The me who’s angry. Driven. A little unhinged.
All those times in the clearing when he was pretending to ignore me, he wasn’t. He was watching, studying. Seeing things I didn’t realize I was showing.
My fingers dig into the page, crumpling the paper.
Is that why he left it here? Not for me to understandhim, but proof that he understandsme?
Which is comforting, as if I’m not alone in my own head anymore.
But also unsettling, because knowledge is currency. Leverage. A weapon.
If he can read me like this, then he knows where I’m weak. What to push. How I’ll break.
I slam the book closed, annoyed. Every time I think I have the upper hand, Carrson flips it. It’s pissing me off.
Fine. If he knows me, then I’ll learn him the same way. Lips pressed into a line, my shoulders back, I replace the notebook. I pivot and walk out of his room, more determined than I was before.
***
The next room is on the third floor, double doors that I’m pretty sure lead to the master bedroom. There must be a reason Carrson hasn’t taken it over, considering he’s the master of this house now that his dad’s dead.
I open both doors and step into an opulent, sun-filled room.
It’s dominated by a four-poster bed made of dark wood, polished to a mirror-like shine. Matching nightstands and dressers line the walls, everything arranged with almost obsessive symmetry. There’s a sitting area off to the side, a couch and coffee table positioned as if they’re waiting for someone who never came back.
Farther in, a doorway leads to a large bathroom. Even from here, the marble floor gleams, a crystal chandelier catching the light and scattering it across the walls. It’s a smaller version of the ones in the ballroom.
It’s beautiful.
And completely empty.
I move through the room, opening drawers, but there’s nothing inside. The closet is also bare, no hangers, no dust, nothing to suggest anything was ever kept here at all.
Everything is spotless. Clean but alsomaintained. The kind of clean that requires daily attention. As if the room isn’t abandoned, it’s being preserved.
I drop to my hands and knees and crawl over the carpet, inspecting it inch by inch. I don’t consciously tell myself what I’m hunting for, but I know.
There are no dark stains. No faint traces of red.
I even peer under the small Persian rug at the end of the bed.
Finally, I reach for the bedpost at the foot of the bed and pull myself upright.
“Ouch—” I jerkmy hand back.
A splinter is buried in my palm, a tiny drop of blood welling around it. I bring my hand to my mouth, sucking the sting away. Blood spreads across my tongue, the taste of iron and earth.
Wondering where it came from, I turn back to the post. The wood is smooth except for one spot, right at eye level. I lean closer.
A rough, uneven tear mars the finish around the post, the varnish broken like something struck it, or rubbed against it hard enough, long enough, to wear it down. It forms a perfect circle of white, revealing the unfinished wood underneath.
I step back, my gaze lifting to the rest of the bed.
That’s when I see the second mark.
On the opposite post at the foot of the bed.
Same height. Same shape. Same unbroken circle.
