Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ariana
After breakfast, I cleaned the kitchen.
Not because I had to or because Henry asked me to. But because I didn’t know what else to do.
So I wiped down the counters and rinsed the dishes, stacking them neatly in the dishwasher. Like this was part of my daily routine. As I cleaned, some forgotten piece of myself stirred to life from the familiar rhythm. A ghost of who I was before everything unraveled.
After I’d scrubbed the kitchen so hard that not a single speck of dust could be found, I wandered back upstairs to my bedroom. The phrase slipped into my mind with surprising ease, and I caught myself.
My room.
As if it belonged to me. As if I belonged here.
But I couldn’t deny I felt more comfortable in this unfamiliar, wood-paneled bedroom than I ever had in the glass-and-marble tomb Victor called home.
I continued farther into the room, taking the time to pull the sheets tight and smooth out the duvet. Then I noticed my clothes from yesterday were neatly folded on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Clean. Pressed.
It was somewhat disorienting to see them. To know the man who abducted me had laundered and folded my clothes.
Maybe I’d watched too many crime dramas, but I couldn’t recall a kidnapper who cooked for his captive and offered her a bedroom that smelled faintly of cedar and linen instead of rot and mildew.
It would have made more sense if I was chained up in a dingy basement with no comforts. But this… It only confused me more.
Pushing out a sigh, I headed into the bathroom to see if there were any toiletries.
To my surprise, one of the drawers contained a brush, along with toothpaste and a few toothbrushes.
There was also a bottle of shampoo and conditioner in the shower.
Nothing fancy. Just a generic drug store brand.
Definitely not the salon quality product I’d been using.
I turned on the shower, allowing steam to fill the room, then stripped out of Henry’s clothes before stepping under the spray. The scalding water was a balm I didn’t realize I needed. It was a stark difference from the last time I showered.
Sunday felt like a lifetime ago now, not just the day or two it had been.
Then again, I wasn’t even sure what day it was.
I made a mental note to ask Henry the next time I saw him.
For now, I’d enjoy time to myself, regardless of the events that led to me being here.
After a longer shower than I was typically allowed to take, I stepped out and dried off. I ran a brush through my hair before dressing in my t-shirt and jeans, not bothering with the scarf since Henry had already seen the marks on my neck. He didn’t seem bothered or curious about them.
Or maybe he just didn’t care.
When I emerged from the bedroom a short while later, the house was still quiet.
Maybe even more so.
I padded down the stairs, about to search for the study Henry had mentioned when another idea popped into my head.
He was locked away in whatever room he “worked” in, which meant I was alone. Unsupervised. Untethered.
Free to explore.
To say I was curious about Henry was an understatement. So I turned away from the study and explored my new home.
The cabin wasn’t enormous by any stretch of the imagination. It certainly wasn’t like Victor’s sprawling estate, where voices echoed off marble and staff moved like shadows. This place was homier. Comfortable .
The top floor held the bedroom, with the ground level split between the living room and kitchen. But there had to be more. I started opening doors.
The first was a coat closet lined with heavy jackets, thick wool blankets, and the faint scent of pine. Nothing of interest. So I moved on.
The next one made my breath catch.
A tall gun rack stood bolted to the wall, hunting rifles lined up in a meticulous row. Not locked. Not hidden. Just…there.
I stared at them, my pulse quickening, fingers twitching. I could grab one. Find Henry. Force him to let me go.
Except I didn’t know how to shoot. Hell, I wouldn’t even know how to determine if the gun was loaded or how to do so.
And Henry would disarm me in half a second.
It wasn’t like I’d even have the element of surprise on my side.
Not with all the cameras around. So I turned from the guns, filing their presence away in my brain.
Down a narrow hall off the foyer, I found another door, this one heavier than the others. A deadbolt latched it shut. I reached for it when I spotted the red light in the corner. Another camera.
I looked straight into it and smiled before unlatching the deadbolt.
The door didn’t lead to the outside like I’d expected. It opened into a garage the size of the cabin itself. Concrete floors. The faint tang of gasoline in the air. A variety of tools hanging along the walls.
But taking up most of the space was a wide assortment of vehicles. A boat. Jet skis. Snowmobiles. A pristine black pickup truck. And a red Jeep Wrangler that practically whispered freedom. My fingers itched at the sight of the keys hanging on the wall by the door, shiny and temptingly within reach.
But then I caught a glimpse of yet another red light above one of the massive garage doors. He had cameras in here, too.
Even if I got the door open, even if I made it to the road, I had no idea where I was. And he’d find me. I had no doubt about that.
Escape would take more than impulse.
It would take planning.
I stepped back, slowly closing the door, and returned to the main part of the house, opening cabinets and drawers in the kitchen.
Bread. Cereal. Pasta. A half-full jar of peanut butter. Nothing screamed dark secrets or sociopath. Just…food. Like any normal house.
But Henry Fontaine was not normal.
I doubted I’d unravel the mystery of who he was and why I was here tucked between a box of oatmeal and a sleeve of crackers.
Growing increasingly frustrated, I retreated from the kitchen and eventually made my way toward the study.
Except it wasn’t a study. Not in the way I imagined.
I expected a desk, maybe a small bookshelf, some papers.
What I stepped into was a private library. An entire room dedicated to books. Built-in shelves covered every inch of wall space, some stacked two deep. The smell of old pages and cedar filled the air like incense, and for a moment, I was too overwhelmed to move.
I wandered between shelves, my fingertips trailing along the spines. Some were pristine, others cracked and weathered. A lifetime of reading lived in this room.
And I wanted to read every single one. Obviously, these books were important enough to Henry to own. And each one could be a clue as to who he was.
But where to begin?
I continued perusing the shelves, mentally cataloguing the wide range of genres represented, when one book in particular caught my eye.
Worn. Faded. The gold lettering on the spine barely legible.
The Secret Garden.
It had clearly been read again and again. Thumbed through. Savored. Maybe even cried over.
Glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was alone, I removed the book from the shelf and carefully opened the cover.
On the first page was a handwritten note in neat, feminine script.
To my Spencer,
May you always find the door to your own garden, no matter how lost it feels. You are loved beyond all measure.
Love,
Mom
My throat tightened, and I stared at the words. The ink was faded, the page soft with age, but the words were alive. Tender. A memory in written form.
It could have been something he picked up at a used book store, but I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it than that. That this book was special. That he kept it for a reason.
But who was Spencer?
I took it with me to the oversized armchair in the corner and started to read, immersing myself in the familiar story of a girl who was whisked away from the only life she’d ever known into one full of mystery and unexpected healing.
I didn’t know what I hoped to find.
Answers, maybe.
Or just the pieces Henry never intended to show me.
But I would find them.
Even if I had to read every single book in this room to do it.