Tracey scrambled to her feet, regaining her balance from Jon's shove. She scanned her surroundings. Mittie had been separated from her, and it appeared as if she and Jon were in a plain, square room. The room resembled the stone hall that she and Mittie had earlier entered. She spun around. Behind her was Jon Starr, blocking the path to the only door out.
Outside of the door could be heard Mittie. "Tracey? Tracey!" she yelled. The door shook as Mittie pulled at the handle. "Jon, let her out!"
"Why did it have to be you, Ms. Higgenbottom?" he said, slowly closing the distance between them, ignoring Mittie's yells. His eyes seemed to burn into Tracey's head.
"B-beg pardon?" Tracey stammered, glancing about the room for any sort of way out, any exit she might've missed.
"When I think back to last night, you were the only one not there to see me at my performance. I was quite beside myself."
Mittie continued shaking at the door.
"There was Charlie as well."
"The boy?" he chuckled, his face barely changing expression. "Was that his name?"
"Was?" Tracey said. She stiffened, the knot in her stomach tightening. "Where is he?"
"How should I know, Ms. Higgenbottom." Jon looked to the ground, his mouth pursing in thought. "Tell me," he said, meeting her gaze once more, "Where were you last night?"
Tracey remained silent. She held his stare, stepping back for each step he took forward.
"I was afraid you weren't going to make this simple for me," he sighed.
The door shook once more.
"Tell me what you did with Charlie, and I'll speak."
"I'm afraid you're not in a position to negotiate with me, Tracey," he laughed, a cruel smile spreading on his face. "And again, I haven't the faintest idea of where you can find him. I didn't kidnap him."
"Who said he was kidnapped?"
Jon paused, leveling a stare at Tracey. "I meant to say: it's not as if I kidnapped him," he evenly said.
Tracey shrunk under his gaze. "A strange slip of the tongue, don't you think?"
He didn't answer. He merely maintained his eye contact with Tracey.
"If it wasn't 'as if you kidnapped Charlie'," Tracey mockingly echoed, "Then who's to say it wasn't someone else? Like, say, it was your chef? I know you're involved some sort of way, Jon."
Jon's smile slowly dropped. "And what brings you to the conclusion that it could have been my chef?" he quietly asked.
"Because...," Tracey trailed off, stopping herself. She glanced to the door, noticing that it had stopped moving.
"Rollo must've finally reached down here," Jon dismissively said, casting a glance behind himself.
"Mittie—."
"Your friend," he interrupted, "is alright. I rather like her," he thoughtfully said, pensively staring into the distance. "You, on the other hand," he said, looking to Tracey, "have too many loose ends, too many secrets...it's messy."
"...what?"
"I hate messy things, Tracey. I'm sure you already know that. Mr. Porter was a mess in my plans. And now you."
Tracey paused.
"You know, don't you?" he continued. "About the performances, of how they were mine? That's where you were last night, to see if I'd show up at Baldgrass Theater."
"No, actually." Tracey broke eye contact, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. "We were there for Mrs. Pinot."
"Ha, so you were there! That wasn't too hard to say now, was it?"
Tracey pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. I need to be careful with this one, she thought.
"What is more, I'm glad to see that my plan with Mrs. Pinot nearly worked!" Jon smiled and clapped his hands. Just as quickly, however, his smile faded. "And yet here we are."
He walked closer to her. Tracey distanced herself once more, only to find that she had run into the wall. She slowly exhaled, willing herself to continue maintaining her eye contact.
"I was to leave in the morrow, Tracey," he evenly said, his stare falling into a glare. "If only you had kept quiet," he spat. "We were to leave the country and away from Mrs. Pinot's threats. It was all going so well...until the first mess." Jon's face darkened.
"And this would this mess be...Mr. Porter?" Tracey slowly said, discreetly scanning for escape routes.
"Yes. Mr. Porter."
"You kidnapped Mr. Porter all because he had Mrs. Pinot's documents on your double performances—?"
"Nothing would convince him," he interrupted. "...I didn't mean to..."
Jon's face grew pale. For a moment, it almost seemed to Tracey as if he were afraid. No, she thought, it's something more...remorse? Anger? She couldn't place his emotion. Within the second, however, his face snapped back to the glare.
"Then came the boy, showing up backstage while we were counting the ticket expenses."
"So you do know something about Charlie!"
Jon grew quiet once more. "Perhaps," he finally said.
"Your butler and chef were there. They took Charlie, correct?"
"Hm," Jon hummed in disapproval, tilting his head with a small frown. "My butler and chef happen to have names: Hassan and Rollo," he corrected, ignoring the question. "Now look," he continued, "it comes once more. The mess." He twitched. "You. You're the mess in my plans this time."
He reached for his breast pocket for a split second, but then jerked his hand back.
"And now it's my turn," he evenly said, "once again, to...clean...this mess."
Tracey frowned but said nothing. Instead, she was looking once more to the door behind Jon. He had advanced enough towards her to put a considerable distance between himself and the exit. If I can make a run for it, I don't think he'll be able to catch me so quickly. She bit her lip. But is that door locked?
"Tracey," Jon said, disrupting her train of thoughts. "I'm curious, how did you find out about me? I'm quite certain I took all the evidence from the office."
"Is this some kind of a joke?" she spat. "Why did you keep sending those combustible notes that taunted me every step of the way? You should have been more careful than that."
"Notes?" Jon blinked and frowned.
"The...notes?" Tracey repeated, this time with less certainty. "The ones that were supposed to frame Mrs. Pinot. That was your plan, was it not?"
Jon stared. "Why would I...?"
Frustration welled up in Tracey. "Why should I believe a word you say?" she burst. "You're an actor! Of course, you can just be pretending during every second of this conversation." She glanced to the door once more. If I time this correctly...
"I'm being genuine, I don't understand what you mean?" Jon's face twisted into what seemed to be confusion.
"You must be having fun with me, aren't you?" Tracey sniffed.
"Yes," he said, his face breaking into a smile. "This is rather fun. I haven't had this sort of fun in a very long time. But no," he said with a serious expression. "why would I ever send you clues?"
"I don't know, because you're a madman?" she said, trying to stand her ground and hide her fear.
"Strange you should use that word," he said with a laugh, his mouth twitching into a small smile. "You said it yourself I'm an actor. I must be acting convincingly, then." The smile dropped. "Unlike you."
Tracey shrank under his stare, discreetly pointing her feet to the exit.
"I can see your fear, Ms. Higgenbottom," he said. He made as if to step forward, but changed his mind and stayed in the same place. "Tell me," he slowly said, his face expressionless. "Why. Are. You. Here?"
Tracey swallowed. "You know why. You...you said it yourself," she said, venturing to echo him. "We had reason to believe that Mr. Porter is here."
Jon did not react. He only continued his stare.
"Y-you see, we had hoped that..." Tracey trailed off. Her skin seemed to crawl under his gaze.
The silence was almost deafening.
"...hoped?" he quietly chuckled. "Hope...is for cowards."
Tracey inched to the side, trying to position herself into a running position. He continued his advance, walking closer to her.
"There is only hardship, Tracey. You know it. I know it." With each sentence, he took one step closer to her.
Tracey shuffled more. "Please, Jon. I have no interest in whatever you're doing with those performances. I just want to know where Mr. Porter is. Please, tell me where Mr. Porter is, or let me peacefully leave and search for him myself."
Jon smirked and closed their distance. He was almost directly in front of her. Tracey clenched her jaw in disgust. He's just having fun!
"Not another step!" she hissed.
"Oh?" he stopped. "You mean like this?" he stepped again.
"Stop that!"
"And what will you do? Try me."
Tracey struggled to hold his gaze.
"Well," he chuckled. "I'm surprised that you think that I didn't notice you trying to distance yourself from me? Do you think that you can run in this sort of place?"
Tracey noticed that he reached for his breast pocket once more, this time grabbing hold of the red brooch on his pocket. The brooch! She remembered, thinking back to Mittie's earlier excitement of seeing it.
"Oh, you see my brooch?" Jon smiled. "Mr. Pinot made this for me years ago," he said, fondly looking at it in his hands.
"Mr. Pinot?" she said, feigning interest. Anything to stall him, she thought.
"Yes, Mrs. Pinot's late husband. He was a good man. Pity he died." Jon's eyes flicked up and met Tracey's once more. "Did you know Mrs. Pinot blames me for his death? How was I to know he'd die while making my steam car's silencer?"
"Is that how no one heard you when you kidnapped Mr. Porter?" Tracey ventured, eyeing for the exit once more.
"You're testing me, Ms. Higgenbottom," he growled with an edge to his voice. "I never said I knew where Mr. Porter is." He stared out into the distance. "As for that steam car silencer... What more could I do but take my car back, show my appreciation for his efforts, and use it?" he continued, a small laugh escaping from him.
Tracey bent her knees, posing to run. If I could just reach for that door...
"Ah-ah," he chuckled, firmly placing a hand on Tracey's shoulder. Tracey shrugged off the hand and stepped to the side. "Tracey, don't you think that you're a bit too knowledgeable to just go walking around in Mondon after our little tete-a-tete?"
"Oh, no, no!" Tracey said in an exaggerated fashion. "I hardly can even remember what we were speaking of!"
Jon's smile dropped once more. "You truly are a terrible actor, Ms. Higgenbottom." He held out the red brooch to her. "Oh well, I'm sure you won't need those...skills where you're going."
"W-what are you doing? What is this?" Tracey stammered, scooting out of his reach.
"You'll just sleep for a few minutes, no worries."
"Everything you've been saying has been worrisome," she retorted. Now!
Abruptly, Tracey broke into a run and dashed to the door. Her hand closed on the handle and she desperately wiggled at it. Just as I feared, locked!
"Do you take me for a fool, Tracey?" Jon laughed, his voice alarmingly close behind herself. He must have dashed over while I was running, she thought in surprise. He gently turned her around to face him.
Tracey deeply sighed, staring at the ground.
"This is really a quite fascinating device, Tracey," he said, holding it up and looking at it admirably. "It's a shame. I wonder what other sort of inventions Mr. Pinot would have made had he survived."
Tracey remained silent, willing herself not to tremble. He must have the key on himself somewhere... She bit her lips. If I can get him to move again, maybe I can hear it clatter?
"Do you know that Mrs. Pinot has one similar?" Jon continued, seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil. "The gear brooch," he clarified. "She must have it for her own self-defense."
The blueprints! Tracey thought of, her mind flashing back to Harriet's earlier findings. "And now, Tracey...," he said, his eyes flicking to her.
Without warning, Tracey darted towards him, dodging his hands, and pushing him backward. "Oof!" he grunted, falling to the floor in a heap.
In what sounded to be his left side, was a small jingle of metal. There! Tracey swooped down and snatched out the object from his pocket, grinning in relief to see the shape of a key. I've got it! Pivoting, Tracey dashed back to the door and, much to her relief, unlocked it. She swung the door open. Before she could take her hand off the knob, however, Tracey felt a hand yanking her other arm back. The door slammed shut. No, no, no!
"You're a tricky one, aren't you?" he laughed, with a wild look in his eyes. Jon's grip tightened on her arm. Tracey tried to wiggle out of the surprisingly strong hold—to no avail. "Did I mention how much I hate messes?" he said, his laughter slipping to reveal a furious glower. "Look at my clothes, Tracey! Don't you think that you've done enough?"
There was no more plan, she had run out of all options. Tracey once again felt helpless. How did it come to this? she thought in despair.
"This was a lovely chat, don't you think?" he growled. Jon placed the device to the back of her head and sighed. "It's really a shame I have to leave you like this, Ms. Higgenbottom. No, considering how you just tried to leave me, I suppose I'm doing you a favor, am I not?"
"Wait!"
Tracey hardly had the words out before he flicked the device to life. She could feel its little gears as they whirred and spun. "This should only take a few seconds," he pleasantly said with a smile once more on his face.
"What...what should onl—ack!" A sharp, shrill sound blasted from the device and seemed to ring in Tracey's head. She could not remember when she fell.