"Where are we?" she whispers, her voice thick with sleep.
"Home," I say.
I get out, opening an umbrella before the rain can touch my suit. I walk around to her side and pull the door open.
The cold ocean air hits us, sharp and salty. Ivy shivers, hugging herself.
"Come," I command, extending a hand.
She hesitates. She looks at the house, then at the dark woods surrounding us. She realizes, just as I intended, that running is not an option. There is nowhere to run to.
She takes my hand.
I pull her out of the car and tuck her under the umbrella, wrapping my arm around her waist to shield her from the wind. We walk up the stone steps to the massive double doors.
Before I can reach for my keys, the door opens.
Mrs. Halloway stands there.
She is a small woman in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and a uniform that is perfectly pressed. She has been running this house since I was a boy. She knows where the bodies are buried because she has cleaned the carpets afterward.
"Good evening, Mr. Vane," she says, her voice devoid of surprise. "Welcome back."
"Marta," I nod. "This is my wife."
Ivy stiffens against me.
Marta turns her gaze to Ivy. Her expression doesn't change. She offers a polite, terrifyingly normal smile.
"Mrs. Vane," she says, dipping her head. "A pleasure to finally meet you. Mr. Vane has been preparing for your arrival for quite some time. The master suite is ready."
"Preparing?" Ivy whispers, looking up at me. "How long?"
"Months," I answer simply.
I guide her inside. The foyer is cavernous, lit by a massive crystal chandelier that casts fractured light across the black and whitemarble floors. A dual staircase sweeps up to the second floor. It smells of beeswax, lemon oil, and old money.
"Dinner will be served in the dining room in thirty minutes," Marta says, closing the heavy front door behind us. The sound of the latch clicking into place echoes like a gunshot. "I have prepared a roast. I assumed Mrs. Vane would be hungry after the... excitement."
"Thank you, Marta," I say. "We'll go up first."
I steer Ivy toward the stairs. She walks mechanically, her eyes wide, taking in the portraits of my ancestors on the walls. Men with cruel eyes and sharp jaws. My legacy.
"She called me Mrs. Vane," Ivy murmurs as we climb. "Like it’s normal. Like you didn't just drag me here."
"To her, it is normal," I say. "Marta understands loyalty. She understands that you belong here."
We reach the landing. I lead her down the long, carpeted hallway to the double doors at the end.
This is my wing. The East Wing. It overlooks the ocean.
I push the doors open.
The room is vast. A four-poster bed made of dark mahogany dominates the space, draped in heavy velvet curtains. A fireplace crackles on the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the stormy sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below in violent bursts of white foam.
Ivy walks into the room, drawn to the window. She presses her hand against the glass, looking out at the nothingness.
"It’s dark," she says. "There are no lights out there."
