Moving as quietly as possible, I strain to hear a sound: footsteps, voices, anything that might betray their location. The dining room is empty. As is the study. All the other doors are locked.
I need to find Rochester before he finds me.
Nausea roils in my gut as I creep up the main staircase, taking the steps two at a time. My chest burns, each breath coming in ragged gasps. I thought we had more time. That Rochester would be more concerned with covering up Blanche’s murder. It was supposed to be two against one.
Now it’s just me with a kitchen knife versus a man who’s been torturing and killing people for decades.
The first-floor doors are locked. I creep up to the second, testing each step to avoid creaks. The hallwaystretches ahead in darkness. Rochester could be inside any of these rooms, but entering them would give away my position.
Instead, I press my ear to the first door and hear nothing but silence. The next room is the same: no sounds of struggle, no muffled voices. Outside, the clouds part, and moonlight streams through the hallway window and hits the panel leading to the attic.
It’s open.
My blood freezes. Rochester must have dragged Rowland back to that torture chamber. Back to the shackles and chains where he spent thirty years of hell.
I climb those narrow stairs, my heart thrashing so hard I taste copper. Rowland said his brother liked to set traps. He could be waiting upstairs for me with a garrote. I could be playing into his hands.
Every instinct screams at me to run. Grab what I can and get the hell out. Rochester’s probably left a car somewhere on the grounds. I can escape while he’s busy with Rowland.
My hands tremble around the knife, and my feet don’t want to move toward the stairs. They want to turn around and race out into the night. Just as I did with Brother Matthew. And with Gil. And every other time my life ever turned to shit. I’ve never walked into danger. Always knew how to survive.
But Rowland is up there, maybe bleeding. Maybe dying. Maybe already dead while I stand here like a coward, calculating escape routes. He made me a dress while in captivity, prepared a beautiful meal, worshipped me like a goddess and gave me meaning.
I am the only thing that inspires him to fight back. How the hell can I abandon himnow?
“Fuck it,” I snarl, my feet finally moving. I can’t leave the only man to ever give a damn about me in the grip of a psychopath.
Holding my weapon, I reach the top and freeze at the entrance. With my free hand, I grip the door frame, not wanting to get trapped.
On the right, Mrs. Fairfax’s skeleton sits in her rocking chair, still wearing that black dress, her gray wisps of hair reflecting the faint moonlight. On the left, the narrow cot with its iron shackles sits empty beneath the instruments of torture.
But there’s no Rowland. No Edward Rochester.
Where the hell did they go?
My mind spins through possibilities. The cottage basement where Rochester dumped the other bodies? The cliffs? Some other torture chamber on the grounds? Rowland could be anywhere on this godforsaken estate, and I’m wasting time searching empty rooms.
I race back down to the kitchen, desperate for more clues. Maybe there’s something I missed. Some sign of where Rochester took his poor brother.
But as I scan the overturned chairs and scattered pots, movement across the lawn catches my eye through the window. A dark figure slips between the apple trees, moving deeper into the orchard. My stomach drops. Is that Rowland trying to escape, or Rochester dragging his body?
Either way, I need to get down there.
Gripping the knife, I slip out the back door onto the patio. Fresh air hits my face as I step outside, tasting like fear. I cross the lawn, my feet silent on the grass. The orchard looms ahead, dark and full of places to hide a body.
Or to stage an ambush.
I head toward the trees, ignoring the branches catching at my dress. My feet make no sound on the soft earth, but my heart thuds so loud it might as well be a drum.
Footsteps sound up ahead. I freeze, straining to hear over my own frantic breaths. I weave between the apple trees, through the shrubs toward the snap of twigs breaking underfoot, but then it stops.
A large figure steps out from behind a tree. He’s clean shaven, wearing a black suit and a chilling smile.
My heart plummets to my feet.
It’s Edward Rochester.
“Miss Burlington. You’re still here. What a delightful surprise.”
