Back at the overturned table, I search through the debris until I find a box of matches. Fingers trembling, I extract a matchstick and strike it against the rough wood. Its head flares to life, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
“I’ll make you wallow in your own filth until you forget you were ever human,” he screams. “You won’t die like the others. Your prison will keep you at my mercy until the end of your days.”
“Say hello to Brother Matthew in hell.”
I drop the match.
Flames catch the kerosene and race across the floorboards, sending waves of heat licking at my skin. I rush outside into the cool night with the key and lock the door. Inside, fire spreads up the walls, eating through decades of rot and decay. Orange light flickers through the windows as smoke pours from the doorway.
Some monsters deserve to burn.
But as the fire roars behind me, one thought cuts through everything:
Where the hell is Rowland?
FORTY-TWO
I try to forget about the night I left Brother Matthew, but the flames tearing through the cottage drag me back. It’s the same molten glow licking at broken windows. The same roar of wood surrendering to fire. The same smell of smoke that means something’s finally dead and burning.
But this time, there isn’t an ounce of guilt.
I move between the apple trees, checking every shadow wide enough to hide a body. My feet slip on rotting fruit, and I splay my arms to stay upright. Branches catch at my dress as I push deeper into the rows of trees, looking behind every trunk thick enough to conceal a man.
“Rowland!” I call out, my voice carrying across the grounds toward the dark outline of the manor.
What did Rochester do with him? He could be anywhere.
My gaze flicks toward the outbuildings. The stables stand about fifty yards from the orchard, their doors hanging open. I jog across the lawn and enter an enclosure stinking of horse piss and old hay. Empty stallsstretch into the darkness, each one possibly hiding Rowland.
I search through the enclosures, kicking piles of moldy straw that reach my knees. Dust clouds rise with each movement, making me cough. But there’s no sign of an unconscious man.
“Rowland?” I call again, my voice hoarse and hollow, like the trees might answer back.
I move to the greenhouse, the garages, the storage sheds, tearing through the grounds like a madwoman. By the time I’ve searched all the outbuildings, the cottage fire reaches the sky. Every muscle in my body aches. My chest heaves like I’ve run a marathon, and my voice is nearly gone from calling his name.
What if Rochester dumped Rowland beneath that cottage? What if Rowland is lying among the corpses, unconscious, and trapped in the flames?
I can’t think like that. I can’t give up hope.
The night wears on, and Rowland isn’t in the tool shed or the chicken coop. Each empty building brings me closer to a truth I don’t want to face. Each search leaves me more exhausted, more desperate, more certain that I’m looking for a dead man.
Legs trembling, I stumble back toward the manor. My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath, but every inhale feels like sandpaper. My muscles no longer throb. Nothing compares to the pain of losing Rowland. Tears blur my vision, mixing with the sweat and grime covering my face.
Up ahead, in the highest point of the manor, a light flickers. I blink away the dirt and saltwater to look again.
My pulse stutters, then kicks into overdrive.
The attic.
I hurry to the kitchen and rifle through the drawers until I find a heavy cleaver. My legs shake so badly I cling to the banister to keep from falling as I rush upstairs. Hope flutters in my chest, but by the second floor my vision grays and every breath burns.
Upstairs, the wall panel that leads to the attic is shut. I claw at the edges with my fingernails, searching for the hidden lever. When I find nothing, I throw my body against the wood. It refuses to budge. I press harder, using what little strength I have left, but the thing’s sealed tighter than a vault.
Rowland has to be inside. There’s no other explanation. I raise the cleaver, aiming its blade at the panel.
The first blow sends jolts up my arms like lightning. Pain shoots through my shoulders, and splinters fly into my eyes. I raise the blade again and strike once more, opening a small crack in the wood.
By the tenth blow, I’ve carved a hole big enough to see the dark staircase beyond. I’m drenched in sweat and my arms shake so badly I can barely hold the weapon.
