Scarlett and I look happy. The dream to be actresses was the thing that glued us together. It wasn’t being twins. That dream was something we both shared, and it kept us going.
Our Grandmother was our idol. It was she who paved the path for all of us to follow. She landed her first role in Hollywood when she was sixteen.
Originally from Louisiana, Grandmama was a real southern belle. It was that attribute that got her many of her roles in several notable classic films the world knows today.
Scarlett and I wanted to be her. Mom did too, but unlike us, my mother was obsessed with getting famous and doing whatever she needed to do to get it.
It was that obsession that destroyed us because Mom couldn’t see Ted for the monster he was.
Grandmama died a few months after the show, and that’s when Mom met Ted. Ted promised my mother the world and enticed her to cheat on my father.
I’m not sure if she needed much enticement, though, because Mom loved money and prestige. She divorced Dad within a year of meeting Ted, leaving my father heartbroken and depressed, but Mama loved nothing more than being on Ted’s arm.
She just wasn’t aware that while she thought he had big money, he was only interested in her inheritance and the prestige he could get from being with her.
She didn’t know that being with an actress of her caliber was good for his campaigns. Neither did she know his fascination with feisty little girls and his extra-curricular activities.
Swallowing hard, I put the journal away and decided to push those memories out of my mind.
It’s hard to look at anything from the past, especially now, and keep those thoughts at bay. They stir now for the significant fact Scarlett isn’t here anymore. My nightmares started when I promised myself I’d always protect her.
Now that she’s gone, it feels like everything I went through was for nothing.
I need a walk or something. I’ve been in this room virtually all day. I was told to make myself comfortable, but I will never feel relaxed here, and I don’t want to.
I leave the room and look around for Oleg. He’s not anywhere, though, and it seems I’m alone. I doubt that I’m completely by myself, though, because I could just leave.
Curiosity makes me walk to the front door, and when I see the lock is one of those that is activated by a keycard, I just shake my head at myself for being so silly.
What was I going to do anyway if I could leave?
Run to the mountains like I contemplated? I’m not sure if it would be better than this. But it could be. I suppose this way, I get a front-row seat to see what happens. The other way, I’d never know, or maybe they’d find me like Eric said and kill me.
I stare out to the inky black sky through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. It’s beautiful here. I’m more of a house person, but I can see the surface appeal of living in a penthouse apartment that overlooks the city.
I turn and decide to head back to the room, but when I look down the corridor that leads to the west side of the apartment, curiosity gets the better of me, and I stop in my tracks.
Yesterday Lyssa took me everywhere, including the terrace, but I have no idea where Eric’s room is or what’s on the west side.
Telling an inquisitive, rebellious person like me to stay away from something is just as bad as telling me to do it. Yesterday I had eyes on me all day. Now that I don’t … who would know if I had a little look around the places I haven’t seen yet?
I make my way down the corridor, and the first thing I see is another living room. This one is bigger and looks more like Eric uses it for entertainment.
Further down is a wide space with an atrium and then another long hallway which I feel will lead me straight to where I’m not supposed to go.
I go down there, and the automatic lights come on, brightening my way.
There are two doors opposite each other, and these doors don’t require a keycard.
Both have standard metal door handles like the one in my room. I try the first door, and it’s locked. The second door, however, is not. As my fingers touch the cool metal of the handle and it turns, my curiosity piques all the more and drowns out the voice in my head, warning me away from venturing deeper.
When I open the door and find myself staring into Eric Markov’s bedroom, all I want to do is delve deeper into the mystery of the man. The décor of the room looks more elegant than I expected for him with its Rococo furnishing and well-thought-out design.
You can tell a lot about a person from what you find in their bedroom. I’d like to see what kind of man I’m going to be staying with. Or rather, what kind of criminal.
So, I walk in.
My footsteps are muffled by the plush cream carpet the moment I step onto it. I look at the clean white walls with one landscape painting hanging on the furthest. The place in the painting is beautiful and not what I’d expect to find in his room.