Chapter 17
Amara’s grip is like a vice on my arm, her fingers digging into my skin as she practically yanks me backward, dragging me away from the blood-stained apparitions of my sisters.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird, and the scream is still echoing in the dusty air of the attic.
"Fuck! Ophelia, you’ve got ghosts! Actual fucking ghosts in your house!" Amara is rambling, her voice a mix of genuine terror and a strange, manic excitement. "This is mental, absolutely mental—"
We scramble out of the attic and hit the hallway, but we don't get far. We slam right into a wall of a man.
I gasp, stumbling back. It’s Papa. He looks groggy, his eyes bloodshot and heavy, clearly just waking up from one of his midday stupors. The smell of stale sleep and old tobacco clings to him.
Instinctively, I snap my arm back, clutching the yellowed newspaper tightly behind my back, pressing the brittle paper against my spine. My pulse is drumming in my ears.
"What the fuck is all this noise?" he growls, his voice gravelly and dangerous.
Amara doesn't miss a beat. She jumps in, her voice pitching higher, playing the part of the frightened guest. "Sorry! Sorry, Mr. Sorrell! We just... we saw a mouse! A massive one, right by the door, and it properly spooked us!"
Papa doesn't move. He stands there, squinting at us, his gaze boring into me.
I can't look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, the worn carpet blurring as my mind screams. Kidnapped.
Stalker. Brown hair, brown eyes. 100,000 pounds.
The words from the article are looping in my head like a broken record, turning my world upside down.
Then, his eyes shift. He looks past us, seeing the attic door standing wide open, the darkness of the forbidden room yawning behind us.
An immediate, animalistic growl escapes his throat. Before I can even blink, his hand shoots out, gripping my upper arm with a strength that makes me wince. He jerks me toward him, his face twisting into a mask of pure rage.
"Did you go in there?" he sneers, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Did you go through my things? Trying to dig up dirt about your mother?"
I tremble, my voice small. "I—"
"Didn't I warn you?" he roars, his grip tightening until I feel the bruise forming. "I told you never to go into that attic! I told you never to try and find anything about Marguerite that I don't tell you!"
"Let go!" I cry out, twisting in his grasp. "You're hurting me! Let go!"
He doesn't let go. Instead, he pulls me closer, his eyes flashing with a hatred that feels ancient. "I cannot stand it," he spits, "that even after breaking you to this point, you are still as disobedient as her."
I freeze. The air in the hallway feels suddenly frigid.
"And that," he snarls, "is exactly why she is no longer alive."
Her? Who the fuck is her? Usually, he only speaks of this her in those cryptic, bitter tones when he's wasted on gin, but this morning he is sober. He is lucid. And he's talking about someone as if she deserved to die for the crime of being disobedient.
Panic surges through me. I try to wrench my hand away, to flee from the suffocating pressure of his presence, but he reacts with a sudden, violent motion. He raises his hand high, his palm open, the gesture unmistakable. He’s going to strike me.
I flinch, closing my eyes and bracing for the blow.
PSSSSSSSSST!
A sharp, hissing sound cuts through the air, followed by a guttural, agonized scream.
I snap my eyes open. Papa is clutching his face, his hands clawing at his eyes, stumbling backward and howling in pain. Amara is standing there, a small canister of pepper spray held firmly in her hand, her expression fierce.
"Get the fuck away from her!" she yells.
She doesn't wait for him to recover. She grabs my hand, her grip firm and protective, and hauls me down the hallway. We don't look back; we just run. We burst through the front door and sprint down the street, the cold morning air biting at my lungs.
Once we're a safe distance away, I look at her, breathless and shaking. "You... you carry pepper spray?"
Amara glances at me, her chest heaving. "Ophelia, have you seen the creeps in this town? I don't go anywhere without a way to blind a cunt if they get too close."
We don't stop until we reach her home. I've never been inside before, but as we pull up, I see it's a stark contrast to the gloom of my father's house.
It's a small, eclectic cottage tucked away behind a hedge of overgrown roses, the exterior painted a daring shade of deep teal with bright yellow window frames. It looks lived-in, chaotic, and warm.
She practically shoves me inside and leads me straight up to her bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it with a decisive click.
Amara leans against the door, catching her breath, her face pale but determined. She looks at me—really looks at me—and then her gaze drops to the crumpled newspaper still clutched in my hand.
"Right," she says, her voice steadying. "We need to find out what actually happened to your mum.
Because if your Papa is the one who 'saved' her from a stalker, but he looks exactly like the suspect...
" She shudders. "We need to know if Thomas Sorrell was actually the love of her life, or if he was the fucking stalker who stole her.”
I stare at the yellowed newsprint, my fingers trembling so hard the paper rattles.
"There has to be another explanation," I whisper, my voice sounding thin and fragile in the quiet of Amara’s room.
"There just has to be. Maybe... maybe my grandparents were just desperate.
Maybe they made up the kidnapping story to lure my mum back, or to get Papa arrested so they couldn't be together. It doesn't have to be... that."
Amara opens her mouth to protest, her brow furrowed, but I cut her off, the panic rising in my chest.
"And I have to process the fact that we just saw my sisters' ghosts, Amara! Do you get that? That wasn't some 'suspicion' or a trick of the light. We saw them. We actually fucking saw them."
Amara sighs, her expression softening as she leans back against the door.
"I told you, love. I told you your house looks haunted.
Even your toy shop feels like it's breathing sometimes.
Maybe they've just been trapped in that attic all this time, never finding any peace.
Maybe they're waiting for you to help them. "
I blink, a chill running down my spine. "Help take them to peace? How?"
"I don't know," Amara says, her voice suddenly devoid of its usual playfulness. She looks at me with a terrifyingly blank intensity. "Either that, or we trap them in porcelain dolls. Then they can stay with you forever. Little ceramic versions of your sisters, right on your bedside table."
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, the sarcastic smirk, the "just kidding." But it never comes. She isn't joking. Amara is dead serious, and for a second, she seems just as twisted as the world I've been forced into.
"Amara! Darling!"
The voice of Mrs. Aldridge drifts up from downstairs, calling for her daughter. Amara jumps, the spell breaking.
"Stay right here," she commands, pointing a finger at me. "Don't move. I'll be right back."
I nod dumbly, watching her slip out of the room and close the door behind her.
For the first time, I actually look around.
The room is a chaotic blend of vintage gothic lace, scattered sketchbooks, and odd trinkets—a sanctuary of black and gold.
I clutch the newspaper to my chest, my mind racing through the images of my father's rage and the bloodied faces of my sisters.
"Finally."
The voice is a low, dark velvet caress that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I freeze.
I spin around and see him. Rhys is standing in the deepest shadow of the room, leaning against the wall, watching me with those predatory eyes.
My heart skips a beat, then hammers violently against my ribs.
I can't look at him—I can't bring myself to meet that gaze—so I snap my head away, staring at the wall.
"Are you fucking crazy?" I hiss, my voice shaking. "Why are you in my friend's bedroom? How did you even get in here?"
"Because I missed you," he purrs.
I hear the slow, deliberate thud of his boots on the floorboards as he closes the distance. The air around him feels heavy, charged with an electricity that makes my skin prickle.
"Why did you disobey me, Ophelia?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating through my very bones. "I told you to wait for me in my bedroom. Instead, you ran off. You played a very dangerous game of hide-and-seek."
I swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "I am not someone you can just order around, Rhys. I'm not one of your... toys."
He chuckles, a dark, guttural sound. Suddenly, he's behind me. I feel the heat of his body radiating through my dress before his arms wrap around my waist, hauling me back against his hard chest. He leans in, his breath hot against the shell of my ear.
"I had planned for us to have so much more fun this morning," he whispers, his grip tightening possessively.
I stiffen, a spark of defiance flickering through my fear. "Really? Wouldn't that 'fun' have been interrupted by the woman who called you? The one who made you leave me alone in that room so you could run to her?"
He goes still. The muscle in his arm flexes against my side.
"And then," I continue, my voice gaining strength, "that woman throws herself at you, all scared and loving... and then she gets shot by another woman who was hiding in the trees."
Rhys doesn't say a word. He reaches forward, gripping my shoulders and forcing me to turn around. I keep my gaze lowered, my eyes landing on his lips—full, cruel, and inviting.
He smirks, noticing my gaze. "Still can't look me in the eye, can you, little cracked doll?"
I shrug, my heart racing.
"I didn't expect you to see that," he admits, his voice devoid of apology.