Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
This time, I hide myself in the bathroom that’s located right across from his study and wait, hoping that it works.
And it does.
A couple of minutes later, I hear a shriek.
It’s Mo.
It makes me feel bad. Because as I said, Mo has been good to me and I’m using her weakness against her: mice. She’s afraid of them; she told me so herself.
But it needs to be done.
At the heel of her scream, I hear the door to his study open with a snap. Followed by the sound of loud footsteps — his — jogging down the hallway.
Perfect.
I slip out of the bathroom and sprint across to his study, and step inside his lair.
Which is made of books.
That’s my very first thought.
There are books on the wall-to-wall bookshelves. There are books on the floor. There are books on his giant wooden desk. There are books under the desk even. And don’t even get me started on the coffee table in front of a leather couch in a nook, and the side tables and that long console table behind the couch. And then there are papers and documents strewn about on just as many surfaces as the books.
And in the midst of all those papers, there’s smoke rising. From a cigar.
Which sits on an ashtray.
By a thick tumbler of whiskey, I notice. Or at least, I think it’s whiskey, golden brown and shimmering.
So this is his lair then. I’ve never seen it before; he keeps this room locked when he’s not home.
Books, cigar and whiskey.
Not to mention, leather.
There’s so much leather in this room. Leather chairs, leather couches, his leather-bound books.
Apparently, he is a history professor. Specializing in something called the Renaissance era. He’s actually the head of the department — the youngest head of the department — Mo said with pride.
“How old is he?” I asked when Mo told me.
“Thirty-one.” Mo chuckled. “Well, to your fourteen-year-old brain, I’m sure he sounds ancient. But he’s quite accomplished for his age. Two PhDs. Head of the department. Countless papers and grants. He recently got a grant to head an archeological dig over in Italy. It’s quite prestigious. But that’s not all, actually. He also sits on the city council. Is on the board of various museums and schools and things. I guess he just does everything, but history is his main interest.”
The Renaissance man, I thought.
You know because he studies the Renaissance era.
Wow.
I mean, just imagine being so passionate about something — even though it’s something as boring as history — that you spend years studying it, analyzing it, freaking absorbing it.
But anyway.
I don’t have time for this.
I have a plan to execute and I only have a few minutes to do it before he gets back. So I look around, trying to find a perfect spot.
Ah, the wall right across from the couch.
I walk over and get to work. Pulling out the red spray paint that I pocketed back in my room, I write on the wall: ‘Die Mr. Marshall, Die. PS: I’m not your fucking prisoner. Stop ignoring me.’ I also draw a skull beside it to drive my point home.
It’s not a threat, per se.
But it’s shocking enough to get his attention.
Which is exactly what I’m looking for.
On that note, I go back to the coffee table and pick up his whiskey. I drain it down — hating the ever-loving shit out of it — before going for his cigar. I put it out on the ashtray, pocket it, and then I’m running out of there.
I’m going back up to my room, where I’ll lie in wait.
Until he comes to find me.
My victim.
Mr. Marshall.
He doesn’t.
Come to find me, I mean.
It’s been over twenty-four hours and there’s no sign of him.
Last night after I ran back to my room, I waited.
I waited for hours and I thought I was doing pretty well until I opened my eyes — I don’t remember closing them — and it was morning. Or rather late morning. Frantic, I tore out of my room and ran down the stairs. Mo was in the kitchen, and as soon as she saw me she smiled, served me breakfast.
I waited for her to mention the mouse or the spray-painted wall in his study but she never said a word. When I asked about him, she gave me the same answer in the same friendly tone that I’ve been getting for a week now: he’s gone to campus and has lectures and then he has a city council meeting. No mention of what happened last night, or what I did, nothing.
And now it’s night.
Actually it’s the middle of the night and I can’t sleep.
So I’ve been wandering around the mansion and my wanderings have brought me here.
To the roof.
There’s a small balcony a few doors down from my room and it has a spiral staircase that leads up to the roof. I stand at the edge, my palms on the concrete railing, and look at the sprawling grounds before me.