“What the hell did you do to that little girl?” I yell, waving the knife in his face.
He closes his eyes, his body falling limp against the restraints. “Not me,” he says with a pained sigh. “Edward. He smothered our sister when we were children.”
The words ricochet off my brain like bullets on tile. Mymind struggles to process the fact that Rochester’s supposed daughter is his younger sibling. And he’s also imprisoned his feral brother who claims there’s a long list of victims. Eventually, they sink in, making my gut twist.
I stare at the bound man, finding a resemblance to Rochester. The nose is identical, and beneath all that dirt are the same strong brows. But something about him is off. I can’t tell if it’s the wild edge or the way he flinches like a whipped dog.
“You’re saying he murdered a child.” The words are flat, as if they’re coming from the other side of the room.
He nods. “Adele was his first victim.”
My breathing comes shorter, faster. Each inhale scrapes my lungs raw but never brings enough air. I stare at his face, searching for lies, but all I see is a reflection of myself. His black eyes are empty. Hollow. Like something crawled inside and died years ago. I shake off that thought and focus on the immediate danger.
“Wait. How long ago was this? And how the hell did he get away with killing his own sister?”
Rowland gulps. “He was ten. Father’s favorite. The week we were due to go to boarding school, he smothered Adele.”
Prickly heat floods my veins. How on earth can he talk about it so matter-of-factly? My free hand clenches into a fist so tight my nails bite into my palm. “And you let him get away with it?”
He shakes his head from side to side, his breath turning shallow. “I didn’t know what was happening until the servants found her dead.”
“Okay,” I whisper, reeling on my feet.
“Father blamed me because Edward told him I put acushion over her face the week before. He dragged me to the attic and tied me to a cot, saying no son of his would end up in an asylum. After that, the only kind company I had was Mrs. Fairfax.”
Fairfax. The name punches me in the throat. That woman who served me breakfast on my first morning. Who supposedly disappeared to take Adele to a mainland hospital.
I lean closer. “If Adele never had typhus fever, then where the hell did Mrs. Fairfax go?”
Rowland jerks his head to the side, unable to meet my eyes. His throat bobs beneath his bushy beard like he’s trying to swallow something too big for his throat.
“Answer me or I’ll slice you open.” I wave the knife like a baton.
“She died ten years ago in her sleep and has been in the attic ever since,” he says, the words a tired rush.
The room tilts sideways. I stumble backward, my hip hitting the dresser hard enough to rattle the mirror. In the reflection is a wild-eyed woman with tangled hair.
“That’s impossible. I saw her. I talked to her. She showed me around. She made me breakfast. She was real.” I whisper, but even as I say it, doubt gnaws at my stomach like acid.
Rowland squeezes his eyes shut.
My mind races through every interaction with the housekeeper. Mrs. Fairfax filling the doorway with those massive shoulders. The mask covering the lower half of her face. The deep voice that didn’t quite sound female. I stare down at Rowland, who still can’t meet my eyes.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I snap.
Silence stretches between us like a live wire. My hearthammers against my ribs in double time to the distant ticking clock. It feels like the house is counting down to something terrible.
“Talk to me,” I yell.
Rowland squeezes his lips shut. Works his jaw beneath all that unruly hair, and pinches his features like he’s tasting something sour.
“What is it?” I say through gritted teeth.
“Between kills, when Edward doesn’t have a victim to play the role, he forces me to become Mrs. Fairfax,” he mutters.
The knife tumbles from my numb fingers and clatters onto the wooden floor.
Lord have mercy. Don’t tell me the person I’ve been hooking up with this whole time was Mrs. Fairfax.
