The scraping from the hallway stops.
I wedge the dresser against the doorway, pressing my full weight against its side. My pulse hammers in my ears, and sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air.
“Annalisa?” His voice comes through the wood, softand broken. Nothing like the commanding tone he uses during the day. “Please. I just want to talk to you.”
I clench my teeth. Don’t respond. Don’t give him an inch.
“What’s wrong?” he continues, his voice thick with desperation. “Why won’t you let me in? I thought after everything… I thought you wanted this too.”
My heart plunges. What the hell is he planning?
“Keep it up and I’ll wake Blanche,” I call out, my voice sharp. “I’ll tell her all about her perfect fiancé.”
Silence stretches between us. I press my back against the dresser, every muscle tense, waiting for him to start unscrewing.
Instead, muffled sobbing echoes through the wood. Deep, broken sounds that make my gut clench, and I hate myself for feeling sympathy. Bastard’s probably putting on a show, trying to guilt me into opening the door. This is exactly what he wants: for me to crack.
I slide down the dresser until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. The sobbing continues for what feels like hours, each wail scraping against my resolve.
Still, I refuse to respond. Refuse to give him what he wants.
Eventually, the crying stops. Footsteps retreat down the hallway, leaving me alone with the silence and my racing heart.
Hours later, dawn creeps through the small window, painting everything in shades of gray. My back aches from sleeping against the dresser, and my neck throbs with a painful crick.
When I finally work up the courage to pull the dresser away from the door, I find a piece of paper on the floor. Lips tightening, I bend down andunfold it.
It’s the same elegant handwriting as the note ordering me to wave back.
Annalisa,
I know you’re confused. I know last night frightened you. But you must trust me when I say there are other solutions, other paths to be together.
We’re closer than you think. Every problem has a solution. And every prison has a door if you’re brave enough to find it.
Trust me.
Rochester.
My stomach turns. What does he mean by prison? I shake off that question. He doesn’t know I’m on the run. It’s just word salad. He thinks I’m some girl who melts at a pretty turn of phrase. I read it three times before shaking my head.
What the fuck is Rochester planning?
TWENTY-FOUR
THE KEYHOLE
You will not shut me out again.
TWENTY-FIVE
Later that morning, I’m scrubbing breakfast plates when Blanche’s voice cuts through the kitchen like a rusty blade.
“Burlington.”
My back stiffens. I don’t bother looking up from the sink. She hasn’t spoken to me directly since the incident with the champagne. Barbed comments don’t count when a bitch is too cowardly to say something to my face.
“Edward sends a message.”
