Since then, we’ve ridden every day.
We go fast. Faster than we should. Hooves thunder through the trees until the forest opens into a clearing similar to the one back at university. There, we spread a blanket, unpack lunch, and I work on his portrait while he sits for me.
Carrson takes his role as a model very seriously. He poses with one elbow propped on his bent knee and a faint blush on his cheeks. Like he doesn’t know what to do with that much attention.
At night, I cook him dinner since he declared he likes my food better than Mrs. Beckswith’s, words that filled me with a sense of pride so big I thought my chest might actually burst.
After that, we play board games Carrson brought out of his childhood room. The one he let me see, with its clumsily painted model airplanes dangling from the ceiling and the faded plaid wallpaper that curled at the edges like it was put in place when he was born and no one bothered to maintain it as he grew. He doesn’t linger in that room. Always closes the door when he leaves, then glances back over his shoulder as he walks away, as if checking to make sure nothing of him was left behind.
Last night, we stayed up until two in the morning, arguing over Monopoly rules, trading insults and bad deals. I laughed more than he did.
But he did laugh.
Over the past few days, I’ve seen more of that, more of him, than I have in the seven months I’ve known him.
Which is exactly why this is a mistake. A point of no return.
I shove the guilt aside and remind myself to hurry. There’s no time for softness now. No room for sympathy. Not if I want this to work. I turn the key again, steady pressure instead of force, testing for any give. When that doesn’t work, I lean my full weight into it, pushing harder, straining.
Come on. Come on.
There’s the creak of tumblers rolling, falling into place, and suddenly the key turns. It happens so fast I don’t have time to catch myself. I launch forward and fall, my knees cracking against the floor, the impact reverberating up into my hips.
I stay there, kneeling, hair hanging in my face.
The door opens.
A crack.
It creaks as I ease it open further, an icy blast rushing out, sweeping my hair from my face. Before me, a set of narrow stone steps marches down into darkness so deep and inky it’s like walking into night-black water. Deep enough to drown in.
I hold still, heart racing, then grab the flashlight I left on the counter behind me. I click it on, but the steps curve into a spiral, extending out of sight. Each is made of rough, uneven stone, the middle worn down from feet that have passed over it.
I consider myself a brave person, but it takes several minutes to talk my legs into moving. It’s the thought of Carrson returning in an hour or two that finally spurs me into action.
I gather my courage and remind myself of Remi on that last day. Her face bloated. Her hair thin. Her lips blue. How she died with her eyes wide open.
I descend.
My footfalls echo in the silence, drumbeats.
Halfway down, the slow drip of water from ahead reaches my ears. By the last couple of steps, it runs under my feet, a thin, branching rivulet that makes everything slick. Treacherous. Like the staircase is trying to trip me, make me fall and break my neck.
There’s no railing, so I brace both hands against the walls, twisting sideways as I edge one foot down after another.
There’s only one room below thelast step.
It’s roughly circular. The floor, walls, and ceiling are lined with the same damp, dark stone as the staircase. The air is thick, heavy with mold, burnt wood, candlewax, and a metallic scent.
Iron.
Or blood.
I spin in a circle.
Unlit torches and candles sit in holders that project from the walls. Next to them, manacles hang from chains hooked into the stone.
I stare at them as a chill goes through me. My mind rebels, insisting this has to be fake. A movie prop. A joke. Up close, the metal is old, beaten silver, spotted with rust.Real.
