Neither of us moves.
“Edward Rochester! Open this door right now!”
Morrison’s voice carries through the house with an authority that won’t be ignored. He’s not going away. More pounding echoes from the front door, sharp and insistent.
“I swear to God, Rochester, if you don’t open up, everyone will know the truth about Blanche Ingram!”
My breath stutters. What truth? Morrison knows something about Blanche’s death. Something that could expose Rochester. Which means he could expose us if we’re not careful.
But more importantly, Morrison isn’t leaving. He’ll keep escalating until someone opens that door. If he calls for backup and if more cops show up, it might jeopardize our plan to have Rowland replace his brother.
I place my hands on Rowland’s bicep. “Hide. I’ll answer the door.”
“Absolutely not.” His grip tightens on the knife. “You can’t face a policeman alone.”
“I can handle Morrison. You can’t be seen. God knows what this is really about.”
The pounding intensifies. Morrison’s getting angry, which means he’s getting dangerous.
“Trust me,” I say, already moving toward the front hall. “I’ve been lying to cops my whole life.”
And I’ll lie to Morrison, too. Because it means protecting the only person who’s ever bled for me.
FORTY-FOUR
I stand behind the front door, my pulse hammering loud enough to muffle the racket. Morrison continues knocking as if the house is on fire, and I race through what the hell I’m supposed to say.
If I act too nervous, he’ll know I’m hiding something. Too calm, and I’ll look suspicious. I need to play the part of the confused servant who knows nothing about her employer’s business. Just the help. Just another girl who cleans floors and minds her business.
But what on earth does Morrison know about Blanche’s death?
“Rochester! I’m not leaving until we talk!”
More pounding echoes through the wood, making me flinch. Each blow sounds like it might splinter the frame.
Hands trembling, I glance over my shoulder. I can’t let him see Rowland. Not just because everyone thinks he’s dead. The last thing I want him to think is that I’m hiding a dubious character. But I can’t delay. He’ll break down the door or call for backup.
“Hello?” I say, my voice trembling.
“Open this fucking door.”
“A-all right.”
I smooth down my dress. Remind myself to think like a servant who’s worried about her job and terrified of authority. That’s who Annalisa Burlington is supposed to be.
With a sharp inhale, I turn the lock.
Morrison barrels inside before I can even get the door open. He’s bigger than I remember—shoulders like a bouncer, neck like a tree trunk, and cheeks mottled with fury. And the way he stares down at me like a suspect makes him all the more menacing.
“Where’s your boss?” he demands, his gaze scanning the foyer like he’s cataloging every detail.
“Mr. Rochester hasn’t yet returned,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Answer my question,” he says, his gaze snapping back to me.
“I don’t know where he went. He doesn’t tell me his movements. I just keep the house running while he’s away.”
Morrison’s eyes narrow. “Why are you so banged up?”
