Thirty-Three
CHRISSY
December 20
I couldn’t believeI was doing this, but… Granny Irene had made some points yesterday that I couldn’t argue with, no matter how badly I wanted to.
The key sat heavy in my coat pocket the whole drive, like it was burning a hole straight through the fabric and into my skin. Every mile closer to the hunting lodge twisted the knot in my stomach tighter.
What if Ben was there?
What if he opened the door himself, hood up, scars shadowed, those piercing blue eyes locking onto me like they had the night he told me everything? Would he try to talk things out? Would he demand his mother’s ring back from me, since I told him I never wanted to see him again? Would he just… stare, silent and unreadable, until I broke first?
Or worse… what if he wasn’t there at all? What if I got there and only came face to face with Henry or some other staffer, and they very calmly demanded the ring back and dismissed me?
The roads were clear today, the freak ice storm already melting into slush along the shoulders. Sunlight filtered through the pines, dappling the gravel drive as I turned onto the private road leading to the lodge. My tires crunched over small fallen branches, the only sound besides my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
When the lodge finally came into view, I slowed to a crawl.
It looked… wrong.
No smoke curling from the chimneys. No vehicles in the drive except faint, muddied tire tracks that could have been days old. Windows dark, one on the ground floor cracked open like it had been forced. The front door hung slightly ajar, not latched properly.
My breath fogged the windshield as I parked near the front steps. I sat there for a long moment, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the massive wooden doors like they might swing open on their own.
They didn’t.
I climbed out slowly, the cold air slapping my cheeks. Gravel shifted under my boots as I approached. There were no sounds, no distant voices, no clatter from the kitchen, no Henry barking orders. There was just wind rustling through the trees and the faint drip of melting ice from the eaves.
The front door was unlocked, and worse, it looked like it had been jimmied, with faint scratches around the lock.
That sent a chill down my spine unrelated to the weather.
“Hello?” My voice echoed as I pushed it open wider, stepping inside. “Henry? Anyone?”
Nothing.
The air was stale, colder than outside. Lights off. The grand chandelier hung dark overhead. But it wasn’t just empty… it was chaos.
The foyer rug was flipped over, one corner torn. Mantle decorations scattered across the floor in a visual cacophony of shattered vases, overturned frames. Drawers in the side tables yanked out, contents dumped: old keys, notepads, a broken pen leaking ink onto the hardwood.
My stomach twisted.
“Ben?” I called, voice cracking. I cleared my throat. “Henry?”
Shadows and silence greeted me.
I moved deeper into the house, pulse racing, stepping over debris. Room after room: trashed. The dining hall chairs upended, tablecloth ripped off and balled in a corner. Kitchen cabinets flung open, pots and pans spilled across the counters, pantry shelves swept clean — cans dented on the floor, a jar of basil shattered into green-flecked glass.
What the hell happened here? A break-in? Vandalism? Something tied to Vivian — or worse, remnants of the rogue actors from the Game? My mind spun worst-case scenarios: Ben firing everyone in a rage, sending them away, then holing up alone while his wounds festered. Or someone coming for him — attacking while he was vulnerable.
The place looked like it had been tossed by someone searching for something. Or someone.
By the time I reached the east wing, worry had twisted into outright fear. The hallway was a mess with its pictures knocked crooked and a side table overturned. The study door was ajar, scratches on the frame like it had been pried.
I pushed it open slowly, heart hammering. Dust motes danced in the weak light filtering through the blinds. The room smelled faintly of leather and old books — and him. But the desk drawers were yanked out, papers scattered across the floor. Books pulled from shelves, spines cracked.
No.
