But my mind is already racing ahead. Rochesterbrought her back. Used the threat to drown herself to make it look like she got high and went under. Set up the perfect cover for murder.
The bastard actually did it.
Hayes leans in, his voice low. “You sure you didn’t see her come back?”
I blink, startled. “No.”
He studies my face like he’s taking notes. “You didn’t hear any vehicles approaching?”
When I was busy holding an unconscious man hostage? “No.”
Morrison pulls out his phone. “We need to contact the husband.”
I hold my breath, my skin crawling at the man’s evil ingenuity. At how quickly he pivoted from swapping out her pills to killing her in the very pond where she threatened to drown herself. I imagine him sitting in a hotel, surrounded by witnesses, while he frets about his missing wife.
“Mr. Rochester?” The younger cop pauses. “This is Detective Morrison. I’m afraid I have bad news about your wife.”
The conversation is brief. Even from where I stand, I can hear that bastard’s voice through the speaker, asking if there’s been some terrible mistake. He sounds baffled, shocked. Heartbroken. But it’s all part of a performance.
I tune out the rest of the conversation, watching the officers fish Blanche’s body out of the water and zip her into a black bag. Morrison gives me his card and allows me to return to the house, where I stand by the door, watching them load her into the ambulance and disappear down the winding drive.
Rochester got away with murder. And now he’s aboutto inherit millions. He’ll be rich enough to make problems disappear without a trace. Rich enough to hunt me down no matter where I run.
I’m the only person alive who knows the truth about the pill-swapping. The only witness who can connect him to Blanche’s death. Which makes me the biggest loose end in his perfect crime.
Maybe I should call Morrison. Tell him and Hayes about the murders, the corpses in the attic. But I’m also a killer, wanted for another set of crimes.
Making that call means trading one death sentence for another. Besides, I misplaced my phone weeks ago.
With Blanche’s money, Rochester will have resources beyond imagination. There’s nowhere I could hide. And when he finds me, I’ll end up like Blanche. Like Adele. Like Mrs. Fairfax. Like the other servants.
There’s only one person capable of protecting me. A man who’s survived Rochester’s cruelty for decades. Who knows every secret of this house. A man who hates that murdering psychopath even more than me.
I close the door, cross the entrance hall and climb the stairs. Rowland crouches in the opening of the wood-paneled wall, his arms wrapped around his knees. He stares up at me, his eyes wild.
“What happened?” he whispers.
“They’re gone,” I reply, my voice flat. “The cops found Blanche’s body in the pond.”
He gulps. “Edward killed her already?”
I nod. “He made it look like suicide.”
“Do you believe me now?” he rasps.
“Yeah.”
Rowland’s face crumples with relief. His tears come fast, his body trembling with the force of his emotion. “Thank you for being the only person who ever took my side.”
I stare down at this broken man who’s survived decades of hell. The only person who knows Rochester’s weaknesses.
Rowland is my only chance of surviving that monster.
But even he might not be enough.
THIRTY-FOUR
I take Rowland down to the kitchen and guide him to a chair. It’s messy from the recent visitors, scattered with crumbs, shattered glass, and half-eaten pastries, but I clear space on the table, place my hands on his shoulders and order him to sit.
