2. TWO
TWO
LENORE
Troy was snoring so loudly that I could see the grains of dust falling from the cracks of the ceiling that were probably made by his loud snores. And I just twisted left and right in the bed.
I couldn’t sleep. All I thought was a call from home that wasn’t registered on my phone. And when I wanted to call the same number, it was disconnected. It was like house knew and it was calling me.
I got up, looking at myself in the mirror that was on the opposite side of the bed.
I always hated how I looked, how pale I was, how dark my hair was, how fragile and thin I got.
But most of all, I hated who I became. I was running from one cage to another, and I was so afraid to leave, but I wasn’t even comfortable to stay.
I moved from the mirror, sneaking on tiptoes until I reached the closet door. I got the jeans from my closet and pulled them on. I grabbed a few T-shirts, turned around to check if Troy was still asleep, and walked out of the bedroom, holding my breath until the door closed.
I could still hear his loud snores, which were now making this apartment even smaller than it was. The noise just echoed through the silence, and he just continued. I didn’t even know how I used to fall asleep to that.
I didn’t bother turning on the lights. The streetlamp outside the window lit the living room enough, making the room turn into soft yellow gold that made shadows of furniture look like it was breathing.
I stood still for a second.
My heart wouldn’t slow down.
That call. That damn call .
I picked up my phone again. Still, no missed calls were logged, like it hadn’t happened. But I know what I saw. I know what I heard.
“Home.” That word hadn’t meant anything to me in years. Not until tonight.
I stuffed my charger, wallet, and letter into my tote bag, then turned toward the front door. Paused.
No shoes.
I circled back to the chair in the living room, where my old All-Stars were tossed on the floor, sides collapsed like they’d given up.I slipped them on—still stained with two old coffee spills—and tied the laces with fingers that trembled more than I wanted to admit.Grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair.Back to the door.
I hesitated at the knob.
Then, slowly, I opened it. The hinges gave a long creak. I winced but didn’t stop.
The hallway was colder than it was before. The lights above buzzed, one of them blinking like it was about to die. For a moment, I stood there in the middle, staring down the hallway toward the stairs.
Something told me to run.
I didn’t.
I walked slowly, one silent step after another.
I reached the stairs, and just went down, walking like it was just another Monday morning, even if I had no idea what day it was, every day was the same for me.
I reached the street, and air brushed my cheeks. It got colder, and it was dumping like the sky was about to cry the tears I wasn’t able to cry. I zipped up my jacket and stood on the curb, blinking into the distance.
What the hell was I doing?
I didn’t even know. I just knew I couldn’t be in that apartment anymore. Couldn’t hear Troy breathe. Couldn’t feel the walls of that place closing in.
The city had its own heartbeat at night. And mine wasn’t syncing with it anymore.
I opened my phone again and scrolled through the contacts. No one to call. I had no one. No choice.
Except… maybe one.
Cameron Ellis.
I dug into my bag and pulled the card from the envelope. I stared at his card, now creased at the edges. That polished serif font. That calm, respectable “Discretion. Legacy. Resolution.” tagline.
I hit “Call.”
The line rang once.Twice.And then—
“Hello.” A deep voice cut through the silence.
His voice was calm, and smooth, like someone who never rushed for anything.
I swallowed. “This is Lenore Thorn.”
Silence.
Then, he said softly, “Miss Thorn… I was hoping you’d call, but not hoping you would call at 3 a.m. on Saturday.”
Fuck. It was Saturday.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking. “I just…”I stopped.”Never mind. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“No, I’m awake now,” he replied. “When would you like to meet?”
“Meet?” I repeated, my breath catching in my throat.
“Yes,” he said. “There are a few documents you’ll need to sign.”
“Oh. Right, of course.” I let out a shaky breath and smacked my palm against my forehead.”I’ll be there in six hours or so. I’ll catch the next train to Boston, then take the local line into Massachusetts.”
“Call me once you arrive,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll stop by the manor.”
“Thank you. Good night,” I murmured and hung up the phone.
I kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around myself, my steps quickening with every block. Part of me felt like Troy could wake up at any moment, figure out I was gone, and come after me. But I couldn’t keep living like that—flinching, waiting, pretending.
Not anymore.
After two years, I finally had somewhere to go. And maybe, just maybe, Gloomsbury Manor was the answer. A second chance. Or the end of the first act.
The train station was almost empty when I arrived. A few people were slumped on benches, asleep beneath flickering lights. One man had a knit cap at his feet, and a few coins inside.
My chest ached. I used to be one of them.
I dug into my tote, pulled out what little cash I had, and tucked it into the hat. It wasn’t much, but it could buy a warm meal. And sometimes, that was everything.
The train to Boston wasn’t scheduled to arrive until four. I found a spot near the corner, leaned against the wall, and let my eyes close.
Darkness flickered behind my eyelids. But every few seconds, flashes of passing train lights blinked through—interrupting sleep, and pulling me backward. The memories came like old film reels.
I was back in April 2012.
The house smelled like boiled onions and bitterness. My stepmother’s voice came from the kitchen, mid-fight with my father. Again.
And I was sitting on the stairs.
Fourteen years old. Playing with a doll I’d long outgrown. Pretending. Pretending I was her—anyone but myself. Anyone but a girl trapped in Gloomsbury Manor, waiting for someone to rescue her from a family that never cared enough to try.
The doorbell rang. Through the rippled glass at the top of the wooden door, a tall shadow shifted, its outline stretching far above the frame. I froze halfway up the stairs, one foot planted on the next step, breath caught. We weren’t expecting anyone.
The bell rang again—sharper this time. The shadow moved, hand rising to brush fingers through its hair.“Can you answer the damn door?” Dad’s voice cut from the kitchen.
I flinched.
My shoulders curled instinctively, and I slowly peeled myself from the step, feet barely making a sound as I crept toward the entrance. Before my hand reached the knob, the bell shrieked for a third time.
I opened it.
He stood there—tall, lean, dressed in black from shirt to tight jeans, a leather jacket clinging to him like it was made just for him. One hand pressed the doorbell still, and the other held a white plastic terrarium. Inside, a snake coiled lazily under a heat lamp.
I gasped. Couldn’t help it.
His black hair fell across his face in messy strands, two stubborn locks refusing to stay pushed back, no matter how many times his fingers swiped them aside.
Who was this guy?
Muscles twitched subtly beneath the fabric of his sleeves as he moved forward. I’d never seen anyone like him—certainly not on my doorstep. My stomach twisted into impossible knots, and something unfamiliar flickered in my chest as his eyes met mine.
“Hi,” he said, gaze holding. “Who are you?”
I couldn’t find my voice. Just stepped back, breath thick in my throat, and turned toward the stairs.
“Dorian!” my stepmom called from the kitchen, her voice lifting as she came down the hall.
She opened her arms as she approached him, smiling wide.“Welcome.”
But his smile left his lips, fading as soon as she got close.
“Mother,” he said, closing the door behind him. “So nice of you to allow me to stay here.”
He was my stepbrother—Vivian’s son from her first marriage. They sent him away when he was twelve. Now, ten years later, he was back.
I looked at her. At the way she smiled like nothing had ever happened. And at my father too, standing in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in his navy cardigan, cigar resting in the corner of his mouth. He stared at Dorian like he was some lost heir returned from the dead.
We were all so good at pretending.
I smiled, hollow and fake, and moved back up to the middle of the staircase. My fingers curled around the plastic limbs of the doll I’d left behind.
“Lenore, darling,” Vivian called, “would you take my Dorian upstairs and show him the attic? We’ve decorated—it has a bed and all.”
“The attic?” I blinked. “But—“
“Do you want to take his place?” my father said, voice rough behind me.
I turned slowly, catching his eyes. Shook my head.
Vivian smiled and patted Dorian’s shoulder as if sealing some silent agreement. Then she turned and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the hallway colder somehow.
“What’s with the doll?” Dorian asked, climbing the steps toward me, eyes moving to the toy in my hands.
“They don’t talk,” I muttered, standing and rolling my eyes.
He laughed under his breath. “Aren’t you a bit old to be playing with dolls?”
“Aren’t you a bit old to move back in with your mom?” I shot back, stepping up one more stair.
“I don’t have a choice,” he said quietly, trailing after me.
At the second-floor landing, I stopped and pointed toward the attic door—barely open, like it was holding its breath.
“Lock it at night,” I said. “Father doesn’t like anyone awake after dark.”
His jaw tensed. “You’re no fun,” he muttered as he brushed past me. “Sister.”
I watched him head toward the attic steps, that word still echoing behind him.
“I’m not your sister,” I said. Then I slammed the door shut.
The sound cracked like a whip pushing me back.
Back in the present.
Standing at the edge of the train station, the platform was slick with rain. A gust of wind tugged at my coat. The world felt heavier now as if dragging me backward.
I was never supposed to leave, and he was never supposed to stay. But I left for him, and he stayed for me. And even if that meant never to see him again, I wanted to run away more than I wanted to stay, and he had no choice. He chose to stay so I can ran away.
The train finally arrived, and I boarded, sitting at seat number twenty-one, and I was on my way to where it all began.
I never liked trains. Something about the way they rattled over the tracks, the way the world blurred past the window like it was trying to outrun me.
I sat with my back pressed against the cold seat, hands curled around the strap of my tote bag like it was the only thing holding me to reality.
The train was almost empty, except for a man snoring two rows behind me and an elderly woman staring blankly out the window, her reflection fractured by streaks of rain.
I didn’t remember falling asleep. But at some point, my body must have shut down because I woke up to something pressing against my chest.
At first, I thought it was just the heaviness of exhaustion. But then I felt it again.
A pressure.
Like fingers trailing down my sternum.
I gasped, sitting up so fast that my head smacked against the seat behind me. My breath was shallow, my heart slamming against my ribs.
No one was there.
Of course, no one was there.
The train continued like nothing was happening.
I exhaled shakily, running a hand through my hair. It was just a dream. Or maybe just a creeping dread gnawing at me since I left the apartment.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling.
Like something had reached for me in my sleep.
Like something had followed me onto this train.
I turned to the window, watching the darkness shift outside.
Gloomsbury Manor was waiting.
And whether I was ready or not, I was going home.