Chapter 30
THIRTY
I glare at the unconscious bastard sprawled across my bed.
He’s the same build as Rochester. Same broad shoulders stretching his shirt tight.
Same height that makes the four-poster look small beneath him.
Same black hair. But the thick beard covering half his face makes it impossible to tell what the hell I’m looking at.
Maybe this is the shirtless man I spotted working in the orchard my first week. Maybe he’s the chauffeur. I shake off that thought, remembering seeing him driving off with Blanche and Rochester.
He sure as hell isn’t any of that bitch’s asshole friends.
“What a mess,” I mutter under my breath, my gaze drifting to the half-empty syringe. “How many men am I going to kill in one lifetime?”
Is he even alive?
Stomach roiling, I edge toward the bed and shove the curtain to one side. Every limb trembles as I mount the mattress and press my fingers to his neck. His skin is warm, damp with sweat. The steady thump against my fingertips tells me he’s still living.
“Thank God,” I say with a sigh and back away from this unconscious freak.
Whatever cocktail I shot him up with hasn’t killed him.
Yet.
But what the hell do I do now?
I should grab my bag and run while he’s down.
Scour the grounds for his vehicle and make myself scarce.
But I already tried that and failed. Besides, rage keeps my feet planted on the wooden floor.
This sick bastard has been sneaking into my room for days, touching my body, giving me false hope, making me think I was losing my mind.
All while pretending to be Rochester.
Shame floods my system as I remember last night’s cruel words. Rochester called me a desperate liar. And from his point of view, he’s right. The murdering maniac never laid a finger on me. It was this impostor, making me think it was him.
This unconscious man set me up to be humiliated. I wouldn’t have gotten so fixated with Rochester if it wasn’t for him sneaking into my bed. I owe him pain. After he’s explained himself. But first, I need to tie him up.
I yank the curtain ties from the four-poster and wrap them around his wrists.
But restraining dead weight is harder than it looks.
His arm flops when I try to lift it toward the posts, and I grit my teeth.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle to loop the twisted fabric around his thick wrists.
The material bites into my fingers as I pull it tight against the wooden bedposts.
Then, I do the same with his ankles, tightening the knots so they’re strong enough to secure a stallion.
But I’m not sure if I’ve accounted for the strength of a psychopath.
I pad across the room to the dresser, pull out a spare bedsheet, and cut it into strips.
After twisting them into four bindings, I lash his limbs to different parts of the head and footboards.
The man’s breathing fills the silence with a slow, steady rhythm, making me wonder if this is the calm before the shitstorm.
By the time I finish, my shoulders ache and my hands are raw from the makeshift rope.
I’ve left him spread across the bed like a pagan sacrifice, arms stretched wide, ankles bound.
I get dressed, pull out a carving knife pilfered from the kitchen, settle into the chair by the balcony doors and wait. My fingers shake around its hilt. Last time I held a blade just like this, it was to make sure the old bastard I escaped didn’t leave the burning house.
Hours crawl by. The sun rises, and dust motes dance in the morning light. All the adrenaline from capturing the masked man dwindles, and my stomach growls. The knife grows slick in my sweaty palm. My eyelids become heavy as lead.
Then a sharp intake of breath jolts me awake.
The man thrashes in his restraints, ropes straining against his ankles and wrists. When his dark eyes find mine, he goes rigid, making no sound but the creak of bed springs and his ragged breaths.
My heart rate kicks up several notches, the shock propelling me out of my seat.
On shaky legs, I cross the room and approach the bed.
As I grow closer, his chest rises and falls as if he’s preparing for an attack.
Nostrils flaring, I hold the knife at his throat, making sure to position the blade just below his Adam’s apple. One small push and I could open a vein.
“I ought to kill you for molesting me under false pretenses,” I hiss.
“But I never lied.” His voice is rougher than Rochester’s, something I hadn’t noticed until now. It’s almost like he doesn’t use it much.
“Bullshit.” I press the knife harder. A bead of blood wells up around the tip. “You told me to call you Rochester.”
“I am Rochester. Rowland Rochester.” The words tumble out in a rush.
Eyes narrowing, I study his face in the dim light.
His eyes are the same deep brown that border on black, like Rochester’s, but everything else seems different.
I’m not just talking about the unkempt beard hiding his jaw.
Or the weathered skin darkened by either dirt or sunlight or years of hard living.
His eyes are wild, showing more whites than normal and there’s the desperate way he stares at me like I’m his last hope for salvation.
My lips tighten. “Why have you been sneaking around at night, groping innocent women?”
He flinches, making the bindings strain against his wrists. “I… I thought you wanted me. When you waved back.”
I grind my teeth. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“A prisoner,” he replies, his voice pained. “I’ve been held captive here since I was a boy. Please believe me. I have proof.”
The desperation in his voice has me pulling back the knife an inch, making blood trickle into his collar. I study his features, finding nothing but the truth. Who the hell is this guy? A lunatic? The family bastard?
Throat tightening, I rasp, “I’m listening.”
“Edward keeps me locked in the attic between victims.”
My stomach dips. “Victims?”
He gives me an eager nod.
“What the hell does that mean?”
He licks his dry lips and glances around the room as if searching for an escape. Something about him is so skittish that I almost believe he might really be a prisoner. And the thought of there being victims strikes an irresistible chord.
I lean forward, my fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife, waiting for him to reply. “Answer me. Which victims?”
“Edward lures women here. It’s always the same story. He brings them in as a nanny for a child who doesn’t exist. Then he persuades them to carry out domestic duties. And when they’re of no use to him anymore...” He shudders.
A chill works down my spine. I shake my head, wanting to dismiss the story as bullshit. “You’re lying. I saw Adele from the window.”
He gulps. “She’s dead.”
My throat closes up. “You’re wrong.”
“She died years ago. Her corpse is in the room that was always locked since you arrived. The key’s in my pocket. Check for yourself.”
Dread roils in my gut. I should pick up my bag and leave before Rochester returns from his honeymoon with Blanche, but I’m paralyzed by curiosity.
I saw what I saw—a little blonde girl with pretty ringlets—and so did Mrs. Fairfax.
The woman didn’t disappear for no reason.
She went to the mainland for Adele’s treatment.
But what if the man I’m holding captive is telling the truth, and I really am the next in a line of victims? Rochester is capable of poisoning for money. He may as well kill for cheap labour. Or sport. Ignoring my better judgement, I reach into the pocket of his pants and extract a metal key.
“Down the hall,” he says, his voice breathy. “Last door at the end.”
Gathering my courage, I back toward the door, still clutching the knife. The floorboards groan under my feet as though warning me not to trust this unkempt man. Leveling him with a glower, I snarl, “If this is a trick, or if you’re lying—”
“It’s the truth.”
With a nod, I hurry down the hallway, which seems to stretch even longer than before.
My bare feet slap against marble cold enough to make me shiver.
Every instinct screams that there’s no dead girl behind the door at the end.
The man calling himself Rowland Rochester just needs me out of the way so he can escape.
I reach the door, already breathing hard. Why am I even investigating? Because if there’s a chance Rochester has hurt that girl… My throat tightens. I’m sure she’s on the mainland with Mrs. Fairfax, but I’m consumed by morbid curiosity.
I knock once. “Adele?”
Silence presses against my eardrums like cotton wool.
“Adele?”
No answer, which means the room is empty or whoever’s in there isn’t alive. But I don’t smell a corpse.
I slide the key into the lock and turn, cringing at the scrape of metal against metal. Part of me thinks this is a trap. The rest of me can’t forget how Adele never waved back.
When I push open the door, its hinges shriek, and out rushes a gust of stale air.
My insides roil. I gag on the mingled scents of plaster, chemicals, and something cloying.
Inside is a child’s bedroom with pastel pink walls, complete with an oversized dollhouse.
Family pictures fill most of the walls, and on the far left stands a four-poster bed concealing stuffed animals among large cushions.
And everything’s covered in a layer of dust.
In the corner on the right, sheathed in shadows, sits a little blonde girl in a high-backed chair with her hands folded in her lap. Light streams in through the net curtains, illuminating her white dress with its lace trim, and the blue ribbons in her ringlet curls.
“Adele?” I whisper, my insides roiling.
She doesn’t turn when I call her name, doesn’t move when I step over the threshold. Silence chokes the atmosphere, save for my own ragged breath.
My pulse pounds so hard its vibrations reach my toenails. Maybe she’s a mannequin or an oversized doll, but she’s far too lifelike. I creep forward, stretching out my trembling fingers. Floorboards creak underfoot, making every fine hair on the back of my head stand on end.
I finally reach Adele, and memories assault me all at once. Brother Matthew dragging me on his hunting expeditions. The way he laughed when he caught an animal in a trap. How he’d force me to watch him flay his kills. And the preserved animal heads, their skins stretched on wax carcasses.
It lands with sickening clarity. Some bastard taxidermied a child. He stuffed her, dressed her, styled her curls. Replaced her eyes with glass. And then sat her in the corner like she’s in a time out.
This isn’t typhus fever.
It isn’t even quarantine.
Adele is dead.