“How many?” I ask.
Rowland gazes down at me, his eyes wide.
“How many other women died because of Edward Rochester?”
A sound cuts through my spiral. Low and distant at first, then growing louder, followed by the rumble of engines. It’s vehicles.
Rowland’s head snaps toward the window. “Shit.”
Red and blue lights slice through the grimy glass like neon knives, painting the attic in alternating colors. I rush to the window, finding police cars filling the courtyard, their headlights cutting through the morning light.
I stagger backward, my insides twisting into agonizing knots. The cops have finally discovered my hiding place.
THIRTY-THREE
I’m no longer thinking. Because staying in this house is certain death. I don’t care if the police have tracked me here. At least with them I might have a chance of survival. Or at worst, a clean death.
Pulse quickening, I race down the hallway, past the portraits of dead aristocrats who may or may not be killers. Past the room housing the taxidermied child and past the room where Rochester tampered with Blanche’s pills. Rowland shouts my name, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Can’t block out the image of that skeleton in my dress.
By the time I reach the main staircase, I don’t know whether I’m running to salvation or condemnation. I grip the banister and descend on legs that feel like noodles.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze at the bottom of the stairs, my heart slamming so hard against my ribs that I feel it in my throat. The bell rings again, long and insistent, echoing through the empty house like a death knell.
This could be my way out. But what if they ask for myname? My fingerprints are still all over that syringe I shoved into Callahan’s foot. One wrong word and I’ll be trading this nightmare for a cell on death row.
The bell rings a third time, followed by heavy knocking that rattles the door in its frame.
Fuck it. Anything’s better than staying here with those corpses.
I reach the entrance hall and fling open the heavy door to find two cops on the front steps. The older one has gray hair and tired eyes. His partner is younger, clean-shaven, with blue eyes that scrutinize my face.
Behind them, the courtyard swarms with police cars, their red and blue lights fracturing the pale morning. Officers stream across the grounds leading German shepherds straining against their leashes, with noses to the ground like they’re hunting something specific.
My stomach drops through the floor. This isn’t a routine visit. This is a full-scale search operation.
The older cop flashes his badge. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Detective Hayes. This is Detective Morrison. We’re looking for Mrs. Rochester. Have you seen her?”
This isn’t about me? But why are they looking for Blanche? And why so many?
“Blanche? No. They left yesterday morning for their honeymoon.”
Hayes pulls out a notebook. “What time? How did she seem?”
“Around ten AM. They both seemed happy. What’s this about?”
Morrison steps close enough for me to smell the coffee on his breath, his gaze dropping down the gaping front of my dress. My hackles rise. What the hell did Blanche say about me to the cops?
“And you are?” the younger detective asks.
“Annalisa.” I glance from the first cop to the other. “Annalisa Burlington. Just the maid.”
“Mrs. Rochester is missing,” Hayes says. “She left her hotel last night and returned here alone. Any idea why?”
My jaw drops, and my mind goes blank. This is unexpected. I gaze up into the older man’s eyes and say, “I haven’t seen her. The house has been empty since they left.”
Hayes gives me an absent nod and flips open his notebook. “We understand there was an incident between you and Mrs. Rochester.”
