Madame X - Wilder Jasinda (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

The voice is echoing from a few levels down and getting closer. Panic chokes me. I push through the door at the landing, marked with a black-painted 10. A clean, modern corridor, pale gray walls, cream carpeting, abstract paintings on the walls. An alcove, men’s room, women’s room. I duck into the women’s restroom, grip the counter and lean, gasping for air, fighting sobs. What is happening? Why did Thomas warn me, help me escape? Does he pity me, worry for me? Where did he think I would escape to? Nothing makes any sense. And the fire escape stairwell not being alarmed puzzles me as well. Perhaps he meant only to give Caleb’s anger time to cool off. I don’t know. I just know I have to seize the opportunity that is presented. I cannot stay here any longer. Not after what I’ve experienced with Logan.

What do I do now? I glance up at myself in the mirror. I look awful. I take a deep breath, push down my panic.

Clear thought, rational decisions. Do not act out of panic or fear.

I use my fingers to free my hair from its knot, losing a few long black strands in the process. The black stretchy hair tie has my hair tangled around it, and my hair is a matted disaster. I comb it out with my fingers as best I can and then twist it up into a bun, gathering all the loose strands, wetting it with the sink a little to smooth it all out. Tie it back. Hand soap and water, scrub my face clean. Dab dry with rough brown paper towel from an automatic dispenser—which took me a moment to figure out.

Face clean, hair neat. I straighten my dress, smooth out the worst of the wrinkles as best as possible. Adjust my cleavage. Tug the hem down. Slip on my shoes. Deep breath.

Exit, find the stairwell, glance back, debate trying the elevator. They’re looking for me on the stairs now, I assume.

As I’m internally debating, I hear static crackle echoing in the stairwell, a male voice. I move away, follow the corridor around a left turn, slip through a glass doorway into an office. There’s a desk, ornate, polished wood. Tall potted plants in the corners, pointillist art on a wall.

A young woman with a headset sits behind the desk, facing a computer screen. “Can I help you?”

“I think I got off on the wrong floor,” I say. “Can you point me back to the elevators?”

Her eyes narrow, flick over me. She’s looking for something. “May I see your security badge, miss?”

“I—”

She touches a button in front of her. “If you could just wait a moment, I’ll have security come up and we’ll get you a temporary ID badge.”

I turn and duck out.

“Miss? You have to come back!” Her voice is loud, then quieted as the heavy glass door swings closed behind me.

Back to the elevators, touch the call button. Wait, panic rising in my gut. The elevator doors hiss open, and I step into the empty car. This is not the same elevator as stops at my door. There are buttons, dozens of them: G, a numeral one with a star beside it, and then numbers ascending all the way up to fifty-eight. My floor, thirteen, is missing. I look twice: ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen, fifteen . . .

I push the G. Garage? I don’t know.

Sensation of descent. Some instinct has me press the two, and the car stops. I get out on the second floor, suppressing panic. I assume there are security cameras everywhere, that the guards are only moments behind me. I have a thousand problems ahead of me, but all I want right now is to get out of this building.

As I step out, peer side to side, a security guard in a black suit, walkie-talkie in hand, strides around a corner, sees me, shouts. “Stop!”

I duck back in, press the DOOR CLOSE icon, jab the first number my finger finds. The uppermost one, fifty-eight. I hear a fist pound on the door outside, but the elevator is in motion. Up, up, up.

I abruptly punch the button for the sixth floor; the elevator stops, the door slides open, and I step out. Peer side to side, see no one. Lean into the elevator, touch fifty-eight again and let the elevator resume its ascent.

I look around: flat white walls, no decorations, bare concrete floor, industrial, raw, unfinished-looking. Exposed beams above, painted black, exposed pipes painted the same. The hallway extends some twenty feet without door or marking of any kind, then turns right. I follow it, and now there are doors on either side of the hallway, staggered so no door is directly across from another. Door after door. Plain entry doors, no peephole, the door painted the same flat white with large black numerals in industrial stencils. I count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . even numbers on the right, odds on the left. I count twelve doors.

I hear the elevator ding and the doors open. “Yeah, I’m in pursuit on the sixth floor. Copy that. One second.” The same nasally voice from the stairwell.

My heart thunders, my throat closes. I grab the nearest doorknob, twist, push. Oddly, it opens; I was expecting it to be locked.

I have a sense of disorientation, deja vu. This could be my condo, down to the flooring and the dimensions and the paint. The only difference is the artwork on the walls, and there is no Louis XIV chair here, but the couch is the same, built-in bookshelves are the same, a kitchen connected to the living room via open floor plan, a short hallway leading to the single bedroom with the en suite bathroom, a smaller office opposite the bedroom. Instead of a library, I see exercise equipment: a huge purple exercise ball, free weights, weight machines.

Out of habit, I close the front door behind me. It clicks loudly as it closes. Footsteps, bare feet on hardwood.

“Caleb?” A soft female voice, thin, high, a twang to it.

I have no hope of hiding or ducking back out; I can only hope this girl will be sympathetic to my plight.

Short, petite, with reddish-blond hair, freckles, pale brown eyes. Very beautiful. Heart-shaped face, delicate chin. Expressive, expectant eyes.

“You ain’t—aren’t, I mean—you aren’t Caleb.”

“No, I am most certainly not.”

“Who are you?”

I hesitate, infinitesimally. “I am Madame X.”

“That’s your name?”

“Yes. And yours?” I endeavor to seem confident.

Shrug, as if it doesn’t matter. “I’m Six-nine-seven-one-three. For now. But I’m gonna be Rachel.”

My heart twists. “Six-nine . . . what?”

A gesture, pointing at the door opposite. “Across the way, she’s Six-nine-seven-one-four.” A finger pointing next door. “She’s Five. Down the way are Seven and Nine, and across from us are Two, Six, and Eight. That’s all of us, for now.”

“I’m confused.” I have to lean back against the door. Something niggles at me. An idea, a horrible idea.

The girl is dressed in a shift; that’s the only word for it. It’s not a dress, not a nightgown. It’s plain white thin cotton, hangs at midshin. She is very clearly nude beneath it. Barefoot. Hair in a simple low ponytail, no makeup, no paint on fingers or toes.

“It’s my apprentice number. Who are you, and why are you here?”

“I work for Caleb.” It’s the truth and hopefully sounds authoritative.

“But why are you here?” The girl steps toward me, suspicion in her eyes. “Ain’t nobody ever—” She winces, starts over. “I mean . . . No one ever visits except Caleb. No one, not ever. So who are you, and what do you want?”

I examine the ceiling, the corners where the molding joins. “Are you watched?”

“Watched?” Six-nine-seven-one-three follows my gaze. “You mean cameras?” A snort of derision. “You got to be kidding me. This whole floor is off-monitor. This one, nine, fifty-eight, and obviously Caleb’s penthouse up top. Thirteen don’t exist, or there’s no way to get to it. Rumor is Caleb has a secret lair on the thirteenth floor, like a red room or something. But this floor, nine, and fifty-eight, there’s no security cameras or audio. Too much risk, I guess. Can’t have people knowing what’s going on, right?”