![]() The vintage wool bathing suit he’d worn to the beach is in a heap on the mosaic tile.Įach bathroom in Ashwood Manor has been meticulously preserved, and Blaine’s is decorated with golden art deco mirrors. Blaine is standing in the canary-yellow tub, with a sheer shower curtain drawn around him, his head and chest barely visible through the swirling steam. I hide behind the cracked door and peer through the gap. ![]() Even so, I hold my breath as I creep toward the bathroom. The antique shower plumbing whistles and bangs as loudly as the rusty boiler in Marian Academy’s basement. The others are busy getting dressed for cocktail hour, but it would be unforgivable to take any risks now that I’ve come this far. I lock Blaine’s door with a soft click so no one can follow me into his bedroom. The knife burns cold in my trembling hand. ![]()
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