“He’s done worse,” he replies, the words gruff. “But we can’t delay. Let me tend to your wounds then we’ll find my brother before he finds us.”
Rowland eases me onto a kitchen chair, fumbles through the kit, and dabs antiseptic on my wounds with trembling hands. I close my eyes, my body melting under his touch. After surviving Rochester and scouring the grounds, I have to look ghastly, but he touches me like I’m precious.
Afterward, we step outside into the predawn air. The sky lightens in the east, painting everything in shades of gray and pale gold. Smoke hangs over the grounds like fog, and the breeze carries the stench of burned wood. It mixes with the scent of dew on grass and the distant salt smell of the ocean.
As we head toward the orchard in silence, I can’t help noticing how everything looks different beside Rowland. The estate is smaller, less ominous. Less like the nightmare it felt when I was alone in the dark.
The cottage crouches like a blackened skeleton beneath the apple trees. Most of the roof has collapsed inward, and we walk around its perimeter to find the soot-covered windows all shut. Embers still glow deep in the ruins, pulsing red against the charred wood. Steam rises from the wreckage where morning dew meets hot ash. The wooden door hangs crooked on its hinges, warped by heat but still closed.
“He has to be dead,” I say. “No one can survive a fire like that. If the flames didn’t reach him, then he would have suffocated on the smoke.”
Rowland stares at the smoldering shell, his face grim. Lines of worry crease his forehead as he studies every angle of the destruction. “There’s a tunnel connecting the cottage’s basement to the house’s cellar.”
My breath stalls. Of course there’s a secret passage. Of course this nightmare has layers. But I still blurt, “What? Where? Why?”
“Our great-grandparents were smugglers,” he mutters. “And there’s a trap door beneath the basement. If Edward had a key and made it down there before the fire spread to thefloor...”
Rowland doesn’t finish the thought, but I can see it in his eyes. Rochester could be in the house right now. Could be watching us from the windows, biding his time.
“Where does it come out?” I ask.
“Wine cellar. Behind the racks.” Rowland grips the knife so hard his knuckles turn white.
“Let’s go.”
We head back toward the house, but as we reach the lawn, Rowland’s steps falter, and he grabs my arm. I glance up to find him scanning the windows, seeming to look for any sign of Rochester.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“You need to be somewhere safe while I handle my brother. Go upstairs and lock yourself in the bathroom.”
I yank free of his grip. “We’re stronger together. I’m not hiding while you face him alone.”
Rowland’s eyes search my face. His features war between his need to protect me and his recognition that I’m right. That two of us have a better chance against Rochester than one. That I’ve already proven I can handle myself.
Finally, his shoulders sag. “You’re right. But stay by my side. No heroics.”
We reach the end of the lawn, cross the patio and push open the kitchen door. Rowland leads me down the hallway toward the cellar stairs, where the grandfather clock ticks in the silence like a countdown. My heart pounds at the prospect of Edward surviving the fire, but I tell myself that there are two of us, and we’re armed.
Rowland pauses at the cellar door. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his breaths are rapid and shallow. Just as he reaches the handle, the doorbell rings.
We turn to each other and freeze.
“Edward?” I mouth.
He shakes his head and points toward the basement.
Then who?
The bell rings again.
“Police! Open the door.”
My pulse kicks up several notches. I grab Rowland’s arm, hoping the cops aren’t here for me.
“It’s Morrison,” says the voice. “I know you’re in there, Rochester. Open the door, now!”
Morrison. The cop who called Edward about Blanche’s death. What the hell is he doing back here?
