The Keyhole

Chapter 1

ONE

When this plane lands, I’ll either disappear into a nanny job on Helsing Island or end up cuffed and bleeding in a holding cell. There’ll be no makeup for my mugshot, no mercy at the trial. They’ll probably pour drinks after they throw me in the electric chair and send me straight to hell.

The judicial system doesn’t exactly go easy on cop killers. Not even those who didn’t murder by choice.

My gaze shifts to the window as the plane drops below the cloud line and the island comes into view. Even through the dark, the vast expanse of forest gives me hope that this will be the perfect place to hide.

The seatbelt bites into my hip bones. The cabin stinks of coffee, old sweat, and that sour chemical tang of recycled air. And the man sitting in the aisle next to mine hasn’t stopped staring at me since takeoff.

But so has everyone else. They know what I’ve done. Know where I’m going.

Mom told me I was damned. Dad called me a sinner. The old bastard they married me off to said I was a demon. Maybe they were right.

The tiny plane lands, taxis, then shudders to a stop, its propellers winding down with a metallic whine that cuts through the night air. Eight passengers file past toward the exit, their gazes boring into the side of my face.

My chest tightens. Each breath grows shallower, thinner. Countless nights of sleep deprivation have frazzled my nerves, but if I jump at every stare, I’ll blow my cover before I even land.

I fumble with my duffel’s zipper and rifle through the stolen cash, spare clothes, and the prepaid phone holding WhatsApp messages from a man named Edward Rochester.

That’s why I came to Helsing Island. In the hope that whoever’s behind the Facebook Marketplace ad really is a widowed father seeking a nanny and not a psycho setting a trap. But I’m desperate enough to answer the kind of ad no sane person would trust.

Mr. Rochester’s employee is meeting me at the airport. I turn on the burner phone to email him that the plane is late, and every one of his replies is replaced with a box that says: This message was deleted.

My messages remain, hanging in the void, but his side is scrubbed clean. When I click the Facebook Marketplace link, the ad no longer exists.

Shit.

The seatbelt snaps back like a whip as I rise, my legs shaky. My knees feel unsteady, not from the flight but from the weight of being a fugitive on the run about to hide out in a stranger’s manor.

Bottom line: I’ve run out of options.

The terminal is nothing more than a single room with plastic chairs bolted to the floor and fluorescent lights that hum like dying insects.

Everything smells of bleach and jet fuel.

The walls are stained yellow from years of moisture and neglect, and somewhere outside I can hear gulls crying like they’re mourning the dead.

There’s no café, no gift shop, no place to hide. Just vending machines humming in the corners and the hollow echo of footsteps on linoleum.

I clutch my duffel bag tighter and keep my head down as I walk toward the exit.

My boots squeak with every step, screaming my presence.

Through the glass doors I can see the parking lot with three cars and a pickup truck that’s more rust than metal.

Paranoia has me crossing the empty space feeling eyes drilling into the back of my skull.

Legs trembling, I push myself toward the doors, pretending I’m not dying inside.

I’m halfway down the concourse when there’s movement in my periphery. A strange man shifts against the wall near the exit, his eyes raking up and down my form. He rocks on his feet, watching me walk toward him with a patient smile.

What if he’s a cop or FBI?

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

My throat closes and my breath comes in panicked gasps as I imagine his hands on my wrists, the cold bite of cuffs, the way everyone back home will shake their heads and say they always knew this was where I was headed.

But I keep walking because I have a plan. Not really. He’s probably the driver my new employer said would meet me at the airport. But why isn’t he holding a sign? I hold my features in a neutral expression, pretend I’m not wanted for murder, and keep my gaze on the glass doors.

When I reach the exit, he leans forward and whispers something obscene. He wasn’t FBI. Just a fucking creep. I freeze for a second, too stunned to speak, flesh crawling like it’s trying to leave my bones. The automatic doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, and I sprint out into the night.

The wind hits my face like a slap, driving rain through my jacket in seconds.

It doesn’t matter that my boobs hurt from not wearing a sports bra, or the air tastes of salt and wet stone, or that I’m near the ocean though I can’t see it through the darkness.

I’m grabbing this chance to escape that perv before he decides to take chase.

Up ahead, a single car idles at the curb, a vintage limousine from what I can tell by its shape.

Chrome bumpers catch the yellow light from the terminal, and everything about it whispers old money.

Some might call me a gold digger for moving toward it.

I call myself a survivor. Better to risk safety with one powerful man than end up prey to every predator on my tail.

“Hey, baby,” says a male voice from behind.

I’m still looking back for that guy when I collide with something solid. A wall of muscle wrapped in wool. A scream catches in my throat.

Large hands grab my shoulder, triggering my fight-or-flight. Just as I’m about to reach for his junk, my captor says, “Are you Annalisa Burlington?”

The voice is cultured and low. I crane my neck and notice two things at once, despite the broad shoulders and chiseled jaw. He wears a black chauffeur’s uniform with a cap pulled low over features I can barely make out in the shadows. Definitely not FBI.

“Annalisa Burlington?” he repeats, releasing my shoulders.

Burlington. That’s the name I gave the guy from Facebook Marketplace. I nod because my voice has abandoned me somewhere between fear and relief.

“Um… Yes?” I croak. “That’s me.”

“Rochester Manor awaits.” He opens the car door with white-gloved hands.

I glance back toward the terminal one last time. That weirdo is nowhere to be seen. I grind my teeth. Guilt has me seeing predators in every stranger’s face. Either way, this car is my only shot at disappearing, and standing here in the rain won’t save me from arrest.

“Thank you,” I mutter, and step into the limousine’s interior.

The leather seats are worn soft with age and smell like tobacco and cedar, masculine scents that remind me of the old man I once hooked up with from Casino DeMartini.

Wood paneling lines the interior, and the windows are tinted so dark I might as well be in a coffin.

I clutch my duffel on my lap and try not to think about how many bodies have disappeared in cars like this one.

Seriously, I need to shut the fuck up. A woman facing the electric chair can’t afford to worry about being whisked away by maniacs.

He pulls out onto the access road and continues along the flyover. I lean against the window, my gaze fixed on the exit signs.

“Where did you work before?” His voice breaks me out of my thoughts.

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. Black. Unblinking. Probing. Shouldn’t he already know all this? I shake off that thought. Of course, he wouldn’t. I was emailing Mr. Rochester. This guy is probably just making small talk. Shit. He wants to know where I worked.

What the hell did I say in that fake résumé? Was it Milwaukee? Damn it, why did I have to be so extra?

“Um… Chicago,” I mutter. “Private family.”

“How long?”

“A year.”

“Why did you leave?”

“They moved to Europe.” My throat dries. “Wanted a nanny who could teach them French.”

“Where before that?”

I swallow. “Milwaukee.”

“And before that?”

“Um… Indiana.”

Silence. Then: “No luggage? Or did you leave it on purpose?”

My hackles rise. My fingers tighten around the duffel. What the hell is this interrogation? I clench my teeth. “Airline lost it.”

“Or are you traveling light because you’re on the run?”

“I’m not—” My voice cracks. Prickly heat crawls up my neck, threatening to brand my face with a confession. Who the hell does this guy think he is? A chauffeur doesn’t get to ask if I’m a wanted woman.

“Excuse me?” I snap, trying to regain some ground.

“What address did you give for them to return it?”

I freeze. “I… didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Because I have no home. Because I’m a fugitive. Because my last living blood relatives would kill me if they knew I was still alive. My tongue darts out to lick my lips. “My bags weren’t valuable.”

“Cut the bullshit. Now isn’t the time for lies.”

The words hit like a punch to the throat. Breath hitching, I try not to shriek, “It’s the truth.”

The man pauses long enough to make me squirm. “No friends? Family? Surely there’s someone out there to send your luggage.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” I say, my voice dropping.

He studies me through the rearview window. “Mr. Rochester values discretion. If you plan on sharing his business with people at home, tell me now. He’s given me orders to return you to the airport.”

My pulse hammers. I sit up straight in my seat. They can’t send me back. I have nowhere else to go. “He has nothing to worry about,” I blurt. “There’s no one. I’m all alone.”

He nods and drives on in silence, seeming satisfied with my answer.

I stare at the tinted glass, my reflection pale, ugly.

Why the hell did I allow myself to get so desperate?

A knot forms in my stomach at the realization.

I just told him I was all alone in the world. That nobody would ever come looking.

The driver pulls into a road, which narrows in less than half a mile, with trees closing in overhead like the ribs of some enormous beast. Fog rolls between the trunks, thick enough to swallow our headlights whole.

I glance through the divider at the back of his head. This silence is making my skin crawl.

My gaze darts toward the tinted windows.

Somewhere during that interrogation, we left the highway and are now racing through a narrow country road bordered by tall shrubs.

I fumble with the duffel’s leather handle, not quite realizing Helsing Island could be so vast compared to how it looks on the map.

What if he’s taking me to the middle of nowhere?

“How far is the house?” I ask.

“Sixty miles.”

“What’s the place like?”

“Cliffs to the west. A thousand acres of forest to the east.”

My stomach drops. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. This is what I wanted, wasn’t it? Isolation? A place where I wouldn’t be found?

The Facebook Marketplace ad promised a live-in nanny gig, discretion essential. In my right mind, I would never work with kids. Two years of being a teenage stepmom to that old bastard’s brats is enough for one lifetime, but I don’t have any other ideas.

I try not to think about what I’ll do if something goes wrong with the job.

I’ll just have to make it work until I can figure out a plan B.

We drive for what feels like hours through cliffside roads and dense forest. There are no streetlights, no turn-offs, just this endless expanse of road.

Just as my eyes start to droop, the headlights catch iron gates rising from the fog like the entrance to a graveyard.

I sit up, my breath catching. “Is this Rochester Manor?”

He nods.

We crawl along a winding path where hedges grow wild and trees lean in like they’re whispering secrets. I suppress a shudder and tell myself it’s going to be okay.

An old mansion rises ahead, a black mass against the storm clouds. Every window is dark, like a skull with empty sockets. Wind howls through the trees with a sound like something dying.

The car stops. In the sudden silence I can hear my pulse hammering in my ears like a countdown to something ominous.

“Congratulations. You’ve passed your interview.” He tilts his head toward the house. “Mrs. Fairfax will take it from here.”

My stomach drops through the leather seat. “What interview?”

The divider rises, sealing him off. All traces of fatigue vanish, replaced by creeping dread. I clutch my duffel, shove the door open, and flinch as the rain hits my face like freezing fingers.

I step onto gravel that crunches under my boots like broken bones. The chauffeur drives away, leaving me alone in the fog with whatever waits behind those dark windows. A shiver runs down my spine and settles in my gut. I’ve escaped prison, so why does it feel like I’m no longer free?