“Were you?” Linda stroked Charity’s thigh with the tips of her nails. “I didn’t know. I thought you—we all—were here for Tristan. You were so heated when we talked about him. You started fights with all of us.”
“Actor,” Charity said. “Acting.” She winced against Linda, and the movement sent a shock up her spine. “Are you mad I didn’t tell you earlier?”
“Why would I be mad? You were under contract. I was, too. You had your reasons for coming onto this show. We all did—do.”
“Linda, I can’t believe I don’t know this, but… What do you do? For work, I mean.”
“Oh,” Linda slouched, readjusting Charity’s head to her chest. “I’m between jobs.” She laughed at herself. Once upon a time, she had promised herself she’d never be the kind of person who used such obvious cliché. “I’m unemployed.”
“What did they make you say for your introduction?”
“Influencer.”
Charity’s laugh vibrated Linda’s sternum. “How many followers do you have?”
“Like one hundred thousand? I helped my ex-husband found a landscaping firm. I’d post photos and how-tos for the business. He never understood that stuff, so when I quit, or was fired due to divorce or whatever, I just changed the name of the page and kept the followers, scheduled a shitload of posts. It’s bullshit, but they’re popular.”
“There’s a lot of lonely people out there.”
The silence stretched between them.
“What would you do if you could do anything?” Charity said.
“I’d open a plant nursery,” Linda said. She paused, considered, continued. “And open up myself.”
“You seem open to me,” Charity said. “You did in that bathroom, anyway, and you do now, too.” Charity reached a hand between her legs.
Linda moved the hand away. “There’s a lot that you don’t know about me, too.”
“I’m sure.” Charity nuzzled her head against Linda, and Linda caught the floral smell of the old shampoo and old sweat from Charity’s scalp. It was sexy, bodily, evidence of Charity as a living, breathing person. “Nap with me a while?”
“Of course.” Linda breathed in deep, settling herself. “Were they really paying you to be on the show?”
“A small sum,” Charity said. “I can’t believe you dated Tristan for free.”
“He’s not the worst, if you like men,” Linda said. “The bar is low, you know.”
“It’s just… He seems like the kind of guy whose favorite restaurant is Applebee’s.”
“I think it was Texas Roadhouse,” Linda said.
“I rest my case,” Charity said.
As they lay warmed by their embrace, Linda returned to sleep. Her father’s face greeted her, a portrait covered in brown veins. As she stared into the glass, it morphed into the image of the thing from the curio shop, and Linda fell back, screaming, into a mess of eager, grabbing limbs.
• • •
The manor didn’t allow rest. The manor didn’t allow more than stolen winks behind tired eyes, and when Linda woke, no hints of morning had slithered into the sky.
Linda reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the bed, slipped on her clothes, and padded out the door, leaving Charity peaceful and alone.
In the room of the dying, Tristan’s skin looked waxy, as though his beads of sweat had soaked into his skin and made him shine. Marion lay with her head against the bedspread, unmoving but for her lips, which murmured a prayer.
Sabrina paced. “I wish I had any medical tools whatsoever.” Sabrina waved both her hands at Marion. “I wish this one would get some sleep. If things keep going downhill, we’re going to need all hands on deck.” She paused in front of the passed-out Tatum in the corner chair. “Case in fucking point.”
“Where’s Deja?” Linda asked. The room stunk of impending doom. Linda stood at its threshold, unwilling to enter again into the uncertain dread surrounding Tristan’s condition.
“I don’t know! Looking for a signal, she says.”
Charity appeared in the door, bags beneath her eyes.
“Do you think there are medical supplies somewhere?” Linda asked, eager to make herself useful elsewhere.
“You could look. I could use a needle and thread for stitching. More bandages.” Sabrina held up the ripped sheet they’d been using for wrapping his wound. “We’re almost out.” She dropped the sheet back onto the bedside table. “Medication. Antibiotics would be helpful. I’d sure love it if Deja would come back and let me know if there’s any in the manor. I’ll be mad if she didn’t at least search a few rooms for those already. We shouldn’t have slept so long.” Sabrina stomped back and forth. “And alcohol. I need alcohol. Anything. Maybe a sleeping pill for this mess.” She gestured again at Marion. “Maybe a Xanax for the rest of us.”
“We’re on it.” Linda stepped back from the door into the burst of fresh hall air. Charity followed.
The exhausted cameraman stirred. He glanced back and forth, torn between his need to stay and his desire to follow Linda.
Linda backed away. “You stay here, watch over The Groom.”
The cameraman sunk back into his chair, camera perched like a second head upon his shoulder.
“As if they’re even going to run this train wreck,” he said.
• • •
Linda and Charity searched through the drawers in each bedroom vanity. All told, there were eight bedrooms in the wing, four on each side. The contents of each weathered vanity were unexemplary: a couple of old tubes of lipstick, a dusty powder puff, a book of matches, dust, three pencils, a flashlight, and an old notebook filled with indecipherable writing. Linda pocketed the matches and the notebook but left the rest where it lay. Next, she tried the bathrooms, searching through cabinets and drawers. They had been cleaned out of all but a few half-melted candlesticks and the faint smell of mildew. The buffet in the dining room held old silver dishes, the parlor drawers a small compact mirror.
