This is perfect for our needs. I can already picture it painted in pastel colors, filled with toys and books.
As I turn to leave, my gaze catches a leather-bound book on the shelves. Curious, I walk to the end of the room and flip it open to the first page.
It’s a photo album, containing a picture of a stern-looking man dressed in a dark suit, waistcoat, and cravat. His stern features are framed with sideburns so thick, they look fake. Beneath the image, in neat handwriting, is the name:
EDWARD FAIRFAX ROCHESTER.
“Must be an ancestor,” I mutter.
The next page is a wedding photo. Old Rochester wears a top hat with his black suit and cravat, while the woman behind him is in a long, white dress with a high neckline and a veil covering her features. The only writing at the bottom says WEDDING 1847.
“So, his great-great-great-great-grandparents?” I shake my head, unable to calculate the distance.
The next several pages contain pictures of their children, of the eldest sons growing up to be haughty looking gentlemen who marry nameless women who bear their heirs. They go on and on from black-and-white to color. I tune out until I reach a man who looks startlingly like Edward Rochester, but wearing clothing from the seventies or eighties.
The text below reads HENRY ROCHESTER.
“Their father?” I whisper. “Has to be.”
I study his sharp features, noting the same cheekbones and aristocratic nose. This was the monster wholocked up Rowland for supposedly murdering his sister while the real killer went on to kill and torture innocent women. His eyes are even colder than his son’s.
When I flip to the next page, the portrait on the other side makes my breath stutter. Henry Rochester stands behind three kids in front of a massive fireplace. Adele is easy to spot with her blonde ringlets and pale skin. She’s about five years old, grinning with a missing tooth, alive and smiling instead of the horror I found in that locked room.
Edward is about ten, looking like his father’s mini-me. Same stern features, identical cold eyes, looking like the perfect predator in training.
But the third child makes my heart skip.
He’s the same height as Edward, with curly red hair, freckles and a smile as bright as the sun. His eyes are the same pale blue as his sister’s. The text below reads: HENRY, EDWARD, ADELE AND ROWLAND ROCHESTER.
Rowland?
I frown, my pulse picking up speed. Fingers trembling, I flip through more pages. Birthday parties. Christmas mornings. Every photo shows the same small family. Sometimes together, other times alone, but the red-haired boy is always labeled ROWLAND ROCHESTER.
And always with hair as curly and red as Orphan Annie’s.
My breathing shallows. I keep going. The final picture stops my heart. Edward and Henry stand by two familiar gravestones on the grounds. A woman weeps in the background, burying her face in her hands. She wearsthe same black uniform I used to wear, the identical one belonging to the skeleton in the attic.
The headstones are child-sized. I can’t read the names. It doesn’t matter because Rowland already told me the story of how his father faked his death.
But I can’t stop thinking about that red-haired boy.
The only other family photos I saw around the house were in Adele’s room, from the time Rowland directed me to her corpse. I have to see them again. I have to know. Heart pounding, I set down the album, step through the mirror, and head for the door.
I haven’t been back to that room since I discovered the truth about Adele. Now, the thought of seeing her again makes my skin crawl, but I have to check those photos. I need to compare.
The hallway stretches ahead, with dead Rochesters watching from their frames. The pulse between my ears pounds so hard it muffles the echo of my footsteps.
My feet stop outside Adele’s door, not wanting to take me any further. I clutch my belly and groan. If I see that grotesque thing again, if I look into those glass eyes…
But the red hair on Rowland doesn’t make sense.
I turn the handle and step inside.
Adele still sits in her chair in the corner, a nightmare in lace and ribbons. I don’t linger on the sight. Turning away, I force my focus on the photos lining the walls. They’re the same family portraits from the album. Same three kids. Same labels.
Same red-haired Rowland.
Stomach roiling, I move from picture to picture, checking and double-checking. Every single photo shows a boy with flame-bright hair. Nothing like the man downstairs.
