As he reaches the end of the hall, I shake off that thought. Rowland runs his fingers along a panel I’ve passed countless times, which opens into a narrow staircase. Its wooden steps disappear into the dark, making my breath snag.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He turns around, his dark eyes meeting mine. “You wanted proof I’m not working with Edward. My cell is up there.”
My throat dries. I swallow hard, trying to push back a surge of fear. “This had better not be a trap.”
“It isn’t,” he rasps. “But don’t you want to see where I spent the past three decades when he wasn’t forcing me into the role of a servant?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Rowland enters the wall opening and ascends, his uneven steps creaking. I follow after him, stepping onto wooden treads that warp under our weight like they’re about to collapse.
The air grows thicker with each step and heavier with the smells of mold, dust, and despair. My gut churns, and I try not to think of meat left too long in the sun.
“How much longer?” I whisper, though I’m not sure why I’m being so quiet.
“We’re here.” Rowland’s voice echoes in the narrow space.
At the top, he pushes open another door, which groans on rusted hinges. The sound makes every hair on my arms stand on end. I follow him into an attic that resembles something out of a nightmare. Low ceiling beams cast shadows that move in the dim light filtering through grimy windows. I hold my breath, trying not to gag.
Rowland steps aside and sweeps his arm toward a narrow cot sitting against the far wall, its frame bearing iron shackles. The mattress is thin and dark. Beside it sits a chamber pot filled with human waste.
My insides heave. I press my free hand to my mouth and fight back a surge ofbile.
But that’s not the worst part.
Implements hang from the crossbeams—knives, chains, pliers with jagged teeth, leather whips with multiple tails. Some of the tools are rusted and old, others clean.
“Oh god,” I groan from behind my hand. “You were stuck here this entire time?”
Rowland’s dark gaze turns solemn. “Both of us.”
I follow his gaze to the corner where something sits in a wooden rocking chair. In the dark, it looks like a pile of forgotten clothes, until I draw closer and light catches a skeleton sitting propped in the seat. Its bones are held together by dried sinew and scraps of flesh. Wisps of gray hair still cling to the skull in patches, and the jaw hangs open in a permanent scream.
But it’s what the skeleton is wearing that makes my blood freeze.
It’s the same kind of black dress I’ve been wearing since my first day here, with the same high collar, buttoned front, and the same long sleeves. The same white apron is tied around what used to be a waist. Its fabric is faded and moth-eaten, but it’s identical to my uniform.
My throat closes. Terror punches into my stomach with both fists, making me double over.
“What the fuck?” I cry, my eyes stinging.
“That’s the real Mrs. Fairfax.” Rowland’s voice is gentle, like he’s breaking news to a child.
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but stare at the corpse wearing my uniform. I’ve scrubbed floors in it. Served meals in it. Picked foreign hairs off it. It’s a mark. A claim. A promise of what’s waiting for me if I don’t escape.
But I’m not just wearing the uniform of one dead woman. This is probably the style of clothes worn by a dozen other women like me, forced to serve a psychopath.
My vision tunnels until all I can see is that corpse in my clothes. Then the room spins like I’m on an out-of-control merry-go-round.
“Your brother killed her?” I rasp.
“She died in her sleep,” Rowland replies, his voice pained. “Edward couldn’t stand the thought of losing his perfect housekeeper, so he...”
Rowland bows his head. He doesn’t need to complete the sentence because the evidence speaks for itself. Edward kept her. Like a trophy. Like a fucking souvenir.
Tears stream down my face, hot and bitter as arsenic. I want to slide down the wall and sink through the dusty floor.
