These are the servants’ stairs, I believe, leading from the back of the kitchen up to the second floor. They’re cramped in a tiny space, two feet wide, and steep. A staircase made for scurrying. Constructed long before building codes. I guess they figured the servants would be skinny. No seconds for you, underlings!

The second-floor landing offers a side table. On it, perfectly placed, a chinoiserie vase, looking like it might just cost a pretty penny. The rest of the second floor is divided between two grand bedrooms, each with its own sitting room, enormous walk-in closet, and en suite marble bathroom. Between them is a grand parlor, obviously meant for visiting second-story dignitaries. I resolve to investigate all of this later, and continue up the wooden formal entry-hall staircase, leading to the third floor, which is essentially the attic. My room, or the room I decide on, is tucked into the side of the attic, a converted space with vaulted wood ceilings; a queen-size bed with a quilt; a white, peeling dresser; a painting of a cat; and not much else.

Yes, I suppose I could cheat and take one of the fancy downstairs bedrooms, but that seems like an invasion. I’m the help, after all, and the professor seems like a nice man. The kind of man who could be a father figure if I play my cards right. Then I would have someplace to go for Christmas. Although, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t even met the wife.

I resolve to take a good look at the family photos.

I drop my belongings at the foot of the bed and sigh into the abyss. Yes, this attic is the perfect place for me this summer. This is exactly how unhappy I am. I will not have to pretend to be having a good time here. No one will be watching. No one will be expecting me to say something clever or even smile. Here, I will be able to just stare at that painting of a cat for hours, undisturbed.

Except.

At the bottom of the stairs. Two floors down. There is a giant THUD.

What could have made that sound? I’m the only person who’s supposed to be here.

I know, I know. I probably shouldn’t go investigate. But there wouldn’t be a story if I didn’t.

So it begins.

Chapter 4

As discussed, I am the only person who is supposed to be here, and I know that because that was part of the deal. I signed up for a solitary summer. A solo dirge.

Some knife-wielding murderer isn’t just going to go on ahead and interrupt my entire summer of abject self-pity, right?

I mean, the audacity!

The noise downstairs sounds nothing like the clank of the air conditioner, and more like a scuffling. Yes, there was a distinct thud but since then, a sort of shuffle shuffle shuffle. Also, a muttering.

Stupid ax murderer.

Peeking over the stairwell, I see some sort of array of printed fabrics positioning and repositioning themselves on a human figure below. Tiny painted flowers on a navy blue background, larger navy flowers on a floral background. A kind of matching mismatch of prints.