The words settle in my gut like stones. This is the line I swore I wouldn’t cross again. Except now it doesn’t feel like a choice. I fall still, letting the silence stretch until all I hear are my heartbeat and the soft hiss of the cooling kettle.
Rowland breathes hard, his dark eyes penetrating my soul. What is he looking for—my permission or my approval?
“You want to kill him,” I say.
“Yes,” he growls, his eyes flashing, his chest heaving with excitement.
My heart shrivels. I picture Callahan, lying on the floor, held down by mobsters. And the syringe they forced into my hand. Even though Rowland seems excited at the thought of us killing Edward together, I shake my head, unable to get involved in another murder.
Rowland sets down his cup and stands. “Edward is too dangerous to let live. He’ll kill you just like he killed the others. Come with me. I’ll show you something that’ll change your mind.”
He strides out of the kitchen, leaving me so spooked I have no choice but to follow. We continue through the hallways, passing locked doors, until we reach Edward’s study. Rowland slides his fingers behind a wooden panel and opens another doorway.
Inside, he walks toward the mahogany desk and opens its bottom drawer. I enter, swallowing hard as he pulls out a leather notebook.
“Look at this.” He sets it on the desk.
“What is it?” I hover by the door, wringing my hands, my feet ready to bolt.
Rowland doesn’t reply. Something in his dark eyes tells me I need to see for myself.
Throat tightening, I edge forward until I reach the other side of the desk and pick up the notebook. It’s heavier than expected, with expensive, cream-colored paper. I open it to the first page, finding elegant handwriting flowing across it in dark ink. The first entry reads:
Grace Poole. Age 36. Dark brown hair, stout build, escaping drunk-driving conviction. Arrived via evening ferry. Performed well during the transport interview. Eager to please. Shows promise for extended service.
I flip the page, finding more details about Sarah. How she cleaned. How she cooked. How she cried when she realized there was no child to care for. Then a jagged tear where a page was ripped out.
The final entry in the same writing says:
Subject strangled with stockings after six months of service. Disposed of in cottage basement. Next candidate scheduled for following month.
Bile rises in my throat. I flip to the next entry, then the next. Each woman gets the same treatment. Detailed observations of their performance as servants, followed by a ripped-out page. Then a cold, clinical accounting of their death.
My hands won’t stop shaking as I read their names, their ages, their desperate circumstances and their cause of death:
Bertha Mason. Age 32. Black hair, average build, fleeing abusive husband. Asphyxiated with bedsheets.
Helen Burns. Age 26. Light brown hair, petite, recently evicted. Garroted with piano wire.
Louisa Eshton. Age 20. Blonde hair, pregnant, abandoned by family. Choked with leather belt.
The list goes on and on. Each name is a person. Each person had the same thing in common: they were either on the run or cast out, only to be murdered by Rochester. Throttled by curtain cord. Ligatured with shoelaces. Strangled with bicycle chain, clothesline, leather belt, rosary beads, silk scarf, telephone wire.
I blink away tears, imagining hordes of clueless women, lured here by desperate circumstances, only to be manipulated then murdered. Every one of them suffered and died for the amusement of that maniac.
Then I reach the last entry and the words close in like a trap.
Annalisa Burlington. Age 24. Blonde hair, large breasts, fleeing law enforcement. Highly motivated by fear. Performed adequately during transport interview. Shows promise for extended domestic service.
My heart slows. My body goes so cold I can barelyfeel my fingers. The wretched bastard cataloged me like livestock. Like I was a product on trial. A disposable appliance to be replaced when I broke.
I turn the page, finding another ripped-out section, followed by an insultingly detailed graphic description of how I looked cleaning the fireplaces on my hands and knees. Then there’s a blank page with a single word written at the top in the same elegant script:DEMISE.
“You see,” Rowland says from the other side of the desk. “He plans on killing you next.”
My hands shake so much that I drop the notebook onto the polished mahogany. I reach into my pocket and pull out the crumpled piece of paper containing the task list left for me in the kitchen that morning after our breakfast. The one that seemed outlandish, but not a red flag.
When I smooth it out against the desk and hold it up to the torn space in the notebook, it’s a perfect fit.
