Chapter 13
Thirteen
AURELIA
It’s beautiful outside, in the garden. Spring is in the air. The rain deepens the green, soaking life back into grass that looked brittle only days ago. Flowers push through the soil as if they have been holding their breath all winter.
I never noticed how many white roses grow here. Bush, after bush, lines the path leading all the way to the pavilion where I sit now.
A cool breeze brushes against my cheeks, slipping through my hair and tugging loose strands behind me as the swing creaks. The wood presses lightly beneath me as I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, tucking my legs beneath it.
In one hand, I’m holding a half empty cup of cold coffee. In the other, I hold L.R.’s diary.
I tilt my head toward the house. The curtain moves.
It could be the breeze. Or it could be Lily.
I see her more often now. I don’t question it anymore. I have already accepted what she is. Part of me.
I wonder what I was like as a child. If I laughed as easily. Or maybe I was more like Helena, the girl from the pages I keep returning to.
I wish I had met her. She seems like a lovely child, in this lovely house.
My eyes fall back to the pages in my lap. I open the diary somewhere in the middle, not searching for anything specific, just letting it choose for me.
Then I lift the cup to my lips and take a slow sip.
I close the diary and stare into the distance, trying to find the place where I know this story from. It’s just out of reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue.
I glance down at the tree, then the church beyond it. Victor’s words are still in my head, that everything is connected. I try to pull the pieces together, but nothing fits. My mind stays blank.
Something moves at the edge of my vision. I turn slightly and see Lily standing at the window. The curtain moves again, and she isn’t alone this time. The woman from the other night is beside her. She’s holding Lily’s hand.
A chill runs through me. I watch them, barely breathing.
Does Lily know who she is? Are they both dead?
Or is this just something my mind has made up?
I let out a shaky breath. My hand trembles in my lap. A sharp pain spreads through the nerves in my right hand when I move it. I avoid looking toward the right wing because I know the piano is there. I know what it will remind me of. I’m not able to touch it, let alone play.
Above me, the clouds shift, swallowing the sun. The light fades, leaving everything dimmer. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and push myself to my feet. And I walk back toward the house.
I wish I could be more than something placed here to make this house feel alive.
Maybe I am just lonely.
As I reach the front door, I notice a paper box sitting on the doorstep. I lean down and pick it up, trying to hold everything at once, the coffee, the diary, the box slipping against my fingers.
I push the door open with my shoulder and step inside. I set the coffee and diary on the table, keeping the box in my hands.
I shake it. Something is inside. It sounds like rocks knocking together.
My stomach tightens.
I lift the lid. My gaze falls on a note on top. It’s from The Caller.
I raise it slowly, and I notice bones beneath it.
It’s someone’s hand.
My brows pull together as the box slips from my grip and hits the floor. My heart pounds too fast and I take a step back.
I swallow, forcing myself to move closer again. I nudge the box with the tip of my sneaker, pushing it just enough to see inside without touching it.
“It’s bones, Aurelia,” I whisper. “Probably a prank.”
I close my eyes and exhale, then inhale slowly before opening them. The box is still there.
I crouch down, and pick up the note again. With the edge of my shoe, I push the box toward the stairs.
Good job, Aurelia. You have the survival skills of a fridge.
I open the note and read it out loud.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I hear footsteps coming from above. Then a voice drifts down. “Hello? Anybody home?”
He laughs. His voice bounces off the walls and finds me where I stand.
I move, taking slow steps to the wall near the phone. My fingers wrap around the receiver. I lift it to my ear, my hand trembling, but there is sound on the other end.
“You called?” He says, laughing again.
I forgot this damn phone doesn’t work at all. I take a step back, then rush down the hallway toward the staff kitchen.
Maybe I can hide in one of the cabinets that is empty.
I run on my tiptoes. He’s coming down the hall. I hear him pick up the box of bones, then the clatter as they knock against the railing while he passes.
I press my hand over my mouth to keep the scream inside. Even if I let it out, no one would hear me.
I slip into the kitchen and crouch near the cabinets, opening them one by one, praying they don’t creak, until finally, one is empty. I climb inside and pull the door shut, easing it closed until there’s nothing but darkness.
Something feels wrong.
His footsteps are closer now. The air inside the cabinet feels thick, like it’s pressing in on me. I try to breathe, but my breath is turning shallow.
It’s too dark.
My fingers try to find the door. I push. But I can’t open the door. I push harder. It doesn’t move.
“No…” I whisper.
I shove against it again, harder this time, but the door won’t open.
A scream tears out of me, scraping my throat raw. “Let me out. Let me out.”
I pound on the door, over and over until my hands stung. My eyes shifting from my eyeballs left and right in fear someone is here with me. I close my eyes, my mind bringing back memories.
My knees are pulled tight to my chest, rocking in a dark closet. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed but my vision is slowly blurring. I told Daniel’s mother something I wasn’t supposed to say. Something I should have kept to myself.
He locked me in. Said it was to teach me a lesson.
I stayed there the whole day, maybe longer. Crying until my throat burned, until my tears ran dry. I remember licking the salt from my lips because I was so thirsty. My nails were torn and bloody from scratching at the door, from trying to get out.
I thought I would never leave. But the door opened. Someone saved me, pulled me close.
“I got you,” he said. “I got you.”
My eyes blink hard, and I’m back in the cabinet, still clawing at the door, still unable to open it. I bang harder, more desperate now. At this point, I would rather be caught by The Caller than dragged back into the memory of that night.
Then the door swings open.
“I got you,” he says. “I got you.”
My vision blurs through tears. My fingers fly to my mouth, and I bite the skin around them until there’s a metallic taste of blood on my tongue.
He lifts me onto the counter.
I pull my legs together and turn my face away from him, rocking back and forth, trying to gather the pieces of myself. Trying to breathe. Trying to come back.
It was him.
The voice is the same.
He saved me then, and he saved me now.
But that still doesn’t explain who he is. Or why he’s been torturing me.
He cups my face gently and turns me toward him. His knee slips between my legs, easing them apart as he steps closer. My eyes lock on his, and something inside that blue feels familiar, but I still don’t know who The Caller is.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe.”
I shake my head. My chest rises, my heart beating so hard it feels painful. He tries to steady me, but I keep staring at him like I’m not here, my thoughts running directionless.
I remembered Daniel. I remembered every single thing he did to me. Yet I still can’t remember this man standing in front of me.
Maybe I made him up.
Maybe he’s something my mind created so I could survive it. A stranger turned into here or a fantasy I built to make the horror easier to bear.
His hands tighten slightly against my cheeks as he draws me closer.
I swallow, and my gaze drops from his eyes to his lips.
“Who are you?” I ask. My voice is trembling.
“Just a stranger,” he says, his eyes moving over me, then settling on my lips.
Does he want to kiss me? Why do I want to kiss him?
Please. Kiss me.
Make me remember who you are.
But he steps back instead, shaking his head as he clears his throat. His jaw tightens.
“Don’t ever lock yourself in again,” he says, taking another step away, already turning from me.
I look down and notice the cabinet door hanging loose, torn completely from its hinges.
He ripped it off. For me.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, the words slipping out too fast. If I had thought for even a second longer, I would have said something else. Something honest. Because I’m terrified of him.
He laughs. “And why is that?”
“Because I can think of ten ways to kill you and no one would ever know it was me,” I say. My voice steadies just enough to carry the lie. “I read books, you know.” I clear my throat. “About murder and stuff.”
He laughs again, turning back to me, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies me. “Ten ways, you say?” One brow lifts.
“Yes.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Kitten,” he murmurs, almost amused, “you should be terrified of me.”
“You’re not that scary.”
“Really?”
He steps closer.
My breath hitches as he reaches the cabinet and shifts my legs apart again, just enough to stand between them.
“Give me ten ways to kill me,” he says quietly, “and I’ll give you ten reasons why I can’t stop thinking about fucking you.”
I blink, caught somewhere between fear and lust for someone I don’t even recognize.
He tilts my chin up with his finger, forcing my gaze back to his.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “how much I want to.”
“You,” I clear my throat, “you want to fuck me?”
He smiles. “Very, very, very much.” His upper lip twitches.
I don’t even know how to answer, but my body already is. His hand hovers too close, and heat floods my cheeks, burning brighter than my hair. All I can see are his blue eyes, and the way his words sink into me, leaving me breathless.
“I would pull you close,” he says, his hand sliding to my waist, drawing me in. “Spread you open,” he murmurs, easing my legs apart, bringing me closer until there’sbarely any space left between us.
He leans to my ear, his voice dropping. “And I would make you forget that fiancé of yours.” A low chuckle follows. “Your standards are low. It wouldn’t be hard to make you see me as your only God.”
The heat twisting inside me snaps.
My breath stutters, then hardens into anger. I shove him away.
“Asshole.”
“There she is,” he chuckles softly. “That fire in you.” He catches me before I can move too far, pulling me back when I try to push him off again. “You could burn the whole world if you found the right flame, kitten.”
“Come closer and you’ll find out.”
He does.
Slowly.
His hand moves from my neck to my chin, his finger gliding toward my lips. And when he gets close enough, I open my mouth and bite him, hard enough to taste blood.
For a second, I expect him to react.
But he just laughs.
“I bite harder, kitten.”
He steps back, like nothing happened, like I didn’t just draw blood from him.
“As much as I’d enjoy this,” he says, voice lighter now, “I have better things to do.”
“Like what?” I shoot back. “Stalking other women?”
He laughs again, like this is all a game to him.
“Kitten, do you really think there are other women?”
I swallow, the realization settling deep in my chest. Men like him don’t divide their attention. They fixate. They choose one. And somehow, that one is me.
Our eyes lock for a brief second, something unreadable passing between us, and then he turns away again, walking slowly toward the door like he has all the time in the world.
“I’ll call the owner and tell him you’re harassing me,” I shout after him. “You should be scared.” I knit my brows together. “I heard he’s dangerous.”
He turns back, his lower lip pushing out in a mock pout. “Oh, I’m so scared.”
“Did you read that in the diary you’ve been going through?”
“No,” I say.
“Keep reading,” he says, already turning his back to me again. “Maybe you’ll figure out I own the house.”
He’s the owner.
He’s Mr. Rosewood.