Chapter 59 Lord Edward
My phone is vibrating in my pocket.
I open my eyes.
That unknown number again. Some intrepid journalist—if you can call them journalists—digging for dirt. Haven’t they learned yet that I know better than to pick up? The snow continues to accumulate around me, but now I’m wide awake, cold and restless.
I push myself up to sit. The ground is wet, soaking my jeans and gloves as I shift onto all fours. I take a deep breath, concentrating on the pressure where my prosthesis meets what remains of my leg as I stand.
I resume my limping hike toward the structure at the edge of the property. I follow the path Amelia and I took days ago until I make out cedar shingles and a slate roof.
The front door is open, giving the house the look of a mouth that’s missing a tooth. I recall the story of Hansel and Gretel, the charming cottage in the woods where wandering children met their doom.
But this house doesn’t smell like ginger and sweets.
As I cross the threshold, I smell rot: There’s dirty food strewn across the kitchen counter alongside open bottles of wine left to turn sour.
If there is a witch here, she isn’t interested in luring children close with promises of lollipops and cookies.
My winter boots crunch over broken glass scattered with drops of blood.
What the hell am I walking into?