Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
I’m no longer thinking. Because staying in this house is certain death. I don’t care if the police have tracked me here. At least with them I might have a chance of survival. Or at worst, a clean death.
Pulse quickening, I race down the hallway, past the portraits of dead aristocrats who may or may not be killers.
Past the room housing the taxidermied child and past the room where Rochester tampered with Blanche’s pills.
Rowland shouts my name, but I don’t stop.
Can’t stop. Can’t block out the image of that skeleton in my dress.
By the time I reach the main staircase, I don’t know whether I’m running to salvation or condemnation. I grip the banister and descend on legs that feel like noodles.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze at the bottom of the stairs, my heart slamming so hard against my ribs that I feel it in my throat. The bell rings again, long and insistent, echoing through the empty house like a death knell.
This could be my way out. But what if they ask for my name? My fingerprints are still all over that syringe I shoved into Callahan’s foot. One wrong word and I’ll be trading this nightmare for a cell on death row.
The bell rings a third time, followed by heavy knocking that rattles the door in its frame.
Fuck it. Anything’s better than staying here with those corpses.
I reach the entrance hall and fling open the heavy door to find two cops on the front steps. The older one has gray hair and tired eyes. His partner is younger, clean-shaven, with blue eyes that scrutinize my face.
Behind them, the courtyard swarms with police cars, their red and blue lights fracturing the pale morning. Officers stream across the grounds leading German shepherds straining against their leashes, with noses to the ground like they’re hunting something specific.
My stomach drops through the floor. This isn’t a routine visit. This is a full-scale search operation.
The older cop flashes his badge. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Detective Hayes. This is Detective Morrison. We’re looking for Mrs. Rochester. Have you seen her?”
This isn’t about me? But why are they looking for Blanche? And why so many?
“Blanche? No. They left yesterday morning for their honeymoon.”
Hayes pulls out a notebook. “What time? How did she seem?”
“Around ten AM. They both seemed happy. What’s this about?”
Morrison steps close enough for me to smell the coffee on his breath, his gaze dropping down the gaping front of my dress. My hackles rise. What the hell did Blanche say about me to the cops?
“And you are?” the younger detective asks.
“Annalisa.” I glance from the first cop to the other. “Annalisa Burlington. Just the maid.”
“Mrs. Rochester is missing,” Hayes says. “She left her hotel last night and returned here alone. Any idea why?”
My jaw drops, and my mind goes blank. This is unexpected. I gaze up into the older man’s eyes and say, “I haven’t seen her. The house has been empty since they left.”
Hayes gives me an absent nod and flips open his notebook. “We understand there was an incident between you and Mrs. Rochester.”
I glance at Morrison, whose gaze bores down at me like an X-ray. Someone talked. Probably one of Blanche’s little friends. My mind scrambles for answers. What the hell do I tell them without incriminating myself?
“She got upset over nothing. Rich women like to create drama,” I reply with a shrug.
“What kind of drama?”
“She grabbed one of my bras and accused me of trying to seduce her fiancé. Then she threatened to hurt herself if he didn’t fire me on the spot.”
A voice shouts from behind the house. “Detective! We found something!”
I stiffen. Hayes and Morrison exchange glances that make my skin crawl.
The older one turns to me and says, “Ma’am, we need you to stay right here. Don’t go anywhere.”
Before I can ask what the hell is happening, they hurry down the steps and across the courtyard. My legs quiver. My heart thrashes loud enough to drown thought. I lean against the doorframe, watching them disappear around the corner of the house.
What did they find? My mind races through the possibilities and comes up blank. There’s a corpse in the attic, another in Adele’s room. According to Rowland, there are others. Women like me, who came here under the false pretense of a nanny job.
I shuffle my feet, wishing I’d left at the first sign of suspicion. It’s too late to run now that the cops have seen my face. Dogs bark in the distance, and the morning air carries jumbled voices. Whatever they’ve found has to be big.
Acid churns in my gut when an ambulance enters the courtyard. I duck behind the door as paramedics rush past with a stretcher. What the hell is happening?
Minutes crawl by like hours. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering in my woolen dress. I’m almost certain this isn’t about me, but everything feels wrong. Like the world has skewed sideways and I’m about to slide off.
Finally, Hayes appears from around the corner, his face grim. Morrison trails behind him, speaking into his phone in urgent, clipped tones.
“Ms. Burlington, we need you to come with us for an identification,” says the older man.
My throat closes up. Identification means a body. “What did you find?”
“We’d rather show you. This way.”
On trembling legs, I follow them around the house. Gravel crunches underfoot as we pass the rose bushes where I hid yesterday morning when Rochester released me from captivity. Once again, I regret staying, as each step brings me closer to something I don’t want to see.
We reach the back gardens where the paramedics wait at the pond’s edge with the cops and canines. Officers in waders stand waist-deep in the water, floating something between them that’s shaped like a body.
My blood curdles. It’s a woman in a white dress floating face-down on the surface. Her black hair fans out around her head like spilled ink. Her arms drift at her sides, pale and lifeless. The fabric of her dress billows around her body, melding into the water.
I recognize that dress.
I recognize that body.
It’s Blanche.
As we reach the edge of the water, darkness closes in around my vision like a tunnel.
My gaze skips from her pale skin to the white fabric moving with the gentle current because anything is better than facing the truth.
Blanche is dead. Like she finally followed through on that threat to drown herself.
Or did she?
“Oh god.” The words slip out as a whisper. I press a hand to my mouth to stop myself from saying anything else.
“Is that Mrs. Rochester?” Hayes asks, his voice gentle.
By now, they’ve turned around the body. Her face is slack and pale, lips parted, eyes clouded. Her fingers hang limp, wrinkled and white from the water. An officer crouches at the pond’s edge, scooping small baggies of white powder into an evidence pouch.
Terror seizes my throat. I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t process what I’m seeing. My pulse thuds in my ears, drowning out all sound.
Hayes grips my shoulder and gives me a hard shake, snapping me out of my fugue. “Ms. Burlington?”
“I... yes. That’s Blanche.”
But my mind is already racing ahead. Rochester brought her back. Used the threat to drown herself to make it look like she got high and went under. Set up the perfect cover for murder.
The bastard actually did it.
Hayes leans in, his voice low. “You sure you didn’t see her come back?”
I blink, startled. “No.”
He studies my face like he’s taking notes. “You didn’t hear any vehicles approaching?”
When I was busy holding an unconscious man hostage? “No.”
Morrison pulls out his phone. “We need to contact the husband.”
I hold my breath, my skin crawling at the man’s evil ingenuity. At how quickly he pivoted from swapping out her pills to killing her in the very pond where she threatened to drown herself. I imagine him sitting in a hotel, surrounded by witnesses, while he frets about his missing wife.
“Mr. Rochester?” The younger cop pauses. “This is Detective Morrison. I’m afraid I have bad news about your wife.”
The conversation is brief. Even from where I stand, I can hear that bastard’s voice through the speaker, asking if there’s been some terrible mistake. He sounds baffled, shocked. Heartbroken. But it’s all part of a performance.
I tune out the rest of the conversation, watching the officers fish Blanche’s body out of the water and zip her into a black bag.
Morrison gives me his card and allows me to return to the house, where I stand by the door, watching them load her into the ambulance and disappear down the winding drive.
Rochester got away with murder. And now he’s about to inherit millions. He’ll be rich enough to make problems disappear without a trace. Rich enough to hunt me down no matter where I run.
I’m the only person alive who knows the truth about the pill-swapping. The only witness who can connect him to Blanche’s death. Which makes me the biggest loose end in his perfect crime.
Maybe I should call Morrison. Tell him and Hayes about the murders, the corpses in the attic. But I’m also a killer, wanted for another set of crimes.
Making that call means trading one death sentence for another. Besides, I misplaced my phone weeks ago.
With Blanche’s money, Rochester will have resources beyond imagination. There’s nowhere I could hide. And when he finds me, I’ll end up like Blanche. Like Adele. Like Mrs. Fairfax. Like the other servants.
There’s only one person capable of protecting me. A man who’s survived Rochester’s cruelty for decades. Who knows every secret of this house. A man who hates that murdering psychopath even more than me.
I close the door, cross the entrance hall and climb the stairs. Rowland crouches in the opening of the wood-paneled wall, his arms wrapped around his knees. He stares up at me, his eyes wild.
“What happened?” he whispers.
“They’re gone,” I reply, my voice flat. “The cops found Blanche’s body in the pond.”
He gulps. “Edward killed her already?”
I nod. “He made it look like suicide.”
“Do you believe me now?” he rasps.
“Yeah.”
Rowland’s face crumples with relief. His tears come fast, his body trembling with the force of his emotion. “Thank you for being the only person who ever took my side.”
I stare down at this broken man who’s survived decades of hell. The only person who knows Rochester’s weaknesses.
Rowland is my only chance of surviving that monster.
But even he might not be enough.