My blood chills at the reminder of Rochester being alive. That bastard threatened to put me in a prison I could never escape. If he finds out we’ve killed a cop, he’ll use it as a weapon in his arsenal of psychological torture.
I meet Rowland’s dark eyes. Eyes that shine with love and concern. Gathering my courage, I raise my chin. “Then let’s finish this. I’m tired of running.”
Rowland nods. “Stay close. If Edward’s down there, he’ll be desperate. And desperate men are the most dangerous kind.”
FORTY-FIVE
The adrenaline’s gone. All that’s left is dread.
All I can think about is what we’ll find when we dispose of Morrison’s body. Rochester could be in that passageway, already recovered from his head wound.
Rowland drags the corpse through the hall. I follow, eyes on the marble, relieved to see no streaks of blood. At least that means less cleanup.
My hands still shake. I’ve never helped cover up a murder before, but that bastard got what he deserved.
“Do you want me to take the legs?” I ask.
“No,” Rowland grunts.
Morrison’s dead weight makes Rowland’s movements awkward, and sweat beads on his forehead with the effort. The dead cop’s head lolls at an unnatural angle, his pale eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
“Apart from being a psycho rapist, what do you think he wanted?” I ask.
“Probably an advance on the Ingram inheritance,” Rowland mutters.
“Did they ever share victims?”
He hesitates, his grip on Morrison slipping. “Sometimes. But only after Edward had broken the woman and wanted her dead. If I’d known the officer would attack you, I’d have never allowed you to answer the door.”
“What does that mean?”
“I thought you’d be safe so early in my brother’s killing cycle.”
A shudder races down my spine. “Cycle… right.”
He adjusts his hold on the dead body and continues walking. “I love you too much to let you fall into the hands of a brute.”
My chest clenches almost painfully. Now that he’s killed for me, his declaration of love takes on new meaning. It’s nothing like the hollow words of manipulation I’ve heard my entire adult life. Every confession I’ve endured before was a chain, a trick, a cage. This feels dangerous but real.
We reach a section of wall that looks identical to every other panel in the hallway. It’s a long stretch of mahogany wainscoting, nothing to suggest anything special. But Rowland drops Morrison to the floor and runs his fingers along the wood molding until he stops at something I can’t see.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Opening the passage to the basement.”
A soft click echoes through the hallway, and the panel swings inward to reveal a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
“Shit. Does this house have any more secret doorways?”
Rowland glances back at me, his dark eyes shining with warmth. “Of course. Hiding places like these keptour ancestors safe when the authorities came sniffing around.”
I shake my head. Rich families always have their dirty secrets. Corruption, smuggling, murder and whatever else Rowland hasn’t yet revealed. At least now those passages will serve a useful purpose.
He grabs Morrison under the arms again and steps through the opening.
“How deep does this go?” I ask as Rowland descends the steep stone steps.
“This set? Two stories.” His breathing is labored from hauling dead weight. “But there’s another that leads down to the cliffs.”
