Book Six, Chapter 39: Daphne Interlude Part I

Homibride, sometimes known as Daphne Sinclair, had to make everything perfect for her wedding. She stared into the mirror as she brushed her hair and meditated on who she was this time.

She had been here before. Not just in this casino and not just in Carousel; she had been in this exact moment before.

She had loved a man. A gambler who could read everyone in the world just by looking them in the eye, everyone, that is, except for Daphne herself.

That was love, right? What else could it be? He was a lock only she could open. Or perhaps she was the lock, and he was a key who could open anyone but her…

She would work on the metaphor later. She needed it ready by the Finale.

Whether they be lock or key, they were meant to share a wedding day. There could be no other explanation.

What was this poker player’s name? She didn’t remember. Carousel kept that from her, cruelly. But today, his name was Riley. Riley Lawrence, a man who certainly knew about risk-taking. She knew that much. She could tell the moment she looked at him.

Carousel had given her scouting tropes to help pick out her husbands, to find men that were her type, or one of her types, at least. And Riley was her favorite type: broken, in dire need of her help to release his baggage.

She needed him. And he needed her.

That was love.

This room at the hotel was an old haunt of hers. How long she had been there, she didn’t know. By now, she was as much a part of this hotel as the doorknobs. It was the same at the ski resort in Snowblind or that little farm venue out in eastern Carousel.

This place was part of her. She loved Carousel.

Sometimes, it loved her back, she felt.

All of her things were in this room. Her outfits, which she had collected from playmates over one hundred storylines, and one hundred storylines again, were hung in the closets.

Her weapons, most dear to her, were locked inside a trunk at the foot of her bed. The same trunk she had brought to Carousel so long ago, covered with stickers and stamps that told the story of her travels around Europe, Asia, and North America.

She wondered if her America was the same one that Riley knew. Could she rely on her memories to help her blend in? Best not to tempt fate. She had been burned before.

One stamp was from a train station in Paris, where her trunk had gotten lost for three weeks. Luckily, it didn’t contain too many weapons back then, or else she would have had some questions to answer.

That was from her wedding to a man named Maximilian. He had a yacht that cost more than most people would make in their lifetimes. He loved that boat. In a way, it was romantic, when she sailed away with it, the way he swam after her. She didn’t know if he was chasing her or the boat.

Maybe a bit of both.

Yes, she had lovers on every continent and in several bodies of water.

She had two stickers from Argentina on her trunk. She had been married twice there in the same three-month period. Once to a widower, Ernesto, who missed his first wife, his true love. Daphne reunited them using a radio in a bathtub, an apparent accident. And then she married his son, who missed his father, gone too soon.

She had a sticker from Australia, where her husband had asphyxiated on a bit of unchewed steak. He chewed with his mouth open, a nasty habit. One particularly grisly piece entered his throat and stayed there with a bit of help from Daphne’s chokehold.

That sticker joined one from London, where she and her husband had reportedly been mugged in an alley and her husband had died protecting her from a trio of knife-wielding hooligans. He probably would have too; he was so chivalrous.

So many memories locked away.

Today wasn’t about unchewed steak or the mean streets of London. Today was about the gambler.

Today was about Riley.

She brushed her hair all the while as she contemplated this. Her wedding dress was currently being worn by a mannequin in the corner of the room. She would slip into it soon, and while wearing it, she would become herself. She was only herself when she was married. Until then, she could be anyone.

Her ritual brushing and stroking her hair until she became herself was interrupted as a shadow passed across the peephole of her door, and a folded note was slid through the crack underneath.

Not this one again, she thought to herself as she went On-Screen.

She was out of her chair and across the room as fast as she could go.

She scooped up the letter and began to read it aloud, but only the first few lines.

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Ms. Sinclair?
We know Rachel Hutchins went missing ten years ago.
We also know you’re not her.

She stopped. She couldn’t finish reading the letter. It would annoy the audience if she spent too much time focusing on the letter just now. When someone drops something off at your door anonymously, you’re supposed to see who it is before they can slip away.

Everybody knows that.

So she quickly unbolted and unlatched her door, swung it open, and looked out into the hallway. It was empty.

Empty except for the maid pushing her cart along, rounding the corner due east, headed up a different corridor. There was no exit in the opposite way, so her anonymous pen pal must have gone in that same direction.

Daphne quickly closed her door, being sure to grab her handbag, and walked at a fast pace down the hallway as she read the rest of the note.

It was exactly as she had feared. It was those damn blackmailers again. While she couldn’t remember much about them, she remembered the bile and hatred she had for them, for how pesky they were to clean up.

Ms. Sinclair?
We know Rachel Hutchins went missing ten years ago.
We also know you’re not her.
You’ve worn other names. Elise. Marnie. Maybe more.
But Rachel was a bold choice.
Your fiancé plays to win. High stakes, high visibility.
Imagine how he will react when all the cards are on the table.
Our silence costs one hundred thousand dollars in cash.
Bring it to the maintenance corridor, level one, Carousel Casino Hotel.
North end, near the staff lockers. Four o’clock on the eighth.
There’s a black laundry bin against the far wall. Drop the money inside and leave immediately.
No talking. No delays. No second chances.
We don’t want to know why you are living a lie; we only want to know what you are willing to do to keep it going.
You keep your secret. We keep quiet.

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