TWO
THE KEYHOLE
You’re more beautiful than the others. A rare gem.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, breasts large enough to smother me until dawn. You don’t know it yet, but you’re already mine.
I see how your sins cling to your skin, how you bite that plump lip and scan the grounds as if someone might rescue you.
They will not.
I imagine all the ways I’ll ruin you. The whimpers, the pleading, the way your body will tremble at my command.
Your pretty features will look exquisite contorted with pain. You might even make a lovely corpse.
Welcome to Rochester Manor, my sweet Annalisa. Enjoy being my plaything. The others never lasted, but you might last long enough.
THREE
A shiver runs down my spine as the limousine rounds a corner, taking away the light. Rochester Manor looms ahead, a three-story building that could easily be the set of a movie about a wicked duke who ruins young women for sport. I cross the gravel courtyard, squinting against the wind and rain.
Even the doorbell feels wrong. Not a ding or a buzz, just a deep, echoing chime like Big Ben calling the dead to rise. I’ve never been to London, but I’ve watched enough BBC murder dramas to recognize the sound of doom. I huddle against the doors, waiting for footsteps or chains.
But there’s nothing.
Just the wind.
Just the rain.
And me, shivering like a wet dog left on the porch.
Rain beats down my back like a vicious husband on his wedding night. I shiver, my teeth clacking, and switch my thoughts to the reason I’m standing outside a creepy old house: Gil. My ex was more loyal to his underworld bosses than to the love of his life, but when we met, hewas a warm blanket. A lifeline. And he never left me unsatisfied.
At least not until the end.
I wait. And wait. And wait. I tell myself that the distant howl is the wind and whatever’s lurking in the forest. When nobody answers the door, I ring the bell again and press my ear to the wood.
When I hear nothing, I crouch down and peer through the keyhole. It’s dark, so I close my eyes and listen. Minutes pass, maybe half an hour, and a spasm seizes my back. I bang on the door with fists, and yell for attention.
Finally, footsteps approach, slow and heavy, as if the mansion’s interior is cavernous. Drawing back at the jingle of keys, I pick up my duffel and straighten. The locks turn, their mechanisms sounding rusty even through the heavy rainfall, and whoever’s behind the door slides one bolt, followed by another.
I back away, already having second thoughts, when the night sky brightens with forks of lightning, followed by a roll of thunder.
The door groans open, and the woman answering is large enough to fill its frame. Broad shoulders, thick neck, black dress starched like cardboard. A matching mask covers the lower half of her face.
I step back.
“Annalisa Burlington?” Her voice is rough, like it can’t decide whether it’s male or female.
“Y-Yes?” I squeak.
“You’d better come in.” She steps aside, leaving barely enough for me to cross the threshold.
I have to squeeze past her bulk into a vast foyer. It’s silent as a cathedral with stone floors stretching intothe shadows, and the ceiling tall enough to give me vertigo. On the wall are sconces. Not fake ones with electric bulbs, but actual flames that flicker in the draft, making the shadows dance. I inhale a sharp breath, taking in the scent of beeswax and something medicinal that catches in the back of my throat.
The door slams shut with a thud that makes me flinch. The woman I assume to be Mrs. Fairfax brushes past, her black dress rustling against an impossibly bulky frame. Following, I shiver at the eerie silence, broken only by our footsteps echoing off the stone. I try to take in details—mahogany paneling, oil paintings in heavy frames, a grandfather clock ticking somewhere in the darkness—but she moves too quickly, and I’m too busy trying to keep up with her long strides.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask, my voice small in the vast space.
