Shuddering at the reminder of being so close to the ocean, I follow behind with a hand trailing along the damp wall for balance. The air grows colder and mustier with each step, and I try not to think of how the tunnel leads to those murdered women.
Or possibly Rochester himself.
At the bottom, we reach a heavy door even thicker than the one I had to smash through to get into the attic. Even in the dark, I can tell it’s reinforced with iron bands and a lock that looks medieval.
Rowland drops Morrison’s arms and leans against the wall, breathing hard. “If Edward’s anywhere, this is where he’ll be.”
I stare at the imposing door, my pulse quickening. Anticipation, nausea, and fear battle for dominance in my gut. If Rochester really survived the fire and is waiting for us, now’s our time to finish him.
My fingers tighten around the cleaver. If he’s waiting on the other side, I need to be close enough to protect Rowland.
Rowland reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys. “Step back. I’m opening the door.”
“I’m not moving from this spot,” I reply.
Rowland fixes me with a look, though I can’t tell if it’s with pride or exasperation. When he offers me a crooked smile, I shift backward, giving him space. He turns the lock, making a grinding sound that echoes off the stone walls. With a groan, he pushes open the heavy door, revealing a long corridor stretching into shadow. We both peer into the darkness, muscles tensed for an attack.
Silence stretches until my nerves are pulled to the point of snapping. I wait for signs of Rochester, but there’s nothing. No movement. No sound of breathing or shuffling feet. Just quiet.
Relief loosens my lungs, and we both exhale.
“Maybe your brother really is dead,” I say, my voice trembling with hope.
Rowland grunts and picks up the corpse by the arms. “Step aside. I’ll take it from here.”
“Let me come in with you. I should watch your back.”
“No need. This won’t take long.” He straightens, Morrison’s weight making his arms shake.
I step back, letting him haul the corpse into the corridor. The darkness swallows them both, leaving me alone on the stone landing. That’s when I notice a small notebook on the floor that must have slipped from Morrison’s jacket.
Curious, I pick it up and flip through the pages. Most of it is police notes, dating back several weeks. But then I see my name written in capitals.
Below it, I scan details about my background: My birth name: Mary-Jane Reed. Mom and Dad’s names:Janet and James Reed. He even dug up the names of my sisters and brother, Diana, Mary, and John.
I continue reading to find the date I married Matthew Eyre. The date of the fire and a list of casualties. Then he lists names of old lovers and sugar daddies, with the last one being Gilberto Agostini. I shake my head. I had no idea that was even his full name.
But it’s the conclusion at the bottom that makes my blood run cold:
Subject has been a missing person for nine years, eleven months, with no family ties. Background suggests she will not be missed by law enforcement or civilian contacts. Ideal candidate.
A sharp breath hisses from my teeth.
I was always prey. A profile, not a person. Just another ghost girl with no future, no one to miss her. My whole fucking life was a checklist on a predator’s clipboard.
So that’s how it worked. Rochester didn’t randomly hire and dispose of desperate women. Morrison researched them first to make sure no one would come looking when they disappeared.
I wasn’t just unlucky. I didn’t just stumble into this situation. I was specifically selected.
Jaw clenching, I flip the page. Morrison wrote a bunch of lies about my past. Details about supposed escort work. He paints me as a woman who fucked for money, when what I was looking for was support. Most of it is distorted bullshit designed to make me look like nothing but a prostitute.
What the hell would Rowland think if he read this twisted version of my history?
A shiver runs down my spine. I can’t let Rowland seethis. Chest tightening, I glance into the darkness, checking for signs of his return. He doesn’t need to know about my long list of lovers. Doesn’t need Morrison’s corrupt little notes poisoning our relationship.
The sounds of dragging grow fainter as Rowland moves deeper toward that terrible graveyard Edward built down there. I have possibly two minutes before he returns.
I rip out the pages from the notebook, tear them into small pieces, and stuff the evidence into my pocket. Morrison can rot with his lies in hell.
