Someone whimpers.
It’s me.
Lyam trails a finger down my cheek. I cringe away, but he keeps talking. “Then there will be the text to your agent, telling her how deeply sorry you are.”
I blink back tears. “That’s what you did to Rose. You took her phone and faked the social media posts.”
He moves into my line of sight and nods. “I’ve had a lot of practice, so I know how to cover my trail. But to tell the truth, it is sad. Truly. I liked you, Brooke, from the very start. I watched, but I might not have ever touched.”
His voice turns sweet, like the Lyam I knew before. As adept at slipping into character as any actor I’ve known. “But you just couldn’t stop digging into our family’s past. Asking questions, searching online?—”
My muscles clench. “How could you possibly know that? My laptop is password- protected.”
He tosses back his head and laughs. “Brooke, Brooke, Brooke. Not very tech savvy, are you? As soon as you connected to our WiFi, I had access to everything.” He winks at me. “I’m a skilled hacker. Started learning at a young age.”
I shake my head. “But why?”
He puts his mouth next to my ear and licks the lobe before whispering, “Control. Why else?” He stands up. “Money brings power and power brings money. And people like us, we never let go of either.”
As he pulls away, I glare at him. “People like you. You mean sick, depraved people. The kind who write down the evil things they do, so they can relive them again and again.”
One side of his mouth lifts in a confused half-grin. “What are you talking about?”
“Your journal. Someone left it for me.” As he continues to stare blankly, I say, “You know.My Hotel Peculiar.”
Lyam only shakes his head, his smile wilting, as if he’s confused.
Behind him, a rustle, then a new voice carries from the doorway.
“That’s my journal,” Dora says, sitting in her wheelchair. “And I want it back.”
48
I watch Dora roll herself into the underground chamber. “I don’t understand,” I say. “The journal was written by someone young, practically a child.” The numbers flit through my head, but they don’t add up. “The little girl in the catacombs, that was what—nine or ten years ago?”
Dora edges up to the table, right beside my face. “She wasn’t mine, I’m afraid. But the first one was.”
Baffled, I wait for her to explain.
She sends a smile to her grandson. “I revealed the truth to Lyam years ago. I knew he was the one. And he wanted to impress me, to pay homage. You see, I made my first kill all on my own, without my father’s knowledge or permission. And he was so proud.”
She beams as if talking about winning a blue ribbon at a fair. Instead of murdering a child. “When I told Lyam, he wanted to do the same. Tradition is very important in our family.”
“I wanted to be like you,” Lyam says, his tone soft and obsequious, one meant to ingratiate himself to Dora.
“Unfortunately, both times were mistakes, and we both had to learn the first rule.” Dora laughs. “Don’t hunt at home.”
My mind whirls. Two little girls. Dora’s first murder, the one in her journal.
And later, Lyam. When he was in his teens.
I want to cover my face but can’t move my hands. “What about the girl from the party in 1985?”
Dora frowns and almost looks embarrassed. “Another mistake. And the first and last time I ever tried ecstasy.” She smiles and looks upward. “Oh, but the kill was divine. I never felt anything like it, before or since. Not even my first.”
Nausea grips my gut again, but I push it back down. “That’s not tradition. That’s sadism.”
Dora tilts her head. “No, dear. It’s a necessity. An obligation.”
