Bill’s blue eyes find mine in the mirror. “This could end badly, Kitten. In fact, it probably will. You know that?”
I subtly press a hand to my belly. “Yes. But I need to try. I won’t be able to live with myself otherwise.”
Bill nods. “That’s all we need to know.”
The hours slip by as we race along grey freeways. The pain in my chest and heart increases as I keep a tight grip on the door handle. I trust Archie and Bill, at least not to sell me out but part of me is ready to jump from the car and run. To do whatever I have to survive and find the men I love.
It’s night time when we reach my old neighborhood. As we pass familiar parks and houses a cold sweat rushes down my spine and I wrap my fingers even more tightly around the door handle. I haven’t been back here since my botched wedding to Mr. Parker. I hoped I’d never be back.
“Ready?” Archie asks.
“Of course,” I lie.
Standing in the shadow of my old house, I feel as small as I always did. It’s five stories tall but it feels bigger. Full of secrets and grudges and lies. My mama died here. My daddy died here too, behind his desk. But neither of those things is as terrifying as the knowledge Corinne is inside, darkening the Whitehall mansion with her dark, selfish moods.
Archie slams the car door behind me, making me start.
“Sorry,” he says. “You sure you can handle this, Kitten?”
“Yes.” I straighten my shoulders and touch the gun on my thigh. I’m not the best shot, but at close range, I don’t have to be. If Corinne tries to hurt me, I’m not going to let her.
We walk up the painfully familiar garden path, Archie, and Bill behind me like my bodyguards Kurt and Theo used to do. I wonder where Theo is now. Probably on an island, eating barbecue pork ribs with no shoes on.
I use the heavy knocker, the way the family always does when they’ve left their keys somewhere else. Footsteps approach and all three of us draw a breath. But the woman who opens the door is a stranger. She’s small and middle-aged and her puffy eyes make it seem like she’s been crying for hours. She catches one sight of us and tries to slam the door but Archie shoves past me, keeping it open.
“No more!” The woman wails in a heavy Italian accent. “No more.”
“I’m sorry,” I say in a soothing voice. “This is my old house. I’m January Whitehall, who are you?”
“Rosaelia.Housekeeper.”
I look at the small woman. She’s the one who baked the Orchard into all the treats. Or was made to. I swallow my anger and point to the winding staircase. “Where is my stepmother? Is she up here?”
Rosaelia takes one look at me and runs away, down the hall toward the kitchen.
Archie takes a step after her, but I put a hand on his arm. “Let her go. She’s not our problem. Corinne will be upstairs.”
“You’re the boss, Kitten.”
I lead them up the staircase and onto the first floor. Everything looks familiar but with tiny differences: new vases, new positions for lamps and houseplants.
Archie pauses in front of Daddy’s Francis Bacon painting. “This is where you grew up?”
He sounds a little dazed and I understand why. It’s not as old as Velvet House but Daddy’s mansion is beautiful. We could be walking through a house in the 1920s, men in three-piece suits and hats, and women in drop-waist dresses coming down the hall for cocktail hour. We climb the stairs to the second floor and pause. I can hear a woman sobbing, someone who isn’t Rosaelia. For a moment I wonder if Corinne is crying, and what I’ll do if she is, then the noise grows louder, and I realize it’s Margot in one of the spare bedrooms. “Margot?”
The crying stops abruptly. “January?”
I try the door handle, but it’s locked. “What are you doing? Can you let me in?”
“I can’t. It’s locked from the outside.” There’s a patter of feet and I feel Margot press into the other side of the door. “How did you get here? What’s happening?”
“I need to find Mr. Parker,” I tell her. “Did he come here? Does Corinne know where he is?”
Margot begins to sob again, loud violent sobs. I turn to the twins who look as confused as I feel.
“Is he still here?” I ask. “Did he lock you in?”
“No,” Margot wails. “He left.”
