didn’t quite do the underground space justice. Though it was dark and dusty—lit by a single uncovered
bulb hanging from the ceiling—it looked as if a grand expansion had been made to the original room. An expansion so massive that it was nearly as large as the manor above. Turning your eyes away from the staircase, you noted two separate doors—one located at each end of the room.

With your heart in your throat, you gathered your courage and ran toward the nearest door as quickly as your legs could carry you. You tried the handle—
locked
—it was locked! You gripped the knob tightly and pulled once more.

Frantic, you let go of the knob long enough to pull the curious key you’d received out of your pocket and slide it into the lock.

But the key wouldn’t turn.

“ ‘To open me, you need a key. Not the key that rests in your hand, but a key that only I will understand.’ ” You recited the last clue to yourself.

“Hey, Brainiac! Where have you been?” Cheeky Boy called out, rushing down the staircase, jumping the last two steps. “What are you doing down here?”

You could see by the way he was awkwardly tucking his shirt into his pants and adjusting his glasses that he was equally as nervous as you. Relieved, you fought the urge to hug him and punch him in the face. The French Twins followed right behind him, looking somewhat spooked, but mostly disgusted.

“I got a key in the post,” you blurted out, pointing to the door. Your heart was racing and your mind was void of everything else. “It’s all a sham! The Detective—he’s the one—he’s behind this whole thing!”

“That’s brilliant!” Cheeky Boy said, looking sincerely impressed with you. You sensed a smile but you couldn’t see it in his face. “Bloody hell, that’s brilliant! You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, you know that? So what are we waiting for then?”

You stopped him and showed him your clue. “This,” you
said, nearly breathless. “It just doesn’t make sense, and this key doesn’t work on this door.”

“Are you sure?” Cheeky Boy asked calmly. “Have you found another way out?”

“This is getting boring,” one of the girls mumbled. She grabbed her sister’s arm and headed toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah,” said the other. “This place stinks.”

Shrugging them off, you looked back at Cheeky Boy. “Listen, you go with those two, they need all the help they can get.” Before he could utter a protest, you ran for the other door, leaving behind a stunned Cheeky Boy still standing where you’d left him.

The PA system cut on with a rattle. “Three minutes remaining . . .”

The door slowly grew closer. You pushed your speed, sliding around shelves and jumping over boxes and all the other junk that littered the basement floor. Even after the halfway point, you couldn’t stop running. Movement was the only thing that made sense to your body. The only thing that mattered was escaping Ashwood Manor.

At last you came to the door. Now within reach, you skidded to a halt, stopping just short of slamming into it.

Okay,
you thought, your breath coming in gasps.
Stay calm.

You studied the door, your brows puckered in a frown.
Aha!
It was a combination lock and you had a fairly good idea what number would open it. Your fingers fumbled with the dial on the lock. Spinning the wheels, you stopped the dials at the numbers: 1, 9, 5, 1.

“One minute remaining . . .”

“ ‘A key that only I will understand’!” you yelled to the speakers, opening the lock.
Nineteen fifty-one.
The year Margaret Ashwood met Damian Walker—the year their lives would change forever.

You opened the door. The moment you stepped inside, Clue greeted you warmly and exuberantly after not seeing you for ten whole minutes. The room looked like a greenroom underneath a stage. It wasn’t as luxurious as you’d imagined one to be, but you were greeted by cheerful smiles, camera flashes, and congratulations. You met Cheeky Boy, who immediately calmed you down and explained that your group won the game thanks to your intuition. Even the French Twins gave you a reluctant eye roll of approval.

With all the excitement, you hadn’t noticed Benedict standing in the back of the room at first. You looked at him, unsure whether to approach him. This wasn’t “the Detective” version of Benedict Cumberbatch. This was the
real
Benedict Cumberbatch. Big difference.

You excused yourself from the others and moved toward him. He tousled his hair and straightened his white button-down shirt, which was half tucked into his trousers and half-out.

Though you were feeling a little insecure, the tension dissolved when your eyes met his.

“Hello, Detective,” you said with a wink. “I’m here to arrest you.”

“Hello, Brainiac.” A playful smile lifted the corners of Benedict’s lips. “Catch me if you can.”

T
he doorman tips his hat as he holds the door open for you, offering a warm smile before greeting you. “Welcome back. How was your day?”

“It was absolutely amazing. This is such a beautiful city.” Your first day exploring New York City was everything you had hoped for and more. But now you’re exhausted. You can’t wait to get up to your room and order dinner.

You thank the doorman, walk through the hotel’s gorgeous lobby, and step into an empty elevator, pressing the button to your floor.

“Hey, wait!” a voice calls from the lobby. “Hold the door!”

Without thinking, you get in between the doors and they close on you, hurting your arm before springing back open. You step back, rubbing your shoulder and muttering profanities at the pain.

A woman steps in, trying to catch her breath after running through the foyer. “Oh my God, are you okay? That looked like it hurt.”

You nod and lift your head up to see a familiar-looking girl with short blond hair smiling apologetically. Her wide smile brightens her whole face, reaching her sparkling blue eyes. Freckles scatter across her nose and glowing cheeks. You know you’ve seen
that gorgeous face before. It takes you a second to realize who she is, but the moment you do, your heart leaps into your throat.

Jennifer Lawrence.

The
Jennifer Lawrence.

Movie star.

Oscar winner.

Everyone’s dream BFF.

And she’s standing right in front of you, smiling, concerned. She looks like she stepped straight off the big screen and into the elevator, which suddenly seems much smaller.

You offer a nervous smile. “I’m fine.” You almost say, “You’re Jennifer Lawrence,” but decide against it. She knows who she is. You telling her what her own name is would just embarrass you both. So you choose to play it cool. As cool as you can for now.

“I’m
so
sorry. I didn’t think you’d literally throw your whole body into mortal danger.” Jennifer’s kind laughter fills the elevator as she talks to you. “Usually I’m the one running into walls and injuring myself. But thank you. I’ve had such a crazy day!”

You laugh shyly. “Anytime. You looked like you were in a hurry to get somewhere, so I’m happy to help.”

“Actually, it’s more like I’m in a hurry to get
away
from somewhere. This isn’t even my hotel.”

You tilt your head, giving her a confused look.

She grins. “My hotel is a few blocks away. But I was mobbed by paparazzi in the park, so I just bolted across the street and into the first place I saw.”

“Oh, so what are you gonna do now?” you ask.

She grimaces. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I guess I can’t ride up and down in here all night. My hotel is probably surrounded, so I can’t go back there just yet.”

You think for a moment, wanting to help her out of her predicament. “Well, there’s a gym and pool on the seventh floor.”
She doesn’t seem enthusiastic about either of those options, so you offer one more. “Or there’s a rooftop restaurant. You could hang out, wait it out. I think there are some private spots up there, maybe.”

She grins. “That’s more like it.” She presses the button for the top floor, then reaches a hand out to you. “I’m Jen, by the way.”

“Hi,” you say, and introduce yourself.

“You wanna join me for a drink?” she asks, and you must look surprised because she laughs. “Come on, I can’t sit up there and drink all by myself. Think of what rumor
that
’ll start.”

You say yes because all you had planned for the evening was ordering room service and watching
The Hunger Games
for the hundredth time. Besides, when Jennifer Lawrence asks you to have a drink with her, you say yes. You
always
say yes.

The doors open to the top floor and a waitress leads you to a table in the corner. By the way the girl stares at Jen, you know she’s recognized her, but she doesn’t say anything.

The view from your table is unlike anything you’ve ever before seen. The New York skyline glitters as the setting sun shines on the endless array of buildings.

Jen looks at the dinner menu and beams. “Holy shit, this is a Mexican place? Score!”

You both order margaritas and tacos, and then it hits you: You’re sitting across from the biggest movie star in the world. Your personal hero is so close you can see the freckles on her nose. You’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be starstruck, and now you know.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here drinking margaritas with an Oscar winner.”

She narrows her eyes at you and a smile spreads across her face. “So you
do
know who I am. I didn’t think you recognized me, since you didn’t say anything.”