“I’ll call the owner and tell him you’re harassing me,” I shout after him. “You should be scared.” I knit my brows together. “I heard he’s dangerous.”
He turns back, his lower lip pushing out in a mock pout. “Oh, I’m so scared.”
“Did you read that in the diary you’ve been going through?”
“No,” I say.
“Keep reading,” he says, already turning his back to me again. “Maybe you’ll figure out I own the house.”
He’s the owner.
He’s Mr. Rosewood.
Fourteen
AURELIA
The doorbell cuts through my thoughts. For a second, I freeze. It must be another box, another set of bones from The Caller.
But the ringing doesn’t stop. It keeps going, louder, more insistent.
I push myself to my feet, my heart already racing, and step out of the bedroom. By the time it rings a third time, I’m halfway down the stairs, nearly slipping as I rush toward the door.
I pull it open.
A tall man stands on the porch, pale against the daylight, dressed in a blue uniform. A worn leather bag with letters hangs from his shoulder. In his hand, he holds only one.
“Miss Aurelia Vale?” he asks, his eyes moving over me like he is checking for something.
“Yes.”
He places the letter into my hand.
My gaze drops, and the name catches me instantly.
Dasha Ivanova.
I look back up, but the man is already turning away, heading down the path.
“Sir. Sir?” I shout after him.
He stops and glances over his shoulder.
I hurry toward him, the letter clenched in my hand, one thought pushing through everything else, that I have to write her back.
“Would it be possible for you to come back tomorrow?” I ask, slightly out of breath. “To pick up a letter I want to send?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t do that, miss. There’s a post office in town.”
“Please.” I say. “I can pay. I’m not allowed to leave the house.”
He exhales. For a moment, he stares at me, then he gives a nod.
“Fine. I’ll be here tomorrow at eight.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. I nod back.
“Perfect. Thank you.”
