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My foot bounces on the carpet of the hospital waiting room. The plastic chair digs into my back, but it’s only a dim prick of pain compared to my heavy heart and panicked thoughts.
What is Eva doing here, anyway? Why was she driving? She didn’t even have her permit when I left. But that was a year ago. Was she getting impatient? I can’t blame her. Being alone in that house would drive anyone to madness.
A door swings open from the far side of the room. It’s the doctor, face unreadable, white coat flowing out behind him, coming toward me. I stand and approach him, both eager to hear the news and deathly afraid of what he might say. What if Eva is dead? I chastise myself for jumping to such extremes. But what if she is?
I’m about to find out.
“She’s alive,” the doctor says.
I sigh with relief, and all my tension vanishes. He details her injuries, but I don’t understand what half of it means. “Is it bad?”
“We’ll have to continue monitoring her for now. She may need surgery. But I expect a full recovery.”
“Can I see her?”
He nods. “Follow me.”
We navigate the white, sterile hospital halls at a brisk pace. Doors to other patients’ rooms pass by, some closed, some open to show people laying in bed. But I pay little attention to what’s around, intent only on seeing Eva.
We stop at another door, identical to all the ones we already passed, and I follow the doctor inside. Only one patient resides inside.
My sister lies on a bed, eyes closed. Her expression is restless, as if she fell asleep while in pain.
The doctor glances at me. “She’s sleeping. She needs a lot of rest to recover.”
I stumble over to the bed and kneel next to her head. Her chestnut hair sticks to her face with sweat and I push it back.
Why did I let this happen? My mind assaults me with guilt. I should have known she would come visit sooner than we had planned. I should have told her not to drive herself here. She gets distracted too easily, and we both know it. I should have been there for her instead of leaving. It was selfish of me, abandoning her just so I could be away from our grandparents. This never would have happened if I had stayed.
The thoughts continue to flood in until I’m unable to move or think, paralyzed by what if’s and should have’s. Then another thought sinks in: I have no money to pay for medical bills. As if earning money for myself and Eva weren’t enough, now I have to pay for hospital stay and maybe surgery as well. I’ll be—
The treasure.
I have no choice now. I need to find it. It’s the only option.
A week later, after finishing my second lesson with Shane, I stroll down the Hallway of Darkness—now knowing better than to hurry through it. I walk like a zombie with my hands in front of me, saving my face from the trouble of absorbing any potential impacts. My mind ventures back to the room behind me and the previous two lessons.
I can’t help but get frustrated by the boy’s lack of attention. He’s the antithesis of my natural desire to micromanage everything—unpredictable and unruly. I know I can’t expect much from someone of his age, but regardless, it’s still annoying. And I somehow have to do enough to make myself and Hawksley feel that my time is worth his money.
Out of the darkness emerges the sliver of light shining from under the entrance door, and I slow my pace even more.
This is it. I can’t get caught. If I do, I’ll likely be banished from this place forever and my chance will vanish.
Opening the door, I surreptitiously glance around.
No one.
I expected as much. When Hawksley let me in, I didn’t see another soul in the large entry room. Hopefully, the rest of the mansion is similarly sparsely populated.
I turn to the left and creep forward, attempting to minimize the squeals of protest from the old floor and keeping an ear out for any creaks that don’t come from me. But as I come to the first door after the one that leads to the piano room, a realization comes to me.
One of the first observations I made about this maze of a house is the ludicrous number of doors. Each door hides a room. Each room has the potential to hold the treasure.
Well, I have my work cut out for me. I’d better get moving.
I grab the handle of the first door on the left and the cold from the smooth brass knob chills my hand. Pulling the door open, I wince at every groan of old wood; what waits behind it startles me. Instead of a dusty, empty room, or even a clean, well-furnished room, there’s…no room at all. Just a wall.
I let go of the door and step back. A part of the wall was cut out and a door frame set into it. But whoever put it there apparently forgot to add an actual room beyond the entrance.
I blink and close the door. How many of the doors are like this? While this will accelerate my searching, it baffles me beyond words. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me, since the outside of the mansion would suggest a nonsensical interior such as this.
Recovering my thoughts, I tip-toe to the next door and turn the knob.
Locked. I move on.
The next door finally reveals an actual room, rather than a door. It’s also dusty and devoid of any furniture, bearing no footprints in the several-inch-thick dust. As I continue to search over the next several minutes, I come across many such rooms, with the only variety being that some have crooked ceilings or warped walls. A good third of the doors are just facades, opening to a rectangle of surprisingly clean wall.
After the sixteenth door reveals nothing but another empty room, I let out an exasperated sigh and slam the door shut. A second later, I realize what I did and freeze. I probably just alerted everyone in the house to my presence. I glance to my right, where the line of doors turns into a hallway with doors on both sides, and imagine Hawksley or a servant flying out of a door and escorting me out.
Panic threatening to take control, I—as quietly as possible—rush to the next door and ease it open. There’s a room; perfect. I can hide in there until whoever comes to investigate leaves. I don’t even want to think about what I would do if someone opened the door to the room I’m in. Maybe I can find a place to hide.
A glance around the room reveals just what I expected. No furniture, no closet, no place to hide. Just dark wood flooring and wood walls. But a single piece of wall decoration causes me pause.
A painting hangs on the wall inside a decorative gold frame. It’s a portrait of a man wearing a three-piece suit in front of a nondescript background. Out of all the ritzy furnishings this place could have, that’s what’s in here? I raise one eyebrow at the stoic face looking into the distance.
But then my brow furrows. Something about the man looks familiar. I’ve seen him before, or at least his doppelgänger. I attempt to match the portraits featured with my acquaintances—the high cheekbones, the close-cut hair, the thin, brown beard. But as they match with a face I know, it’s a face much older than the one in the picture. And it’s one I should have expected all along.
I almost laugh when I see the resemblance to Hawksley. It’s the man himself, in his younger, happier days. While he’s not smiling in the portrait, the weight and tiredness of the present Hawksley is in his eyes. Of course, it makes perfect sense that such a rich man as Hawksley would keep a portrait of himself above all else.
I’m brought back to the present by a surprising silence. There have been no footsteps, shouts, or opening doors since I accidentally slammed the door. Could it be that no one noticed? Maybe the house is more soundproof than I thought.
Glancing back at the painting, I evaluate its worth. How much could I get at an auction for this? Is this the Hawksley treasure?
An almost inaudible creak of the wood floor comes from outside the room. My muscles seize up and I grow completely quiet.
My ears ring as I strain to hear, but I think I can make out soft breathing coming from the same place.
Dread sweeps through my body and I scramble to press myself against the back wall. Who knows what kind of maniac Hawksley has sent after me? Could he be armed? If the man is protecting some sort of fortune—whether this painting or something else—it would make sense. Maybe he called the police.
An idea comes to me. It probably won’t work, but it’s the best I have. Fear still clouds my mind as I stand and inch to the door. The brass handle again sends chills down my spine, but this time it’s not just the cold.
I turn the knob and begin to pull; the door moves toward me of its own accord. Mr. Hawksley stands in the doorway with his arm partly outstretched—from pushing the door, I’d imagine—with an unreadable look on his face.
After a moment filled with awkward silence, I try my excuse. “I was looking for the bathroom.” I laugh sheepishly and tilt my head toward the room. “This isn’t it.”
Hawksley speaks in his same strained, quiet voice. “The bathroom is the ninth door on the right side of the first floor.”
“Uh, thank you. Actually, I don’t really need to use the bathroom that much. I think I’ll just…go. If that’s okay.”
Hawksley moves out of the way and I slide past him. He follows me down the stairs, across the vast first floor room, and shuts the grand double doors behind me. A lock clicks into place. Without looking back, I plop into my car, drive around the fountain, past the gate—which is already open this time—and onto the main road.
The landmarks pass by unnoticed around me. My muscles are still tight, my heart racing. After a few minutes, the quiet hum of driving calms my nerves.
He didn’t seem suspicious. He didn’t force me to leave. But he had to have some suspicions after I poked around his house for half an hour. Only the next lesson will tell if he’ll take me back.
Pushing those concerns aside, my mind falls on something more pressing. I’m no closer to finding the treasure than I was. The painting is just a worthless artifact of the man’s ego. But it’s a sign that I’m heading in the right direction—he obviously does, or at least did, have significant wealth. I have to think of another way to sneak off after a lesson, since he’ll probably be watching me closer after this.
Finding the treasure is not optional anymore.
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