Slipping into the bathroom, I took one look at myself in the mirror and groaned. I gave my face a thorough wash with warm water, working some of the tangles out of my hair with my fingers. I still looked like a gremlin who’d crawled out of the woods, but whatever.

Before I left the bathroom, I tugged up my dress to get a look at my backside in the mirror. It didn’t only feel like a bad sunburn; it looked like it too. My skin was bright red and my fingers left pale imprints when I pressed them against my cheek. Damn, that stung. It also brought back memories of exactly what it felt like to bend through that window with my mouth full and my ass getting smacked, and a shiver ran over my entire body.

I wasn’t eager to take a spanking like that again. But the other parts, the parts that had me gasping with pleasure, I would gladly experience again.

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I needed to find Manson so I could get back to my car. The pit bull — was her name Jojo? — was still waiting for me in the hall when I came out and walked along with me as I wandered toward the stairs. There were two more rooms, one of which was right next to the bathroom.

The door was wide open, the room within coldly utilitarian. There was a bed, dresser, and clothes hamper in the corner, but nothing else. Perhaps a guest bedroom? There were a few things on top of the dresser, but as tempting as it was, maybe it was better not to push my luck with the snooping.

The next room, closest to the stairway, also had the door cracked open. I could only see a sliver of an open closet through the crack, but nothing more.

I stood outside the door, listening carefully. There were no voices or footsteps — either the boys were outside, or still asleep. I glanced down at Jojo and found her looking back, licking her chops excitedly.

“It’s not snooping if you open the door,” I whispered and pointed to the crack. “Wanna go in, girl?”

To my surprise, she nudged her nose against the door and trotted inside without any hesitation, hopping up on the bed. With one glance, I knew this room had to be Manson’s. I recognized the bull’s skull hanging on the wall above the bed, painted black with an intricate gold design. Everything was meticulously clean — from the shelves beside the closet covered in vinyl records, to the desk in the corner that held a laptop and an oil diffuser. It was switched on, filling the room with a citrusy floral scent.

So much for not snooping.