“All right, sweetie.” Mrs. Cole cuts him off, effortlessly shooting down another one of Rudy’s ideas. Ever since money had gotten tight, it had been post this, post that—but Rudy and his mother have very different ideas of what makes good internet content. A video of them painting the walls beige, for example, isn’t on Rudy’s list of ideal posts.
But he is the one with the fans. Rudy turns back to the camera and shoots it a wink followed by one of his trademark smirks. The minute the camera pans off him, he gives his mother a look. Another idea, shot down. And he knows that it would bring views . . .
“Come on, Mom. Don’t you want to test how a coat of EverBright paint will hold up against some artwork?” Rudy whispers, taking a page from Amber’s book of parental persuasion. If there is a way to his mom’s heart, it’s through one of their sponsors.
She makes a noise that’s not entirely disapproval. Progress.
“Gucci did do a graffiti shoot earlier this season,” Amber chimes in.
“Yeah,” says Cecily. “It would be so on-brand. And I could use some more clothes.”
“You wish,” Rudy says.
“All right, kids,” Mr. Cole says, cutting in. He turns his attention to Mrs. Armstrong and nods for her to continue. She leads them back into the hall and opens up a small door in the center of the hallway.
“And here we have a truly unique installation: dumbwaiters,” she says. “They’re still fully functional, although I’m sure they could use some . . . touching up.”
Everything in this house could use some touching up, Rudy thinks. Still, he peers into the dumbwaiter. That’s pretty cool. Behind him, Amber captures it on camera.
Mrs. Armstrong turns the family down the hallway again, but before she can open her mouth, Rudy interrupts her. “What’s that?” he asks, gesturing at a rectangular cut in the ceiling.
Mrs. Armstrong glances upward. “Oh, just attic access. Of course, it’s unfinished.” She reaches up for the panel, but the string sticks. She turns back to the family, grimacing. “I’m sorry—I think the previous owners must have sealed it off, for insulation purposes. It is nothing more than an unfinished crawl space—the master key and a good toolbox should open it, if you want to look around later.”
Creepy, Rudy thinks. Definitely on-brand with this strange mansion.
The realtor brings them farther down the hallway. “All right, well, there is one more room up here,” she says, leading them toward a small door nestled between two decrepit bedrooms.
“Oh, is this the turret?” Cecily asks.
Mrs. Armstrong gives her a strange, pained smile and reaches for the door handle.
It sticks.
Mrs. Armstrong’s smile falters. She shoots the camera a hesitant glance and tries once more. Again, the door is stuck. No, not stuck. Locked. “That’s strange, it was unlocked this morning . . . at least I thought it was . . . ,” she murmurs.
“Spooky,” Rudy remarks, winking at the camera. Cecily rolls her eyes.
Mrs. Armstrong pulls two keys out of her suit jacket pocket. “No matter. These are the keys to the house—your keys once this tour is over. They unlock every door in the place.” The keys look more like movie props than anything—thick metal skeleton keys that probably weigh a ton.
“When you said the house dated back to the eighteen hundreds, you weren’t kidding, huh?” Mr. Cole says.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Armstrong says. “This is a very . . . historical house.” The door opens with a snick. She lets out a relieved sigh and shoots a forced smile at the camera. “Right this way!”
She leads them up a rickety flight of stairs to another small door. This one, too, is locked. She opens it with the skeleton key. The room that’s revealed is hexagonal in shape and full of light, offering gorgeous views of the surrounding wooded hills. Rudy takes everything in. The room feels strange, somehow. As if it’s holding its breath.
Cecily follows them in. “The lighting in here is amazing!” she exclaims. “I should totally set up my makeup studio in here!”
Mr. Cole’s not looking at the lighting. He’s staring at the trim of the big bay window. Rudy’s eyes follow his father’s gaze. Mr. Cole is staring out the window, and he’s gnawing on his lower lip. Rudy recognizes one of his father’s obvious tells—the reason that he never made it as a gambler. He’s gone quiet. Too quiet.
Mrs. Armstrong sees him staring. “Yes,” she says in a low voice. “I’m afraid this is where it happened.”
“Robert?” Mrs. Cole asks. “Where what happened?”
Rudy sees the panicked look cross his father’s face and wonders what the hell is going on.
“What happened?” Amber echoes.
It’s too serious in here, Rudy thinks, so he steps in with a joke. “What, someone jump out the window?” But his joke falls so, so flat. Mrs. Cole turns to Rudy and makes a slashing motion over her throat.
Mrs. Armstrong looks confused. “I was under the impression that your family knew about the house history.”
“What history?” Rudy asks before his mom can shush him.
“That there was a . . . suicide in this room.”
“Turn off the camera. Now,” Mrs. Cole snaps. Rudy and his sisters stare at their father, dumbfounded. He knew that Dad was desperate to make this renovation work, but this? The house’s being in bad shape is one thing, but hiding a death on the property? Mrs. Cole glares at her husband. If looks could kill, Rudy thinks, Dad wouldn’t have a chance.
Amber cuts the footage. On Rudy’s phone, notifications ping as viewers comment on their livestream, asking why it ended, if the realtor had really said that someone had committed suicide.
Mrs. Cole turns on her heels. “What do you mean, a suicide?”
Mrs. Armstrong gestures at the window. “I’m sorry, I thought your husband had informed the family . . .”
Mrs. Cole looks at her husband. “You knew
