Pandora's Key (14 page)

Something changed on the top floor. Raphe noticed it first. “The cobwebs—they look like someone’s cleared a path through them, don’t they?”

The carpet up there was in even worse shape, with large stains and holes that exposed rough floorboards, but Raphe was right. It felt like someone had been there recently. She saw a paw print in the dust and crouched to look at it…the prints were bigger than those a mouse or rat might make. A tinkling bell sounded and suddenly a black cat darted past them, racing down the hall. Raphe slapped a hand over Evangeline’s open mouth to stifle her scream. The cat, wearing a collar and bell, disappeared down the staircase.

Evangeline pried Raphe’s fingers off her face. “I’m okay,” she said, her heart thudding wildly. Swinging her flashlight in the direction the cat had come from, she illuminated a red lacquered door at the far end of the hallway. Unlike the rusty, round doorknobs on all the other doors, this one had a rectangular lever. As they headed toward the door, Evangeline had the distinct sense that everything was about to change. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the lever and pressed down. Locked.

“Look,” Raphe said, pointing to a small, square panel at the base of the door—it was a cat door.

Evangeline knelt beside Raphe and tentatively pushed the plastic flap. Nothing leapt out or grabbed her hand. She put the flashlight in her teeth and poked her head through the opening. Steep wooden stairs led upward. They weren’t dust-coated like the ones in the rest of the building. They were spotless and the railings on either side were a smooth stainless steel that reminded Evangeline of her godmother’s modern taste.

Feeling a tug around her neck, Evangeline looked down. The chain and key weren’t lying flat—the key was pulling on the chain, floating in midair, pulling her forward. Evangeline closed her eyes for a split second.
Stop imagining things—it will only scare you and you’re already maxed out!
When she opened her eyes, the key was once again obeying the laws of gravity.

The deafening chimes of the clock tower suddenly began to peal the opening strains of Edelweiss. Caught off guard, Evangeline dropped the flashlight.
It’s a sign.
Shoving her sneakers against the floor on the far side of the door, Evangeline forced first one shoulder, then the other, through the cat door, feeling its rough edges scraping along her arms, ribs, and hips.

“What are you doing?” Raphe hissed.

Evangeline used the edge of the first stair to pull the rest of her body through. “I’m letting you in.” Quickly she grabbed her flashlight, stood, and unlocked the door, easing it open.

“Don’t just go and do something without telling me first,” Raphe said, and then he pulled Evangeline close and kissed her. This kiss was longer than her birthday kiss and Evangeline felt her insides start to melt. Raphe’s hand rested on her hip, his thumb touching the skin showing beneath her hoodie and lighting it on fire. His lips lingered, gently tugging. They pulled back slowly and then peered up the stairway behind them.

“Ready?” Evangeline whispered, forcing the incredible kiss out of her mind and focusing on the danger ahead.

Raphe nodded. “When did you get so brave?”

“I don’t know—I guess when I had to.”

They started up the steps, stopping when they reached the door at the top. It wasn’t locked. At the very moment Evangeline turned the knob, the clock tower’s chimes sounded their last note.
Nothing will ever be the same after I walk through this door. Nothing is ever going to be the same, anyway, is it?

Evangeline took a breath, opened the door, and crossed the threshold.

Evangeline’s flashlight beam illuminated bits of gleaming wood floors, colorful Turkish carpets, sleek black leather couches, and large portraits hung on every wall. Additional paintings and portraits, large and small, oval, square, and rectangular, leaned against the brick. If any place looked like an art agent’s lair—like the exact kind of place Samantha would own—this apartment was it.

An elegant mahogany table stood to the left of the entrance with modern silver candlesticks set in the center. Evangeline reached for the box of matches beside the candles. Raphe grabbed her hand.

“What if she’s here?” he mouthed.

“I want to find her,” Evangeline whispered, pulling her hand free and striking a match on the side of the box.

“Samantha!” she called out, feeling strangely bold and entitled to answers. “Where are you?”

“Jesus,” Raphe said, clutching his chest. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Sam, come out and face me,” Evangeline shouted. “Tell me why you tried to kill my mom! You owe me that!”

There was no answer. Evangeline felt her hopes plummet. “She’s not here.”

“She could be hiding.”

“No. If she was here, she’d show herself.”

Grabbing a candlestick, Evangeline walked into the center of the space. Unlike Sam’s office and loft, this place felt more lived in—almost inviting.
Does this place reflect the real Samantha?
Walking toward the longest expanse of brick wall, she held the lit candle up to illumine a portrait.

A beautiful woman was depicted in dark oils. She wore the same kind of clothing that Evangeline remembered from a movie about Elizabeth the first—a black velvet dress with a V-shaped bodice decorated with intricate gold embroidery, wide, padded shoulders, and six-inch lace ruffs around her neck and wrists.

The woman’s blonde hair also reminded Evangeline of the movie—it was parted down the middle and captured in a wide bun at the nape of her neck. There was a small diamond tiara on the woman’s head and several large sapphire rings on her fingers. It was not until Evangeline held the candle higher that she noticed the glint of a necklace resting on the ruff at her neck. It was a radiant black key dangling from a platinum chain.

“Whoa! Isn’t that the same necklace you have?” Raphe whispered.

Yes!
Evangeline walked to the next portrait—another very pretty woman. She wore a tall, narrow white hat encircled by a black ribbon, with a broad brim hiding all but a few tendrils of platinum-blonde hair. She had a lace ruff around her neck, too, but it was smaller than the first woman’s. Her sleeves were tight to her plump arms, and the pale-pink bodice of her ivory dress was embroidered with green flowers. This woman wore no jewelry—except for the same key on a platinum chain. The long fingers of her right hand were touching the carved black stone. For a heartbeat Evangeline thought she saw the woman’s fingers caressing the key. She felt her own key pulling toward the painting.
Stop it—it’s the flickering candlelight and your own nerves.

In the next portrait, a different woman wore a yellow dress that matched the color of her hair, which was mostly hidden by a lace cap. The top of her dress was an upside-down triangle with a strategically placed piece of yellow lace covering her cleavage. The rest of the dress looked like the bottom of a tulip, perfectly round and floor-length. This woman’s eyes were a lighter blue than the others and slightly downcast. The same key necklace rested in the delicate folds of lace.

Evangeline’s mouth was dry as she continued along the row of portraits. The next woman was dressed in a lilac skirt, white off-the-shoulder blouse with large bell-shaped sleeves, and a matching wide-brimmed lilac hat topped with a massive bow. And the key necklace.

“Look how small her waist is,” Evangeline said. “She must be wearing the kind of corset Scarlet wore in
Gone With The Wind
.”

“Never saw that flick. Who are these women? What’s with the key?”

“I don’t know.”
Do I?

In the next portrait, the woman looked like a southern belle with her dark-blonde hair in barrel curls, rosy cheeks, and a flirtatious half-smile playing on a mouth that seemed too wide for her face yet somehow worked to make her even more beautiful. The key necklace was visible on the woman’s chest.

From portrait to portrait, four things remained constant: beautiful, blonde hair, blue eyes, and key necklace. The latter rested on the severe pointed collar of a woman wearing an ornate hat in the shape of a comma and a tight bodice of blue silk with enormous puffed sleeves. The glitter of the key was half-buried in a narrow mink stole draped around the neck of another elegant blonde bedecked in a gray silk gown that showed off a curvaceous bust and hips. And, yet again, the necklace was resting on the flat chest of a blonde woman, with thick bangs and chin-length straight blonde hair, bedecked in a gold flapper-style dress.

“I’ve seen this woman before,” Evangeline said, stopping in front of a portrait of a woman wearing an elegant off-the-shoulder beaded gown. The woman stood by a piano, her blonde hair falling in waves, the black key resting above her 36 C-cup cleavage. Evangeline’s cheeks burned. “She was an opera singer—Italian, I think. She was spoiled, but nice, too. She died in her bathtub…electrocuted.”

Raphe stared at Evangeline, dumbfounded. “E, how the hell do you know that?”

“I dreamt about her.” Evangeline shrugged. “And that one,” she pointed to a portrait of a woman whose hair was twisted in a low knot and covered by a black velvet riding helmet. Tan riding britches and a matching jacket clothed the woman’s tall, athletic frame. The key was resting in the folds of her tailored cotton blouse. “This woman was named Penelope. She wanted to prove to her husband, Louis, that she was still young. She was very jealous of the attention he paid to her daughter’s friends…she died in a riding accident.”

“You can’t possibly know that!”

“I know…but I do.”

A portrait on the far wall caught Evangeline’s eye and she walked over to it, unable to shake the sensation that she was inside one of her dreams. This woman couldn’t have been more than thirty-years-old. Her blonde hair was piled high and held in place with a ruby clip. She wore a lace blouse, the key glinting in its folds. The woman’s hands were pressed together in what seemed like a prayer and her nails were painted cherry-red. Evangeline studied her face. She was delicately built, with high cheekbones and wide-set cornflower-blue eyes that appeared very sad. They took on a gleam and suddenly tears were overflowing and running down the woman’s cheeks. Evangeline was instantly bathed in a cold sweat.

“Holy crap, do you see that?” She backed away.

“What?” Raphe’s voice was concerned. “What, E?”

“That woman in the painting, she’s…crying—please tell me you see it, too!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Really! Touch the painting—her cheeks are wet!”

Evangeline stared at the woman’s eyes, which met her gaze and then blinked, spilling more tears. “You’ve got to have seen that!”

Hesitantly, Raphe walked over to the portrait and touched the woman’s cheek. “It’s dry, E. Look,” he held up his fingers. Evangeline touched them—bone dry. She stared at the painting. There were no tears and the woman’s eyes were flat paint once more.

“Evangeline, it was just an illusion—probably the candlelight and shadows or whatever.”

“I’m losing it, Raphe,” Evangeline said, digging shaking fingers into her damp hair. “Seriously. You don’t understand.”

Raphe put his arms around her. “I want to—try to explain, okay? I want to help.”

Evangeline rested her head on Raphe’s shoulder, too mortified to let him see her face. “I’ve dreamt about a lot of these women. The one I thought was crying? I had a nightmare a few days ago that I was that woman and I hung myself in a barn. Here’s the crazy part—my mom was having nightmares right before she went into the hospital. She was having crazy delusions, too. I really saw that painting cry. And that’s not all.”

Disengaging from Raphe’s arms, Evangeline took some deep breaths, trying to stay calm, trying to find the words. She started to pace. “Lately I touch things, like my mom’s paintings or a mailbox made to look like a waterfall, and it’s like they become real for a second. I can feel them and smell them and the waterfall even soaked through my sneaker.” She hesitated—afraid to say the words and make what she believed was happening to her real. “I think maybe I have a brain tumor, too.” She started to cry and Raphe came up behind her and hugged her tight.

“I don’t know what to say, E—I don’t get what’s going on—but if you are sick, I’ll be there for you, okay? I promise—I’m not going anywhere.”

Evangeline turned to face Raphe. He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. “What?” she asked, wiping her face and feeling totally embarrassed.

“E, the weirdest thing about all this is that all the women in the paintings look they could be related to you.” Raphe walked over to one of the portraits and pointed to the woman. “I mean, look at this one. She could be you mom’s sister, you know? Do you see it?”

Evangeline recognized Cleo from one of the few photographs her mom had of her grandmother. In the portrait, the prima ballerina was dancing on a stage, sculpted arms outstretched, one lithe leg held high, the other balanced
en pointe
in pink ballet slippers. She was wearing a white leotard and tutu and the key and chain sparkled between her collarbones.

“Yes, that one is definitely related to me. Cleo Theopolis was my grandmother and a famous ballerina. She died in a car crash when my mom was only seventeen and already pregnant with me.”