A small flame suddenly flickered in the pitch-black corridor, its candlelight wavering, illuminating a young man with soft features.
Herman furrowed his brow, holding the dark blue handkerchief stained with blood he had “accidentally” touched earlier.
Unfortunately, he was neither a diviner nor a sorcerer.
He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket, rubbing his fingers while sorting through the scattered details and guesses in his mind.
Whoever the killer was, Herman was certain he wasn’t the target. He was just an unlucky bystander dragged into this mess due to Mrs. Nell’s commission.
That’s right—he wasn’t a journalist but a private detective.
Hired by Dwight Nell’s wife to secretly gather evidence of her husband’s infidelity.
Great job, collecting evidence.
A bit later, and he’d be the evidence, laid out in a morgue.
As a private detective, forging—no, protecting—his privacy was only natural.
Unsure who had abducted him, Herman opted for a disguise, crafting a persona of someone “somewhat clever” but “lecherous.”
His target?
The most striking woman in the group, Rosie Moulton.
Due to personal reasons, he knew much about Glenn City’s nobles, including their family situations, social connections, and private traits.
Rosie Moulton, 18, eldest daughter of Viscount Moulton, renowned for her beauty, grace, and poise, a social butterfly and the epitome of a noble lady.
In reality, she couldn’t remember names, avoided initiating conversations, and couldn’t hide her disgust when men fawned over her.
Something was very wrong with her.
Rosie Moulton had a problem.
***
After witnessing Jesse Holmes’s eerie behavior, Dwight Nell’s face paled. He grabbed Bev Hardy’s hand and left without a word.
Rosie had her suspicions.
If everyone’s rooms were similar, Jesse might have heard those incomprehensible, maddening whispers too.
He was like an unstable bomb, and she certainly wasn’t staying near him.
With no other choice, Rosie and Donahue Bobby followed the earlier plan, leaving the room together.
On the way, Donahue seemed troubled by yesterday’s events, hesitating before speaking. “Miss Moulton, about yesterday…”
“No need to dwell on it, Mr. Bobby. A gentleman doesn’t stand under a collapsing roof.”
She loosely translated a saying from her homeland.
“It’s a judgment anyone would make.”
Rosie paused, then added, “What we can do now is remember Hannah Carter.
And fight to survive.”
Of course, she silently vowed not to let Hannah’s killer go free.
“Truth above, may Miss Carter rest in our Lord’s kingdom.”
Donahue lowered his hand from his shoulder, speaking solemnly.
After that, they walked in silence, guided by the light of two candles on the three-pronged candelabra, deeper into the corridor.
Jesse hadn’t lied—there was indeed a staircase at the corridor’s end, one they hadn’t seen yesterday, leading to an even deeper unknown.
This made Rosie more wary.
A madman was telling the truth!
What now—go up or stay?
Rosie thought it over. Returning meant facing the parchment’s inevitable vote.
Even if she survived by luck, it would mean another night in her room, tormented by those whispers, potentially becoming another Jesse Holmes.
Moreover, this staircase led to the only variable—a place of both risk and opportunity, where a trap could become a weapon to break the situation.
Decided, she turned to Donahue and asked, “Mr. Bobby, I’m going up to check.
Will you come with me or wait here?”
Donahue’s eyes still reflected Hannah Carter’s horrific corpse.
Stay alone in the dark?
He didn’t have the courage. “Miss Moulton, I’ll go with you.”
Rosie nodded, wasting no words, and stepped onto the staircase, candelabra in hand.
The wooden stairs, of unknown age, felt surprisingly sturdy.
Side by side, they climbed to the second floor.
The surroundings were still pitch-black, but every few steps, a picture frame hung on the wall.
At the corridor’s end was a doorless room.
One, two, three… seven, eight.
Eight frames, but only one held a painting—a portrait of a vibrant young girl.
Rosie stared at the girl, her head throbbing as memories churned and boiled.
Janice—why was her painting here?
“Miss Moulton, you look like you’re in pain. Can I help?”
“It’s fine, Mr. Bobby. I just didn’t sleep well; I’m a bit dizzy.”
Her head ached. She needed quiet.
Rosie handed the candelabra to Donahue, forcing a smile. “Mr. Bobby, I’ll stand guard at the door. Take the candelabra and check the room for anything unusual.
If you’re unsure about something, just call me.”
Donahue hesitated but took the candelabra. “If anything happens out here, Miss Moulton, call me too.”
Rosie nodded in acknowledgment.
Once Donahue entered the room, she couldn’t help but rub her temples.
Her thoughts were chaotic, like papers scattered by a storm, but faint details began to surface, connecting into a thread pointing to an answer.
“Thud—”
A sound of something falling came from the next room.
Has something happened to Donahue?!
Rosie reacted swiftly, her hand on the sheath strapped to her arm, stepping back while staring at the doorless room.
“Mr. Bobby?”
Her clear, sweet voice rang out, met by dead silence.
Retreat?
The thought barely formed when regret from hesitating during her farewell to Hannah surged like a tide.
Rosie gritted her teeth. She’d suggested Donahue go in alone—she had to bring him back, dead or alive!
A glint flashed in her misty blue eyes. She lifted her skirt, pulling two items from her boots.
One was a candle she’d taken from the candelabra that morning. The other was her ace—a revolver.
Sizzle.
The candle was lit with a match. Rosie held it at an angle in one hand, her other hand thumbing the revolver’s hammer, holding her breath as she crept toward the gaping maw of the unseen beast in the darkness.