Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
I make a slow count to twenty before I can step out of the cottage. Even then, it’s like walking into my own execution. Every step feels like it could detonate a mine. Every breath feels stolen.
Even the air feels hostile. Like I’ve cheated death and the world wants a correction.
This has to be a trap. Killers like Rochester don’t hand out mercy. They poison their problems, bury them under rose bushes, or dump them in the ocean. But I can’t go back to that cottage.
Legs shaking, I make my way through the orchard, expecting a gunshot between the shoulder blades. Or a knife between my ribs. Something. Anything. Because letting me walk free doesn’t make sense unless he’s planning something worse.
An apple falls from a nearby tree, making me flinch. Bastard has me so frazzled I can barely function.
At the edge of the formal gardens, I hurry across the lawn, not stopping until I reach the side of the house. I follow the building around to the front, where the black limousine idles like a hearse.
Blanche’s little vultures cluster around the vehicle, filling the air with their mindless chatter. I duck behind a rose bush, desperate not to be seen. The thorns catch my dress, but I don’t move.
“Three cheers for the happy couple,” bellows the man in the leather coat.
On cue, they burst into a chorus of hip-hip-hoorays. Pinky tosses a handful of rice. The blonde and her companion shower them with confetti as if my warning last night meant nothing.
Rochester emerges from the front door with Blanche grafted to his arm. Even from this hiding point, it’s hard to miss her grinning like she’s won the lottery. The white dress clinging to her skeleton like tissue on a corpse looks even more ridiculous in daylight.
He dips her backward in a romantic movie kiss while her friends squeal and snap photos. My stomach churns at his performance. I never thought I’d be the kind of woman to scorn another for trusting a silver-tongued bastard, but I gave her enough ammunition to cast a thread of doubt.
Instead of investigating her pills, that bitch turned my heads-up into an accusation. She just signed her death certificate with a marriage license.
“What a waste of life,” I mutter. “She has the survival instincts of a lemming in heat.”
Rochester opens the limo’s rear door and helps Blanche across the leather seats like she’s made of glass.
She waves at her friends through the tinted window, and the limo pulls away in a cloud of dust. I shake my head as they disappear down the driveway, still baffled at how she’s ignoring the red flags.
The vultures pile into their vehicles. Leather coat climbs behind the wheel of the red sports car with Pinky. The blonde cranks up the silver SUV. Engines rev like they can’t wait to escape this accursed place.
I should run toward them. Beg for a ride.
Throw myself at their mercy and hope one of them has a functioning conscience.
But terror keeps me glued behind the roses.
What if Blanche told them she saw me in Beaumont City?
Worse still, maybe she and Rochester poisoned their minds, and now they’ll drag me straight to the cops.
The sports car tears down the drive, followed by the SUV. I watch until the engine noise fades into nothing, until I’m alone with the empty house and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
He’s gone.
One week. I have seven whole days to find a way to escape.
My relief tastes sour because Blanche is still going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not this week or this year, but Rochester will find his moment. He didn’t tamper with her pills for nothing.
I want to dismiss the stupid bitch. Tell myself she deserves whatever’s coming for being so vicious and having such blind faith in a man. But I can’t shake the image of her melting under his lies, so desperate to be loved that she ignored his every warning sign.
She wouldn’t be the first. Been there. Done that. Got the scars to prove it.
But how the hell do I warn the police without getting caught? Anonymous tip? Right. As if they’d listen to my ramblings. Letter? They’d only check for fingerprints.
Maybe last night’s scene put her friends on alert. If anything happens to Blanche in the next few months, they’ll remember the crazy servant screaming about murder and pills. They’ll ask awkward questions, and he won’t escape scrutiny with his charm.
It’s not much of a plan. But it’s something.
I creep toward the back, every instinct screaming that I’m walking into another trap. The kitchen door stands open like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole. He gave me seven days, but I’m giving myself twenty-four hours to figure out my next move.
But not before I gather enough valuables to fund a life on the run.
I try the library first. It’s locked. Study. Locked. The drawing room opens, but there’s nothing inside except furniture and crystal glasses I can’t exactly stuff in my pockets. The dining room silver is conveniently missing. They must have predicted what I’d do next.
Upstairs, Blanche’s door gapes like it’s been waiting for me. The room is a mess of clothes scattered across the four-poster, makeup spilled across the dresser, and even more empty champagne bottles.
And sitting on the nightstand like a gift from God is her Louis Vuitton case.
I grab it, surprised by the weight. The pills rattle inside like loose teeth in a skull. Since at least one bottle is compromised, I focus on the baggies and syringes, and loose cash. There’s enough there to pay for three months of expenses on the run.
Time to disappear before Rochester returns from his honeymoon with a shovel. I run to my room, pack my duffel bag with what little I own and head for the front door.
But the moment I step outside, reality hits like a brick to the face.
The driveway stretches endlessly around a forest thick enough to hide a thousand bodies.
My stomach rumbles, my joints ache, and I’m already lightheaded from sleep deprivation and being worked like a dog.
And that’s without even reaching the bloody gate.
How am I supposed to make it to civilization with low blood sugar, no car, no plan? It’s got to be twenty miles to the nearest town, assuming I don’t get lost and end up wandering in circles until I get picked up by a weirdo. Or the cops.
I turn back toward the house, letting exhaustion run over me like a freight train. I still have twenty-four hours to regain my strength. Maybe I’ll find something with wheels in the stables. A bicycle. A motorcycle. Hell, at this point, I’d settle for a shopping cart.
For now, I need food and sleep. Can’t run on empty.
After gorging on a stack of leftovers, I retreat to my room, pull the curtains shut, and lie in the four-poster bed staring at Blanche’s vanity case on the nightstand. All those baggies. All those syringes. Clean needles just waiting to slide into a vein.
Did they leave it here on purpose? A final gift for the servant who knew too much? Make it look like desperation drove me to suicide—problem solved, with no messy explanations.
The thought makes my throat thicken. I roll onto my side, press my face into the pillow, and let out the tears. For Callahan dying of that overdose. For Blanche flying toward her death on a cloud of bullshit romance. For my own life spiraling down the drain.
I drift somewhere between sleep and death, half-dreaming of footsteps.
When the mattress shifts behind me, I think it’s the workings of an overactive mind.
But then I feel hot breath. Large hands.
Heat. I freeze. Every muscle goes rigid.
Strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against a hard chest.
“Don’t cry,” murmurs a familiar voice. “It’s alright. You’re safe, now.”
My spine jolts. My brain short-circuits. Rochester’s supposed to be away, fucking his new wife and planning her funeral. But those are his hands, his voice, his body.
“What…” My throat closes. “What are you doing?”
“I’m here now. I’ll keep you safe.”
Rage explodes in my chest. This sick bastard thinks he can terrorize me, lock me in that rotting cottage, marry some other woman, then sneak back to get off? Does he think I’m as stupid as his wife?
His erection presses into my ass cheeks, hot and thick and insistent. Dirty bastard. Dirty, selfish wife killer.
Rochester grinds against me, his fingers reaching around to cup my pussy. Heat surges between my legs, and I push back. Moaning, he rolls his hips. My own fingers reach to the nightstand and find one of Blanche’s syringes.
“Are you wet for me like a good girl?” he groans, his digits reaching into my panties. He slides a finger over my clit and rubs tight circles.
My pussy, the little traitor, clenches. My blood heats with a mix of fury and shame and hatred. Mostly at myself for responding to his touch. I’m no better than Blanche. I clamp my jaw until it aches, fighting to release myself from his grip.
Ignoring the surge of arousal, I pull off the syringe’s cap with my teeth, feeling for the plunger in the dark.
His lips graze the back of my neck, and his thick cock presses between my thighs. “You’re soaked.”
In one smooth motion, I jam the needle into his arm and press down hard.
He jerks backward with a strangled cry, his hand leaving my crotch. I roll off the bed and spin around, ready to fight for my life. He rises, teeth clenched, dark eyes wide beneath the ski mask. I stagger back, grab the vanity case and swing it like a club.
Instead of lurching forward, he jerks once, twice, three times before falling backward onto the mattress.
“You bastard.” I scramble onto the bed, rip off his mask—
And freeze.
The man under the fabric isn’t Rochester. He’s bearded. Unfamiliar. But the worst part? He’s smiling. A twisted, dopey smile like he’s dreaming of paradise.
And I’ve never seen him before in my life.