I glance back.
She’s stepping out of the house, following the same path. Followingme.
A sound breaks from my throat.
I lunge for the church door, pull it open, and stumble inside. Relief barely has time to find me.
A strong male hand clamps around me from behind. And yanks me back into the corner near the confession booth.
“Quiet,” he whispers, his hand clamping over my mouth as he forces me inside.
The church turns colder. Everything is so quiet, until a low whistle slips through the silence.
I try to turn my head, but his grip is strong.
“It’s dangerous to be outside of the house at night.” His breath brushes my ear.
I know that voice.
“Victor?”
He turns to face me and pulls me out of the booth, his fingers wrapping around my hand. His nails dig into my skin, sending a sting up my arm as I try to wrench myself free.
“Let me go,” I say, twisting against him.
He shakes his head, then suddenly releases me, like he’s just realized how hard he’s been holding on. His eyes lock on mine. His lips part, but nothing comes out.
I take a step back. Then another. The altar looms behind me as I keep moving, needing distance, needing space.
He doesn’t follow.
He just stands there for a moment, still as stone. Then, without a word, he turns and lowers himself onto one of the benches.
“What are you not telling me?” My voice trembles. My hands slide behind my back, searching for anything I can use to hit him if I have to.
“You really don’t remember?” His gaze lifts to meet mine.
I shake my head. “Remember what?”
“You were here six years ago. You showed up at the doorstep covered in blood.”
He clears his throat, eyes drifting toward the window.
“Lilibeth took Helena to England to visit her mother. Margaret went with them, and Mr. Rosewood and I were the only ones in the house.”
I try to remember, but nothing comes. I lift my foot, glancing down, wanting to take a step, but my whole body stays locked in place, refusing to move.
“I don’t remember,” I whisper as I lower myself onto the cold steps near the altar, my hands beginning to shake.
He comes toward me slowly. When he stops in front of me, he hesitates. Then, with a sigh, he lowers himself and sits beside me.
“You...” He clicks his tongue. “You two knew each other from before.”
“I don’t remember,” I shout this time.
“You don’t, or you don’t want to?” he asks, rising to his feet. “Miss Vale, the truth is, none of us know how we ended up here, yet we do.”
“Part of you wanted to be here. That’s why you answered that ad. Even if you hate to admit it, you recognized the number.”
