Get Out If You Can

Emilie | Bodies In The Tearoom

"How the hell are you here?"

I honestly don't see any reason for the French Association to call any of them to a scholarship meeting, but then again, this place is so huge. Many people must have hired it.

Which is very unprofessional, but I don't think that matters anymore. I'm staring at the indiscernible emotions playing on Matt Hastings's face.

It's weird, for sure, but it's — no, that couldn't be it. The lady in there convinced me that this isn't a farce. She totally knew what she was doing.

But there's always an unless to every tale.

"I could honestly ask you the same thing," he says, a light drawl to his voice. "You, of all people. This is still October, remember?"

I smack my forehead so hard the sound echoes past the walls of the manor. Mon dieu. I knew it.

"C'est horrible!" I exclaim, my brain dysfunctional with every passing second. I fucking knew it. This was all part of the plan of some crack sicko who wanted to get something out of us.

Some very rich crack sicko, however. You couldn't really afford to hire Calleja manor for your entertainment unless you were very literally rolling in the dough.

"Je sais!" Matt mocks, and I sneer at him, my nostrils flaring.

"You think this is funny?"

"It depends," he says, shamelessly shrugging his shoulders. "Might as well enjoy the last moments of our lives, right?"

"Not if we can get out of here." We all turn around. Diego, who was standing with us a few seconds ago, is crouched down next to the oak doors, fumbling in his pocket for something. "Not if we try."

We watch him for a while. I know he's going to lash out or something, but either way. I doubt I'd be of much use even if I tried. I'm just too taken aback by the entire thing.

"What?" He looks up at us, eyes filled with malice. "Don't stand there and wait, go look for something! Anything!"

I wait for a while, watching him, as he does something — I have absolutely no idea what — with the bottom of the door. I think it's better this way, I'm practically useless. My brain is clouded with anger and what I could have said to Maman, to try and get me out of this mess before it even started, that I can't think straight.

What on Earth had tricked us?

Well, whatever had. No use bothering. I knew something like this would happen. I just don't understand how I didn't...well, no use thinking that.

And honestly, how bad could it be? I just hope they don't jump out at us with machine guns, whoever the hell is doing this.

Though I wouldn't put it past them.

"Badeaux," a voice sneers, and I look forward, back at Diego. He clearly isn't having luck with whatever he's doing, and fumbled footsteps on the plush carpeted floor tell me that the others are already off, trying to make themselves useful.

"You know, you aren't doing much standing over there and looking at me."

I want to snap back, but for some reason I can't. I ignore him and walk up one stray staircase that nobody seems to have taken.

The good thing so far is that it seems like no one is here. I prefer that. Maybe they'll all wait and see if we starve to death, which isn't totally possible because Torrez's parents aren't going to let him away from their castle of a house for longer than midnight. We'll most probably make it out of here alive. Maybe this is just another...psychological experiment. To freak us out. Every other blatant scare turns out to be a psychological experiment in the end.

I jog up the last of the stairs, thanking myself for chucking out the high heels. It'd be literal hell walking with those.

I reach the first landing, and look around. It's a circular room, with glass for windows, and for a second I'm tempted to simply break open one of them and jump out of the newly shattered glass. I can't, though. I'd given up strength training years ago, when I'd given up karate.

I stand at the centre of the room, marked on the floor by an intricate painting of a flower, and devour it all with my eyes.

Light evening rays of sunshine spill on the glass, hitting my eyes with such a sting I've got to shade them. If I wasn't trapped here by someone I didn't know, then I guess I would be taking out my phone and taking pictures. And probably posting them online. God, maybe I should do that! It's got the double advantage of green-eyeing both Kat and Aria and the rest of them who got perfect selfies on Caribbean beaches every summer. Nonsense.

Mon dieu, they had no clue how to dress. And how they posed for the camera, like they were J Crew models looking for a catalogue to fit into. What I felt they looked like were liposuctioned gnomes looking for a garden. I'd pull that off way better.

But hey, I wasn't rolling in the dough. At all. Papa's law firm had collapsed before it even started, and Maman relied on her patisserie skills to bring in some money. We did qualify for government aid, but my parents didn't think they were that needy.

I think they are, and I'm right.

I shake my head, unraveling some strands of hair from my messy bun. Well, fuck it. I reach into the pocket of my dress and feel around for my phone. If I'm gonna die — to be honest, I most probably might not — I should make use of the time I have left.

I pull out my phone and open the camera app, positioning myself at a perfect angle so that the pale pink sky and the golden light plays on my face. I flash a smile, and hover my finger over the 'capture' button.

I peer into the screen, checking out the picture before I can hit the button, and then I...

No.

I whip round, my hair falling helplessly from the loose bun it's tied into, to look at the mound I'd seen on the selfie screen.

I rake my eyes over the lump draped on the velvet sofa behind me,my heart drumming wildly against my rib cage as I come to accept the worst.

It looks oddly...human.

I take slow, small steps towards the lump on the sofa, my breath hitching and my legs melting to rubber as I confirm my suspicions. Golden brown hair is draped over the face of this person, and though it's killing me, I have to look. I'm almost tempted to brush aside the curtain of hair, but I don't think that's the best thing to do at the moment. I'll find out in good time. I don't want to know it if this is someone I know.

I kneel beside the limp figure, searching for a wrist. I find one under the curtain of hair, and press my finger against it, wishing harder than I ever have before.

I can't feel anything. Holy shit.

I press harder against the clammy skin, hoping to feel something, whatever it may be...hoping the harsh beating of my heart can induce some kind of pulse in this limp, pale wrist.

Tension builds behind my eyes. I'm not prepared for a death. Tears slowly crawl against the sides of my cheeks, surprisingly hot against my cold skin. This is about as real as it gets. She can't have died, she can't have, it's not—

And then I feel it.

It's a pulse. A light one, a tentative one. But still. A pulse.

My cheeks crinkle into a relieved smile and warmth spreads over my body as my finger leaves the now-alive wrist. I slowly take up a hand and brush away the hair from the person's face. I guess it's okay now to —

Shit.

My happiness — or rather, relief — is gone as soon as it came. Mais certainement, I had a nudging thought that this would be the case.

I draw in a long breath; new, angry and scared tears streaking my face. I don't know why I cry at everything — always. I don't know, I hate it.

Anyway. This isn't for me to handle alone. I get up from the floor, and prepare to yell.