The next couple of doors revealed small bedrooms very much like my own little room. They’d been abandoned in a pristine state, beds made, hangers left on their hooks. Even now, the only thing unkempt about them was the fuzzy coating of dust on every surface, including the Bibles centered neatly on each nightstand. At one point I found myself gazing at one of the beds, entertaining a mini-fantasy of lying down just for a moment and sleeping until the washing cycle finished. But no, it was too risky. What if I slept the whole night? What if Laura found me in here in the morning?

After a while, I heard the washing machine’s distant whir die, and I went back, pulled out the ball of wet things, and turned on the light to inspect them.

The blood was mostly gone, the stains now so faint that they might not be noticed until my standing with the Suttons was more secure. If I folded the pajamas carefully and turned the pillow to face the wall, Laura probably wouldn’t know anything was wrong. With a sigh of relief, I stuck it all in the dryer and turned it on.

I went back out into the hallway, continuing my exploration. When I opened the last door and found a stairway winding up, I felt a twinge of uncertainty. But Laura hadn’t said I couldn’t look around, had she? I wasn’t going to hurt anything.

I flipped a switch on the wall, and about half of the lights came to life, filling the air with a grumpy buzz. Then I climbed the stairs.

On the next landing was a door with a label next to it: ACCESS TO GREEN WING.

Should I enter? Well, the alternative was to sit around downstairs, possibly fall asleep in one of the maid’s rooms, and wake to find Laura and John standing over me, scandalized. So . . . onward.

The green wing was, as one might have guessed, green. The carpet was a dull hunter-green shade and the walls were papered in olive-toned stripes. In general, it was much messier than the main hall. The sconces on the walls were tarnished brass, and the frames of the pictures—not to mention the pictures themselves—were coated in dust.

I walked silently past the closed doors. Anterooms? Dressing rooms? What else had Laura said was in here?

I paced the length of it and then back. And just as I was about to go downstairs again, something caught my eye.

One of the doors wasn’t like the others.

Specifically, the knob was different. Instead of being antique brass and smudgy like all the rest, it looked newer. If it hadn’t been covered in a quarter inch of dust, it would have been the bright, showy gold of the 1980s. And above it was a dead bolt—the kind you needed a key to open.