Chapter 2: Hit the girl 2
The first thing Sophie registered was the heat. A solid, living warmth pressed along the entire length of her back, from shoulder blades to calves. Then, the weight of an arm slung possessively over her ribs, a hand resting, fingers splayed, just below her sternum. She blinked. Pale, liquid gold filtered through the shoji screens, painting the tatami mats in long, striped rectangles. It was early. The kind of quiet that felt thicker than sleep.
She shifted slightly, and the body behind her shifted with her, a seamless, sleepy echo. The scent of hotel shampoo—ginger and something green—mixed with the deeper, muskier scent of skin. Katherine. Kat. They’d fallen into the same futon last night, too tired from travel and the silent, charged awkwardness of sharing a space to fuss about the second one folded in the corner. The silk sheets were a tangled pool around their legs.
Sophie turned her head on the pillow. Kat lay facing her, still deeply asleep. In the diluted morning light, the sharp angles of her face were softened. Blond hair fanned out, catching the light like frayed silk. Her breathing was slow and even. The grey sweatpants and jacket from last night were gone, discarded somewhere in the dark; she wore only a simple cotton tank top and underwear. The sheet had slipped low on her hips.
For a long moment, Sophie just looked. The athletic curve of a shoulder, the smooth line of a throat, the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She was, objectively, breathtaking. And in this unguarded state, she seemed almost… harmless. Sophie knew better. She’d seen the clever, assessing gleam in Kat’s eyes in the lobby, heard the playful, probing tone. This was a performance, even in sleep. Probably.
Her own hand moved almost without her permission, a slow, trailing touch over the dip of Kat’s waist, the rise of her hip bone. The skin was warm, impossibly smooth. She let her fingertips rest there, feeling the faint beat of a pulse beneath. “Aufstehen, Schönheit,” she whispered, her voice raspy with sleep.
Kat’s eyes didn’t open, but a slow smile touched her lips. She made a soft, protesting noise in the back of her throat and wriggled closer, sliding her leg between Sophie’s, her face nestling into the hollow of Sophie’s neck. Her arm tightened. “Noch eine minute,” she murmured, the German awkward but understandable. Her breath was warm against Sophie’s skin.
Sophie didn’t pull away. The intimacy was a trap, she knew that. A grenade with the pin half-pulled. But the warmth was real, and the loneliness that had been her constant companion since the wedding felt, for just this suspended minute, held at bay. She let her hand continue its idle exploration, tracing the line of Kat’s spine through the thin cotton of her tank top, then skating back up to cradle the nape of her neck. Kat sighed, a contented sound, and her own hand began to move in response. Her palm slid up Sophie’s arm, over the curve of her shoulder, her thumb brushing the strap of Sophie’s own camisole, then retreating to stroke a slow, lazy circle on her back.
It was a language without verbs. A slow, somatic dialogue in the hushed room. The light strengthened, turning from gold to a clear, cool white. A bird called from the garden outside, a sharp, two-note song. Sophie watched the shadows shift on the low, wooden ceiling. Kat’s touch was neither hesitant nor demanding; it was proprietary, as if she were mapping familiar territory. Her fingers traced the ridge of Sophie’s collarbone, dipped into the hollow at the base of her throat.
Sophie’s own fingertips skirted the hem of Kat’s top, brushing against the warm, taut skin of her lower back. The air between them grew heavy, charged with a sleepy, resonant electricity. It was the intimacy of shared breath, of synchronized heartbeats, of skin knowing skin without agenda. It wasn’t leading anywhere. It simply was. A moment stolen from the coming storm of filming, of seeing Rose, of past confrontations and future ones. Here, in this cocoon of silk and light, there was only the slide of fabric, the shift of muscle, the profound, simple animal comfort of another body.
Kat finally stirred, nuzzling against Sophie’s jaw. “Your scar,” she mumbled, her voice thick. “It’s paler in this light.”
Sophie flinched, a tiny, involuntary spasm. The scar above her eyebrow was a childhood gift from a tree branch, a story she never told. That Kat had noticed it, was noting it now, felt more invasive than any touch. “Yeah,” she said, her voice flat.
Kat leaned back just enough to look at her, eyes half-lidded, blue and knowing. “I like it. Gives you character. Most people in this business look like they’ve never lived enough to get a scratch.” Her thumb came up and brushed the faint line, once. The gesture was oddly tender. Then she grinned, the mask snapping back into place. “Also, it’s photogenic. Anguish light.”
And just like that, the spell fractured. Sophie pulled back, putting a few inches of cool sheet between them. “You’re insufferable.”
“You were just enjoying my insufferability,” Kat said, pushing herself up on one elbow. The sheet fell away completely, and she didn’t bother pulling it back. She stretched, a long, cat-like motion that made the muscles in her abdomen ripple. “God, I need coffee. Do you think they do proper American coffee here, or just that whispery leaf water?”
“It’s called tea,” Sophie said, sitting up and running a hand through her tangled hair. The moment was gone, replaced by the awkward reality of the morning after an unplanned intimacy. Her skin still hummed where Kat had touched her.
“Same difference.” Kat swung her legs out and stood, padding barefoot across the tatami to the small ensuite bathroom. She left the door open. Sophie heard the tap run. “So. Rose gets in today, right?”
The name landed in the serene room like a shard of ice. Sophie busied herself with straightening the futon, folding the sheet with precise, military corners. “Her flight lands at three.”
“And the great reunion is at the welcome dinner tonight.” Kat’s voice was muffled by toothbrush. She reappeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, toothpaste foam at the corner of her mouth. “You ready for that? Seeing Daddy’s new wifey?”
Sophie kept folding. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. It’s delicious.” Kat rinsed and spat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “The whole crew is betting on how long it takes for someone to throw a drink. I’ve got my money on the appetizer course. You look like a ‘during the soup’ kind of girl.”
Sophie shot her a look. “You’re vile.”
“I’m honest. And bored. This setup is better than the script.” Kat walked over to her suitcase, which was already explosively unpacked, clothes spilling out like colorful entrails. She pulled on a pair of tight black leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater that slipped off one shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go scavenge for breakfast and you can tell me all the gory details. I want to know everything. What was her maiden name? Was she ugly in high school? Did you ever, you know, experiment?”
“Fuck off, Kat.”
“That’s a ‘yes’ to the experimenting, I’m taking that as a yes.” Kat laughed, a bright, melodic sound that felt wrong in the quiet room. “Kidding. Mostly. But seriously, I’m your ally here. Misery loves company, and I’m excellent company.”
Sophie finally looked at her, really looked. The charismatic veneer was fully restored, the blue eyes sparkling with mischief and a deeper, colder curiosity. She was a spider, and she’d just felt a tremor in Sophie’s web. “I don’t need an ally.”
“Everyone needs an ally,” Kat said, her tone shifting, dropping its playful edge for a second. “Especially in a place like this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kat just smiled and walked to the door, sliding it open. The cool, incense-tinged air of the hallway drifted in. “It means this hotel has secrets. And I know where the bodies are buried. Literally, maybe. Now, coffee.”
---
The hotel’s dining room was a masterpiece of serene minimalism, overlooking a meticulously raked inner garden where a thin trickle of water ran over mossy stones. Only a few other guests were scattered at low tables. A waiter in a crisp kimono led them to a corner spot.
Kat ordered a double espresso and a western breakfast with clinical efficiency. Sophie asked for miso soup and rice, needing something grounding.
“So,” Kat said, leaning forward as the coffee arrived, her eyes on the garden. “You never answered. How are you, really? About all of it.”
Sophie stirred her soup, watching the seaweed swirl. “I’m here. I’m working. That’s all that matters.”
“Bullshit. This role—the wounded daughter, the vengeful spirit—it’s not exactly a stretch for you, is it?” Kat’s gaze was like a laser. “That’s why you took it. To scream at her without screaming at her.”
“You’ve got it all figured out.”
“I’m good at reading people. It’s how I survive.” Kat took a sip of espresso, not flinching at its bitterness. “Rose… she must be quite something. To snag your dad, and to have been your friend. That’s a two-for-one betrayal special.”
The words were designed to wound, to provoke a reaction. Sophie gave her one. She looked up, her green eyes flat. “She was kind. She was there when my mom died. She knew everything. Then she decided ‘everything’ included my father.”
“Ouch.” Kat winced, but it was theatrical. “Yeah, that’s cold. So, is he happy?”
The question was the sharpest one yet. Sophie’s spoon stilled. She saw her father’s face at the wedding, a bemused, flushed happiness that had made her feel violently ill. She’d spent a decade watching him grieve, a silent, hollow man. Rose had filled the hollow. “He thinks he is.”
“And that’s the worst part,” Kat nodded, as if Sophie had confessed something profound. “If he was miserable, you could rescue him. If she was a monster, you could slay her. But they’re just… happy. And you’re the leftover piece that doesn’t fit the new puzzle.” She shrugged. “It’s very Greek tragedy. I approve.”
“I’m not here for your approval.”
“You’ll get it anyway.” Kat’s phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, and a different, more private smile touched her lips. She typed a quick reply. “Change of plans. Exploration before rehearsal. I’ve got a key.”
“A key to what?”
“To the interesting parts.” Kat stood, abandoning half her breakfast. “You coming? Or are you going to sit here and brood poetically into your miso?”
Sophie hesitated. The offer was a clear diversion, a shiny object to distract from the pain Kat had just expertly poked. It was also an escape. “What interesting parts?”
“The old wing. The one they don’t show on the website. The owner told me about it.” Kat’s eyes gleamed. “Said it’s not safe for guests. Structural issues. Which is code for ‘atmosphere’ and ‘probably haunted.’ Perfect research for our little horror film, don’t you think?”
It was a bad idea. Everything about Kat screamed ‘bad idea.’ But the alternative was returning to their suite, to the silence and her own circling thoughts, waiting for the clock to tick toward Rose’s arrival. “Fine,” Sophie said, pushing her bowl away. “But if we get arrested, I’m telling them this was all your doing.”
“Naturally.”
---
The “key” was a traditional-looking skeleton key, heavy and old, which Kat produced from her sweater pocket with a magician’s flourish. She led them away from the main guest corridors, through a service door that clicked shut behind them with a sound of finality. The air changed instantly—cooler, damper, smelling of old wood and dust. The modern recessed lighting gave way to exposed, antique-looking bulbs that cast weak, yolk-yellow puddles on the floor.
The corridor was narrower, the walls bare plaster instead of polished wood and paper. The floorboards creaked underfoot with a voice that seemed personal, complaining.
“Cozy,” Sophie muttered, pulling her sweater tighter.
“Isn’t it?” Kat strode ahead, confident. “The main building is from the seventeenth century. This was the original inn, before all the fancy renovations. They use it for storage now. And for things they don’t want to explain.”
They passed rooms with doors ajar, revealing stacked furniture shrouded in white sheets, like a congregation of silent ghosts. Old ceramic vases, cracked and dusty, lined a shelf. The atmosphere was thick, pressing on Sophie’s ears. It felt less like exploring a building and more like intruding in a tomb.
Kat stopped before a door at the very end of the hall. It was different—heavier, made of dark, iron-bound wood. A modern padlock hung on a hasp, but it was open, dangling. Kat simply pushed the key into the older lock beneath it and turned. The mechanism clunked with a sound that echoed down the empty hall.
The door swung inward on protesting hinges.
The room inside was not for storage. It was a shrine.
A single, filtered beam of light fell from a high, dirty window, illuminating swirling motes of dust. The room was empty of furniture except for a low, black-lacquer table in the center. On it sat a single, devastating object: a life-sized okimono sculpture of a geisha, carved from some pale, polished wood. Her kimono was intricately detailed, her hair styled in an elaborate shimada. But her face… her face was a smooth, blank oval. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just the haunting, serene void of featureless wood.
Sophie’s breath caught. The absence was more disturbing than any grotesque expression.
“Creepy, right?” Kat whispered, stepping inside. Her casual demeanor had vanished, replaced by a genuine, reverent curiosity. “He told me about her. She wasn’t a real person. A craftsman made her centuries ago as the ideal companion. A perfect, silent woman who would never argue, never age, never betray anyone.”
“That’s fucked up,” Sophie said, unable to look away from the smooth, soulless wood.
“It’s what some men want,” Kat said, her voice quiet. “Perfection is just emptiness with good lighting.” She circled the statue. “They say the craftsman went mad. That he carved her from the wood of a tree where a jealous lover had hanged herself. That she’s not really empty—she’s just waiting for a face to steal.”
A cold trickle, unrelated to the damp air, traced Sophie’s spine. “Why would the owner show you this?”
Kat stopped on the other side of the statue, her face half in shadow. “We have an understanding.” She reached out, as if to touch the blank face, but pulled her hand back at the last second. “He knows I appreciate the darker corners of things. And I know some of his… predilections.”
The implication hung in the dusty air, uglier than the statue. Sophie took a step back toward the door. “We should go. This feels wrong.”
“It is wrong,” Kat agreed, but she didn’t move. She was looking past the statue, at the far wall. “Hey. Look at this.”
Reluctantly, Sophie followed her gaze. On the wall, barely visible in the poor light, was a collection of old photographs, pinned and yellowing. They were group shots, scenes from what looked like the 1920s or ‘30s. Westerners in suits and flapper dresses posing with geishas in the garden. Hotel staff lined up stiffly.
Kat pointed to one photo in the center. It showed a group of three young women, arms linked, laughing on a wooden bridge over the koi pond. Two were Japanese, in beautiful kimonos. The third was a Western girl, with bobbed hair and a daring, knee-length dress. She was strikingly beautiful, her smile wide and bright.
But it was her face that stopped Sophie cold.
She had Kat’s eyes. The exact same shade of brilliant, mischievous blue. And the curve of her smile, the set of her jaw… it was like looking at a sepia ghost of the woman standing beside her.
“Who is that?” Sophie breathed.
Kat’s expression was unreadable. A strange mixture of triumph and something like sorrow. “Her name was Eleanor Vance,” she said softly. “My great-aunt. She came to Kyoto in 1926. She was a guest at this hotel.” Kat’s finger hovered near the photo, not touching it. “She never left.”
The silence in the room was absolute. The faceless statue seemed to listen.
“What do you mean, she never left?” Sophie asked.
Kat finally turned to look at her, the modern blue eyes mirroring the ancient ones in the photograph. “She disappeared. Vanished from her room one night. They found her suitcase packed. Her passport on the dresser. She was just… gone.”
Sophie stared at the laughing girl in the picture, then at Kat’s poised, knowing face. The connection snaked between them, a thread pulled taut across decades. “And you just… happened to get a role in a film shooting at the same hotel she vanished from?”
A slow smile spread across Kat’s lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing just happens, Sophie. I’ve been wanting to come here for years. This script was my ticket in.” She glanced back at the photograph, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I think she’s still here. And I think she’s lonely.”
A floorboard creaked loudly in the corridor outside.
The sound was like a gunshot. Sophie jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. Kat’s head snapped toward the door, her calm shattering for a split second into something like fear.
“Hello?” Sophie called out, her voice shaky.
No answer. Only the sigh of the old building settling.
“We’re leaving. Now,” Sophie said, and this time it was not a suggestion. She was already moving, the need to be out of that room, away from the faceless woman and the smiling ghost in the photograph, overwhelming.
Kat didn’t argue. She gave the statue one last, lingering look, then followed, pulling the heavy door shut behind them. The clunk of the lock engaging sounded like a seal.
They hurried back down the creaking corridor in silence, the cheerful morning light of the main hotel feeling like a distant memory. As they reached the service door, Kat grabbed Sophie’s wrist. Her grip was strong, urgent.
“Don’t mention this to anyone. Not to the crew, not to Rose. Especially not to Rose.”
“Why?” Sophie tried to pull away, but Kat held fast.
“Because some secrets aren’t for sharing,” Kat said, her blue eyes intense, all playfulness gone. “And because this is mine. You’re in it now, but it’s still mine. Understand?”
Sophie understood. She had thought she was stepping into a drama about her own past. But she was wrong. She was standing at the edge of someone else’s older, darker story, and Kat had just pulled her over the threshold. She nodded, a short, sharp motion.
Kat released her, and the familiar, manipulative spark returned to her eyes. “Good. Now, let’s go get ready. We have a dinner to survive.” She smoothed her sweater, as if brushing off the dust of the past century. “And remember, during the soup, aim for the dress, not the face. Dry-cleaning is a bitch.”