I spend the night groping through the cottage, looking for weapons. Any means of self-defense. Because when they come for me, I’ll be ready.
Hours later, gray light filters through cracked windows when two sets of footsteps crunch across gravel. I scramble back to the fireplace, my heart convulsing.
This is it. Time to fight.
The key scrapes in the lock like fingernails on slate. I tighten my fingers around a lantern in time for the door to swing open.
Rochester strides inside in a fresh suit, his arm around Blanche’s waist. She wears a short white dress that barely covers her pussy, her hair pinned up with baby’s breath like some beach wedding fantasy. She clings to his arm, her new wedding ring catching the light like a tiny star.
Bitch looks like a bride in a shampoo commercial. All victory and fake purity. Like she’s won some game I didn’t even know we were playing.
My nostrils flare. They actually did it. Got married in the middle of the night while I rotted in this shit hole.
“Blanche and I will be away for a week,” he says, his voice cold. “You have exactly that time to clean up and vacate my home or I will call the police.”
My jaw drops. How on earth did he convince her to set me free?
They turn and walk away, leaving me standing in the mouth of my tomb, watching my death sentence disappear into the morning mist.
Seven days to figure out which direction to run next.
But I’m breathing. My heart still beats. Against every expectation, I’m still alive.
For now, that’s enough.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE KEYHOLE
You’re about to enter the next phase of our little game. And so will she.
I will teach you how to gasp, to plead, to whimper when I press silence into your delicate throat. We will repeat the lessons until your voice remembers only the sound of my name.
When I am done, you will convulse at my command.
So wait for me, my disobedient little Annalisa. Let me handle pressing matters.
As soon as she is dead, I will handle you.
TWENTY-NINE
I make a slow count to twenty before I can step out of the cottage. Even then, it’s like walking into my own execution. Every step feels like it could detonate a mine. Every breath feels stolen.
Even the air feels hostile. Like I’ve cheated death and the world wants a correction.
This has to be a trap. Killers like Rochester don’t hand out mercy. They poison their problems, bury them under rose bushes, or dump them in the ocean. But I can’t go back to that cottage.
Legs shaking, I make my way through the orchard, expecting a gunshot between the shoulder blades. Or a knife between my ribs. Something. Anything. Because letting me walk free doesn’t make sense unless he’s planning something worse.
An apple falls from a nearby tree, making me flinch. Bastard has me so frazzled I can barely function.
At the edge of the formal gardens, I hurry across the lawn, not stopping until I reach the side of the house. Ifollow the building around to the front, where the black limousine idles like a hearse.
Blanche’s little vultures cluster around the vehicle, filling the air with their mindless chatter. I duck behind a rose bush, desperate not to be seen. The thorns catch my dress, but I don’t move.
“Three cheers for the happy couple,” bellows the man in the leather coat.
On cue, they burst into a chorus of hip-hip-hoorays. Pinky tosses a handful of rice. The blonde and her companion shower them with confetti as if my warning last night meant nothing.
