Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
I shake my head and back away from the bed, my gaze fixed on the man thrashing against his restraints.
This bastard might be telling the truth about his brother’s atrocities, but he’s still a liar.
Even if it’s just by omission. This whole house is a death trap, and I’m not sticking around to become the next corpse.
As I reach the door, Rowland rears up and screams, “Annalisa, wait! There’s one more thing you must see.”
The desperation in his voice stops me cold. My fingers freeze on the handle, every muscle in my body going rigid. His black eyes are wild, like terror might strike him dead if I leave. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his huge chest heaves up and down like he’s run a marathon.
“What?” I hiss.
“Take off my shirt. You’ll see the scars from years of torture. You’ll know I’m not lying. You’ll see what he’ll do to you next.”
My gut clenches. Part of me wants to run, but what if I’m leaving behind the only man who might protect me from Edward Rochester? And the way he said torture sounded like he’d tasted it, lived it, breathed it for years.
Every survival instinct screams at me to get the hell out, but I walk back toward the bed.
Rowland raises his chin. “Do it. Please.”
I set down my bag, lift the hem of his shirt, and slice through the cotton with the knife. The fabric parts with a gentle rip, revealing his flesh. Rowland’s breathing deepens, and he groans. Then his hips shift against the mattress, drawing my attention to his crotch.
Dirty bastard is getting hard.
I’m stuck in a serial killer’s creepy old house with his feral brother, yet all I can concentrate on are the tight abs beneath the torn fabric and dirt.
The shirt finally falls away, revealing a chest crisscrossed with long white scars as if someone used him for fencing practice.
Circular burns dot his ribs where cigars or cigarettes were ground into flesh.
Some marks are old, faded to silver thread.
Others look recent, still pink and raised like angry worms crawling under his skin.
My throat thickens. Tears blur my vision until his torso becomes a watercolor painting of pain. I clap a hand over my mouth, unable to breathe. Or think. Or process what I’m seeing. This body is a roadmap of suffering.
“Oh, Rowland.”
He gazes up at me through damp eyes. “I’m telling you the truth. Edward’s been hurting me since we were children. It only got worse after he killed Adele when I became his practice dummy.”
I stare at the scars, my mind trying to process the horror. “How do you survive years of this? How did you not go completely insane?”
He closes his eyes and exhales a long, tired sigh. “I’m not sure that I did.”
“Didn’t anyone notice? Teachers? Doctors? Someone had to see.” The words scrape out of my throat like sandpaper.
Tears roll down his cheeks, disappearing into his beard. With a shudder, he says, “Father told everyone I died the same year as Adele. Said it was a riding accident, and I had a closed casket funeral. No one questioned the lie, and I’ve been a ghost for thirty years.”
My stomach churns. That’s longer than I’ve even been alive. Those scars tell a story of decades of torture far worse than anything I endured with that old bastard, Brother Matthew.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs collapsing like someone cut the strings holding me upright. It’s impossible to imagine three years, let alone thirty of being Edward’s personal punching bag while the world thought he was dead.
“You were alone this time?” My voice cracks.
“I had Mrs. Fairfax. She tried to help me when she could, but Father never allowed her to leave the grounds. And when she died and he left, it was just me and Edward.”
The room spins around me like a carnival ride that’s lost its brakes. I press my palms to my temples, trying to hold my skull together. Every piece of evidence points to the same conclusion—that I should trust Rowland, but my mind keeps screaming at me to save myself and leave.
“Please,” he rasps. “Let me protect you. I know this house. I know Edward’s patterns. I can get you out alive.”
His black eyes bore into mine, desperate and pleading. I stare at his ravaged chest, my thoughts spinning in circles. I shouldn’t trust anyone in this house of horrors, but scars don’t lie. Nobody could fake decades of torture and abuse.
“I don’t know what to believe.” The words slip out.
“Let me show you my cell. Then you’ll understand everything.” His voice is gentle, coaxing. Like he’s talking to a frightened animal. “Cut me free and I’ll prove I’m not working with Edward.”
Hands trembling, I reach for one of Blanche’s syringes from the nightstand and hold it against his throat. “Try anything and I’ll inject you with enough shit to stop your heart.”
He nods, his eyes widening. “I understand.”
I grab the kitchen knife. Even as my gut screams that I’m playing the world’s dumbest game of Russian roulette, I slice through the rope binding his wrists before moving on to release his ankles.
The makeshift bonds fall away, leaving angry red welts.
He rubs circulation back into his hands and groans.
“Lead the way.” I hold the syringe like a weapon as he rises. “And remember, I’m not afraid to knock you out.”
Rowland rolls off the mattress and walks a wide circle around the bed toward the exit. I follow him into the hallway, watching out for sudden movements. My gaze bores into his broad back. It blows my mind how a man this huge managed to fool me into believing he was the housekeeper.
As he reaches the end of the hall, I shake off that thought. Rowland runs his fingers along a panel I’ve passed countless times, which opens into a narrow staircase. Its wooden steps disappear into the dark, making my breath snag.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He turns around, his dark eyes meeting mine. “You wanted proof I’m not working with Edward. My cell is up there.”
My throat dries. I swallow hard, trying to push back a surge of fear. “This had better not be a trap.”
“It isn’t,” he rasps. “But don’t you want to see where I spent the past three decades when he wasn’t forcing me into the role of a servant?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Rowland enters the wall opening and ascends, his uneven steps creaking. I follow after him, stepping onto wooden treads that warp under our weight like they’re about to collapse.
The air grows thicker with each step and heavier with the smells of mold, dust, and despair. My gut churns, and I try not to think of meat left too long in the sun.
“How much longer?” I whisper, though I’m not sure why I’m being so quiet.
“We’re here.” Rowland’s voice echoes in the narrow space.
At the top, he pushes open another door, which groans on rusted hinges.
The sound makes every hair on my arms stand on end.
I follow him into an attic that resembles something out of a nightmare.
Low ceiling beams cast shadows that move in the dim light filtering through grimy windows. I hold my breath, trying not to gag.
Rowland steps aside and sweeps his arm toward a narrow cot sitting against the far wall, its frame bearing iron shackles. The mattress is thin and dark. Beside it sits a chamber pot filled with human waste.
My insides heave. I press my free hand to my mouth and fight back a surge of bile.
But that’s not the worst part.
Implements hang from the crossbeams—knives, chains, pliers with jagged teeth, leather whips with multiple tails. Some of the tools are rusted and old, others clean.
“Oh god,” I groan from behind my hand. “You were stuck here this entire time?”
Rowland’s dark gaze turns solemn. “Both of us.”
I follow his gaze to the corner where something sits in a wooden rocking chair.
In the dark, it looks like a pile of forgotten clothes, until I draw closer and light catches a skeleton sitting propped in the seat.
Its bones are held together by dried sinew and scraps of flesh.
Wisps of gray hair still cling to the skull in patches, and the jaw hangs open in a permanent scream.
But it’s what the skeleton is wearing that makes my blood freeze.
It’s the same kind of black dress I’ve been wearing since my first day here, with the same high collar, buttoned front, and the same long sleeves. The same white apron is tied around what used to be a waist. Its fabric is faded and moth-eaten, but it’s identical to my uniform.
My throat closes. Terror punches into my stomach with both fists, making me double over.
“What the fuck?” I cry, my eyes stinging.
“That’s the real Mrs. Fairfax.” Rowland’s voice is gentle, like he’s breaking news to a child.
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but stare at the corpse wearing my uniform. I’ve scrubbed floors in it. Served meals in it. Picked foreign hairs off it. It’s a mark. A claim. A promise of what’s waiting for me if I don’t escape.
But I’m not just wearing the uniform of one dead woman. This is probably the style of clothes worn by a dozen other women like me, forced to serve a psychopath.
My vision tunnels until all I can see is that corpse in my clothes. Then the room spins like I’m on an out-of-control merry-go-round.
“Your brother killed her?” I rasp.
“She died in her sleep,” Rowland replies, his voice pained. “Edward couldn’t stand the thought of losing his perfect housekeeper, so he...”
Rowland bows his head. He doesn’t need to complete the sentence because the evidence speaks for itself. Edward kept her. Like a trophy. Like a fucking souvenir.
Tears stream down my face, hot and bitter as arsenic. I want to slide down the wall and sink through the dusty floor.
“How many?” I ask.
Rowland gazes down at me, his eyes wide.
“How many other women died because of Edward Rochester?”
A sound cuts through my spiral. Low and distant at first, then growing louder, followed by the rumble of engines. It’s vehicles.
Rowland’s head snaps toward the window. “Shit.”
Red and blue lights slice through the grimy glass like neon knives, painting the attic in alternating colors. I rush to the window, finding police cars filling the courtyard, their headlights cutting through the morning light.
I stagger backward, my insides twisting into agonizing knots. The cops have finally discovered my hiding place.