But it worked from an objective, interpretive standpoint. If this was a film, the girl would obviously represent the devil, evil, temptation. You didn’t have to be Antonioni to figure that out.

And that would make Billingham God.

No, Stormy thought. He didn’t buy it. The butler clearly didn’t know about the girl.

But maybe he wasn’t the final word here. Maybe he was a good guy, but the power didn’t rest with him. Maybe he and the girl were both puppets.

With the House pulling the strings.

Stormy took a deep breath. The first thing he had to determine was what he wanted to do. Obviously, Billingham was not very forthcoming on these subjects. He didn’t think he was going to get a whole lot more out of him than what he’d gotten already. So should he confront the butler or go around him? Should he accept fate and do as he was told—or try to escape?

Stormy picked up a lamp off the small table next to the love seat and yanked out its extension cord.

He voted for escape.

He threw the lamp at the front window as hard as he could. He expected it to either break the glass or bounce back, but instead it disappeared into the window, as though it were sinking in a pool of water—

—and instantly appeared back on the table.

He glanced wildly around the room, found a marble cameo box in the center of the long coffee table, picked it up, and heaved it with all of his might at the window.

Same result.

Fuck it. Billingham had told him to explore, and he was going to explore, goddamn it. And he’d find another way out of here if it killed him.

He remembered what the butler had said: I think you’ll be surprised.

A chill passed through him.

He ignored it, pushed all reservations to the back of his mind. Where should he start?

The doors. He’d tried to get out through the front door almost immediately after he’d arrived, but he hadn’t tried it since. And if he remembered right, there was a side door off the kitchen and a door leading from the den to the back porch.

If that didn’t work, he’d start with the basement and work his way up.

He walked out of the sitting room into the entryway. The front door was still locked. Not just locked. Frozen. The latch on the handle did not rattle, and there was not even the slightest give as he tried to yank the door open.

Billingham was in the kitchen, humming to himself, some song that nagged on Stormy’s brain with its familiarity but which he could not quite place, so he left that one for later and went into the den.