Page 28 of What Happened on Roslyn Street? (Strode University #1)

“Is he still bothering you?” Margaux leans in, narrowing her eyes at the screen.

“He is—but not for long. They’ll catch him soon…”

“Right,” Margaux says. “And in the meantime…” She snatches my phone from me, swiftly blocking Caldwell’s number. “There. He can’t bother you anymore.”

“But—”

“You don’t need to snoop around anymore. The professionals are on it.” She clicks her tongue, giving the phone back to me. “This is for the best. You’re lucky I didn't confiscate your phone for the weekend.”

“I may ask you to.”

Margaux is right; it’s for the best. It’s not as if I want to talk to him. I caught Caldwell at the scene of the crime with blood on his hands. After what we’ ve been through, I still can’t trust him. There is nothing more damning than what I saw. There was no one else around, just him.

And he was telling me to leave. There was something he didn’t want me to see.

I turn off my phone, slip it into my pocket, and leave the car.

The drive wasn’t long—no more than twenty minutes—but I forget how to use my legs. They’re shaking as I follow Margaux inside. I only had time to pack the necessities, which the driver carries behind us.

Up close, the house is more striking than I ever realized. It’s a large, dark building with huge windows and vines creeping up the sides.

Margaux walks inside as if it’s nothing, but even in my state, I can’t help but be struck by the beauty of the towering home.

“Hurry up,” Margaux says in a clipped tone. “He could be anywhere, and he’s probably pissed at you.”

I shudder at the thought, rushing inside behind her.

We found Poppy’s killer, but I don’t feel a hint of success. Maybe it will come once he’s taken care of—once he’s no longer breathing. I’ve never known a bloodthirsty part of me to exist until now.

“I don’t think he would be stupid enough to come here,” I say.

“I don’t know about that. He is an idiot.” Margaux turns to her driver, offering him a sweet smile. “Can you bring those up to my room, darling? Thank you so much.”

The driver ducks his head and walks away dutifully, likely used to bending to Margaux’s every whim. As I look around the house, I wonder what it must be like to be her.

The estate is four times the size of my family home, the floor is spotless, and the appliances in the kitchen are shining. They’re new enough that they look unused .

But the room is cold. There are no signs of Margaux’s childhood, no sign it’s her family home, even as we walk further into the house. No pictures, no corny art with comforting words, nothing.

Anyone could live here…

The decoration is dark, well-made, and expensive. Chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The rooms are lit dimly, with white candles strewn about.

The strangest part of all is the Strode crest. It’s everywhere —on her father’s jacket, hanging on the coat hanger, and on a small canvas in the hallway.

“Your father has a lot of… school spirit,” I mutter.

“You have no idea,” Margaux says. “I’m sure he would have disowned me if I wasn’t accepted to Strode.”

I laugh nervously, unsure whether she’s joking.

“Do you think we’re alone?” I ask.

“My mother is still in Milan.”

“And the rest of your… siblings?” I hesitate to call her coven-mates siblings, even if she has referred to them as such.

“No clue. They don’t live here. It’s usually just me.”

I can’t put my finger on why I’m so uneasy. I’ve spent so much time at Poppy’s house—her studio apartment and even the small trailer with her parents. My friends have spent time at mine, too.

Margaux is my best friend, but her home does nothing to put me at ease.

When I was young, I would have done anything for a chance to see where Margaux lives. The circumstances that bring me here aren’t the best. All I can muster is mild curiosity, but that’s already run out.

Her eyes narrow.

“Look,” she says, “you don’t need to worry about waking up to fangs at your neck. We’re safe here. We have security, and none of my siblings are going to visit without letting me know.”

“Are you sure?” I smile weakly. “You claim to have great senses, but I’ve seen you sleep through some ungodly noises.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. It’s worrisome.”

“I know you’ve been through a lot tonight, but… I kept you safe for this long. I’m not giving up on you now.” Margaux squeezes my shoulder.

It’s disconcerting that I’ve worried Margaux so much.

She’s unshakable, the calm in every storm—unless it’s one of her own making. Seeing her watch me with genuine worry elicits a strange feeling of guilt.

I look away, staring at a dusty corner of the room.

“Thank you,” I say. “I feel safer with you.”

It’s not true anymore. It used to be, but I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again. She doesn’t have to deal with my worries. She rubs my back, and we stand there for a few moments longer.

Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock strikes.

It’s midnight.

“Can you show me to my room?” I ask, shrugging off her hand.

She hesitates before obliging. “This way.”

The room Margaux leads me to is… surprisingly normal.

Everything is well-made and likely expensive.

The bed frame is made of sturdy wood, the desk probably costs more than all of my furniture at home, and there are more white candles.

Whether they’re for power outages or strange rituals, I can’t be sure.

The house is more rural than I’m used to, with the sounds of crickets and birds outside my window. It would be peaceful if it wasn’t so eerie .

“I’m across the hall,” Margaux says, pointing over her shoulder with a thumb. “If anything happens… I’ll be able to hear.”

I lift a brow. “Does that mean you’ll be listening in on me?”

“You wish.” She rolls her eyes, backing out of the room.

Beneath her hardened exterior is the same soft look she’s been giving me all evening, as if I may combust at any moment.

Sometimes, Margaux knows me better than I know myself. I hope this isn’t one of those times.

“Good night,” I say.

“Everything will feel better after we sleep.”

Those are the last words she gets out before I shut the heavy door. My fingers press to the cool wood, and I close my eyes, grounding in the moment.

I hope she’s right, and this is all a horrible dream.

All night, I toss and turn.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, even though there’s nothing in the room that can watch me. Margaux is listening. It’s a comforting thought, but it doesn’t help me sleep. Eventually, I lift my phone to look at the time.

Four in the morning. I’ve wasted four hours in my head, and I need to get out of it… but there’s nowhere to go.

Professor Cruz told us to stay put until the killer is taken care of. He has good reason to come after us next.

Me . Caldwell might come after me.

That’s the thought that drives me out of bed. I can’t think about Caldwell, someone I was falling in love with, coming after me like that.

I slip on my shoes and pad out of the room, using my dying phone as a flashlight. I won’t leave the house, but I can’t stay in my head. Something—instinct, maybe?—compels me to explore the area. If I’m going to be trapped here for the foreseeable future, I should know the floor plan.

And I should probably find a bathroom. I’ll need one of those soon.

The layout proves impossible to memorize. There are so many twists and turns, as if each hall is never-ending. Half the doors are locked. The other half leads to strange rooms: one filled with coffins, one that looks like an apothecary, one with a giant freezer…

I’d prefer not to think about what the rooms could be used for… especially the one with the freezer.

After weeks at Strode, I’m used to being around vampires and other creatures, but this house still gives me the creeps.

There’s nothing interesting to be found until I push on the door at the end of the hallway. It’s stuck.

I push once, twice, and then—it swings open. I fumble for the light switch and flip it on. The chandelier in the middle of the room fills the space with dim, warm light.

It’s an office. The walls are painted forest green, and the window is large enough to show me the woods and the huge, full moon.

The carpet on the floor looks vintage, not that I know anything about that. Books litter the shelves, hardcovers of all colors, golden words etched across the spines.

I don’t know what prompts me to step inside, but it may be the same reason I’m wandering at all. As soon as I’m in, I know I’m there for a reason. My heart drops into my stomach as I turn to the left, faced with a giant portrait.

It’s just above the desk.

There it is. The man in the bird mask. The very same portrait from the club. It’s haunting me.

Why? Why is he following me?

The eyes in the painting, as dark as the night, follow me through the room. His attention is locked on me. It’s just a painting—but it looks so full of life.

It’s like someone is watching me.

Fear prickles at my spine, causes my stomach to drop, and wraps its cruel claws around my throat.

I open my mouth, and what comes out is a blood-curdling scream.

Tears stream down my face as I fall to my knees. Flashes of memories fly by.

Roslyn Street.

The party.

Caldwell kneeling next to the mask.

It comes to me in a rush. It burns. The painting scalds my eyes, and I hold my head, fingers grasping my short hair.

Margaux is there in a flash. She’s swift enough that her appearance makes me jump. Another shriek comes from my throat. It’s terrifying to see her move so quickly. I hate it.

But I still love her—and she’s here.

I cry into her arms as soon as she opens them. She’s strong—stronger than I’ve ever known, holding me tightly until I can finally find my words.

“The bird mask!” I gasp.

“Oh!” Margaux doesn’t seem to realize the painting until I point it out.

I pull back to watch her.

“That’s a portrait of my father,” she says. “I suppose that’s where I’ve seen it before.”

“ What ?”

“I think it was a trend among vampires a century or two ago.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I wasn’t alive for it, but…”

“This is the same painting as the one at the club!”

“My father owns the club. I told you this.” Her eyes narrow. “What are you saying?”

What am I saying? I know Margaux’s coven owns the vampire club. It makes sense that his painting would be there—and that it’s here as well.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Do you think this is a—a protection spell as well?”

“It could be,” Margaux says.

She doesn’t share a fraction of my concern.

I don’t find comfort in her presence anymore. It’s the sad truth. I wrap my arms around myself, shaking as I hold back a sob.

“What?” Margaux presses, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Why are you so shaken up? It’s only my father and his silly theatrics.”

“Right.”

“Did you know he was an actor in those days? It must seem like so long ago now, but… I think his flair for dramatics remains.”

Through my tears, I manage to joke.

“And I think you inherited it,” I say.

“Well, I would hope so.”

I laugh weakly, but there are so many things that confuse me. I don’t understand why tears continue to stream down my cheeks. “You’re right; it’s nothing. I’m going back to bed.”