Chapter Twenty-Two
Lilac
My eyes blink open, and my head pounds. Mixing sleeping pills and alcohol is bad. The sun peeks through the crack in the dark curtains, blinding me. I sit up and look around. I stare at the fireplace, and my heart hammers in my chest as I search for the locket. It’s completely gone.
I think I hallucinated because there isn’t a sign of the necklace, and a new fire log is in the place of the old one. The maid must have cleaned it up.
Fuck.
Someone is hunting me. Playing tricks on me.
There’s no way I dreamt it or imagined the necklace.
If someone knows my secret identity, then they have me by the neck, and I have to mind my P’s and Q’s.
I have to let someone know the killer is after me.
I need to call Ambrose back, apologize to him, and let him know what’s really going on at the campus.
If I tell Irvin someone was in the mansion, I’ll have to explain how the locket ended up here. Then I’d have to tell him what’s really going on. If Irvin finds out who I really am, will he let me go?
I shake my head. I can’t tell him because then I’d lose my protection from said serial killer.
Here’s what I know: the killer killed three students on campus. The students’ fathers are a part of the American Billionaire Club. The killer is a skilled killer, and he only attacks at night.
I need to do some digging, figure out what I have in common with the victims. Usually, serial killers have a pattern. They like to collect things from their victims. So far, the rumor is the IDs are missing from each victim. But why would they want to use my past to taunt me?
I exhale and type into Google: How to spot a serial killer for fiction purposes. Can’t have the feds knocking on my door.
It gives me a long list of things, but none of it helps me. Someone knows my past and decided to play with my mind. Is that the goal of a serial killer—to play with their victim’s mindset before killing them?
Make them pay for their mistakes in life?
Irvin is a suspect, so I can’t use him for information even if I wanted to.
Last night plays in my mind. The guards showed me the footage of no one in the backyard or the front yard. So how would they have gotten away so easily? Unless they were in the house. But they would have been spotted on camera.
“What should I do?”
My voice bounces off the walls.
I have no idea how I’m going to handle this. Do I keep it to myself or reach out? What if I’m in real danger and don’t even know it? Maybe this mansion is supposed to make you crazy. Maybe I’ve been cooped up here too long, and now everything’s playing tricks on me.
I get up from the couch and pace the floor. I check all of the windows—they’re still locked. I check the entertainment center. The stuff has been moved back, but I’m sure it’s the maids’ doing.
I leave the living room and spot a maid sweeping the long hallway.
Her sandy hair falls over her shoulders, and she hums “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles.
She looks up and plasters a smile across her face.
I stride to her and smile back. “I have a weird question.”
She nods. “What is it, Mrs. Ashford?”
“This might sound crazy. But how long have you worked for Irvin?”
“I’ve been working for Irvin since he was a toddler.”
“How long have you been cleaning this mansion? Did you clean it before we moved in?”
She sets the broom against the dark wall and eyes me cautiously. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Again, I don’t want to sound strange. But do things go bump in the night here? Like, have you experienced any weird shit?”
She giggles. “Like a haunting?”
I nod.
She clutches her rosary tight. “Good Lord, no. I wouldn’t be working here if those things existed.”
I laugh. I feel stupid for thinking such a ridiculous thought.
“I have another question.”
“Of course, Lilac.”
“Did you change the fire log in the fireplace in the living room?”
She smooths out her maid outfit, then frowns. “No. We don’t touch a room if it’s occupied.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t replace the burning log with a fresh one?”
She shakes her head. “No. We have strict orders from Irvin to leave rooms alone when they’re occupied. I saw you sleeping on the couch.”
“You didn’t move any items around on the entertainment center?”
She shakes her head. “No, ma’am. You seemed like you had too much to drink, sweetheart. The chef’s going to make you something to help with your hangover.”
Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, and I don’t know what to think or do. I know that locket was here.
I rush to the living room, grab my phone from the coffee table, and look into the call log—I called Ambrose. His number is still here. I study the maid, and she doesn’t seem like she’d lie about something so trivial. It doesn’t sound right.
Someone is messing with me.
Am I losing my mind? But why would my mind feel the need to make up this shit?
I sob uncontrollably. I feel as if I’m losing it—as if I’m losing my common sense. There’s no way I made this up.
I head to the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and stand under the hot shower, staring into space. My mind is playing tricks on me, but why would I conjure such a hallucination? I’ve suffered from them before.
I don’t miss Emerson. If he were alive, I wouldn’t want him around. This isn’t making logical sense.
I use soap to wash my body, hoping to wash away my thoughts. Tears continue to leak from my eyes as I get out of the shower and pat myself dry. I throw on a clean long-sleeve shirt and a pair of leggings.
I look out the window, and the sky is clear, as if the weather wasn’t brewing last night. I decide I’m going to let it go, because I can’t go to Irvin or any of my friends with this.
Because if a serial killer isn’t after me, then I’d expose my lies—and lose everything.