I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t let him know I’m here.
His footsteps move toward the exit with a leisurely pace as if he’s accustomed to tampering with people’s drugs. Then the door clicks shut, and the sound grows fainter, more distant.
After a slow count to a hundred, I drag myself out from under the bed. I have to crawl to the wall and brace myself as my whole body shudders.
If I think about what just happened, I’ll fall apart. My hands move on their own, clawing up towels, but they’re too heavy. I keep dropping them. My fingers don’t work.
My gaze fixeson the floor. On the mess. I don’t look at the bed. Don’t think about the vanity case. Don’t see his hands opening the bottle.
I’m the maid. That’s all. Just the fucking maid. I have to finish the job. Just finish the job.
My feet carry me to the filthy bathroom. I drop to my knees and scrub at the shit smeared on the floor. My hand shakes so much that the sponge slips.
The marble is cold. Like a slab. Like a table in a morgue.
I keep cleaning. Anything to pretend this is normal.
By dinnertime, my hands still shake. I can’t wash them clean enough. Sweat. Grease. Guilt. I’m as dirty as Blanche’s floor. But if I drop a single plate, he’ll know.
Rochester sits at the head of the table like a king holding court, telling stories about the estate’s history, charming Blanche’s friends like he’s campaigning for office. He talks like a politician, but all I see is the man who swapped her pills for poison.
Every time I glance in his direction, I picture those careful fingers doing the devil’s work. Every smile he gives Blanche feels like a countdown to her demise. I picture the foam at her mouth, the twitch of her limbs. Her final shudder of death.
I can’t look at him. Can’t give myself away.
“Darling, you’re so knowledgeable in local history. I’m so lucky to have found you,” Blanche purrs, reaching across the table to paw at his hand. She beams at him, like a lamb thanking the butcher.
My stomach roils. The poor princess won’t be alive long enough to enjoy him. Or her trust fund.
“I’m the lucky one, my dear.” He kisses her hand like she’s some Renaissance duchess, when he’s really kissinga corpse. “I never thought I’d love again after Celine died, but you’ve made it all possible.”
Now he’s got me wondering what happened to his dead wife. Did he also tamper with her medication?
Dizziness hits me in a wave so violent, I have to grip the edge of the sideboard to keep from fainting on the Persian rug. The guests clap and make appreciative noises, thinking they’re watching true love bloom. I’m the only one watching a murder in progress.
Rochester isn’t just going to kill her. He’s enjoying her ignorance. Savoring her trust. Rolling it around in his mouth like fine wine.
I set down the last dish with trembling hands, swallowing back a mouthful of acid. Every clink of crystal, every burst of laughter, every word of praise for the happy couple rings in my skull like funeral bells. They’re toasting her death and they don’t even know it.
As the applause simmers, his gaze meets mine, and my chest caves.
Heart thundering, I flee to the kitchen where I attack the dishes. I scrub until my knuckles turn red, but I can’t escape the truth. Every shadow in my peripheral vision could be Rochester. Every sound in the hallway could be him coming to silence the witness. I even flinch at my own reflection in the window.
Does he know I saw? Did he notice the dust disturbed under the bed? Is he watching me right now, calculating when to strike?
I shake off that thought. He can’t know. If he did, I’d already be dead.
When every surface gleams like a showroom, I drag my aching body upstairs. The socialites continue drinkingin the drawing room, but I know better than to serve them. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to give him the chance to sneak into my room. My shoulders feel like someone’s beaten them with hammers, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
But as I reach for my doorknob, movement sounds from inside my room.
My heart seizes. My gut clenches. It’s Rochester. Maybe he did notice me hiding. Maybe he’s in there waiting to finish what he started.
I should run. Find somewhere else to sleep. But where the hell can I go in the middle of the night on an isolated estate on this Godforsaken island?
Without meaning to, I edge closer, my heart pounding hard enough to crack ribs. I push the door open a crack and peer through the gap. But the figure standing in my room isn’t Rochester, it’s Blanche.
She leans against my dresser holding up my bra with the lace trim. All thoughts of her being a victim evaporate under a burst of rage. I fling open the door and charge inside.
