My stomach lurches. There wasn’t time to get changed. I shift on my feet, trying to drum up the most plausible lie. “I had an accident.”
His gaze sweeps up and down my ragged form, taking in the bruises on my neck, my torn dress, the blood and cuts and dirt. “What kind of accident?”
“There was a fire in one of the outbuildings,” I rasp. “I tried to put it out before it spread, but I fell and got scraped up. Should’ve called for help, but I couldn’t findmy phone.”
Seconds pass, and he continues glaring down at me like he’s trying to decipher my bullshit. One wrong glance and he’ll tear the lie apart. I hold my face steady, but my heart slams hard enough to wake the dead.
Eventually, he curls his lip. I can’t tell if he can imagine me bumbling through a fire or if he no longer gives a damn. “When did you last see your boss?”
My throat dries, but I stick to my original story. “The morning he and his new bride left for their honeymoon.”
“Bullshit.” He strides past me toward the back of the house like he owns the place.
I follow him, wringing my hands. “Is everything alright? Has something happened to Mr. Rochester?”
Ignoring me, he strides into the study, walks over the papers strewn across the floor, and sits on the edge of the mahogany desk. “Call him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Call Rochester. Tell him Detective Morrison needs to speak with him about his wife.”
My throat tightens. My breath turns shallow. “I don’t have his number. Mrs. Fairfax handles all the contact information, and she’s away on the mainland.”
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the tick of the grandfather clock. Morrison watches me with the cold calculation of a predator sizing up a target. Every hackle on the back of my neck rises, and I pray to whoever’s listening he doesn’t scrutinize me too closely.
“You know what I think?” Morrison says, his voice low and menacing.
“What?” I rasp.
“You’re covering for that bastard.” He shifts off the edge of the desk and steps toward me, his glower forcing me to skitter backward.
I shake my head, not wanting to say anything incriminating.
“Stupid of you to protect a sicko who’ll run you around in circles before putting you in the ground.” He stands so close, I breathe in his coffee-scented breath. “Because you’ll end up just like the others.”
My back hits the wall. “What others?”
“Other girls worked here before you. Pretty little things, looking for work, thinking they’d landed a dream job with a rich gentleman.” His gaze drops to my cleavage.
Nausea surges in my gut. He knows. Knows Edward Rochester is a serial killer. Knows he murdered Blanche.
“What happened to them?” I ask.
“They disappeared.” He shrugs as if he’s talking about misfiled paperwork. “Vanished like smoke.”
I flinch at the matter-of-fact way he tells me about Rochester’s murders. The contemptuous tone an officer of the law would use to identify me as his next victim makes my back stiffen. Even more disturbing is this entire situation. He isn’t here to arrest a serial killer. He came alone because... Oh, shit. Because?—
“You’ve been helping him.” The words slip out before I can stop myself.
Morrison grins, showing molars in serious need of dental work. “Smart girl.”
The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. Why nobody ever arrested Rochester. Why he thought he could get away with murdering Blanche. Because Morrison helped him cover up the disappearances. Made sure no one looked too hard for missing servants. Took payoffs to keep his secrets buried.
“How many?” Irasp.
“Does it matter? They were nobodies. Runaways, orphans, women with no familial ties. But I’ll give him one thing. Rochester has fantastic taste.” Morrison grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh.
I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. “Let go of me!”
