Chapter 22
Sabine
I jog to the kitchen,grab a flat cheese knife from the croissant spread, and hurry back to the master bedroom. I slide the shaft between the mystery door frame, press, jiggle, and boom—the lock pops open.
My pulse kicks.
After a glance over my shoulder, I slowly push open the door, completely unprepared for what’s ahead.
It’s a baby’s room, or more accurately, a little girl’s room.
I gasp and cover my mouth.
Dolls are everywhere—plastic, stuffed, porcelain, each missing their heads. Some are completely mutilated, lying in a heap of their own stuffing. A leg here, an arm there. Fist-sized holes dot the walls, as if someone punched through the sheetrock, over and over and over again. The paint is a dusty pink, once a beautiful rose color, I imagine, but now dull and bleak. Duct tape runs over cracked windows that are spotted and dirty, hampering the already dim daylight from shining into the room.
A twin-sized bed sits flush against the wall, the pink comforter unmade, suggesting someone has slept in it recently. A pillow lying at the foot of the bed has been slashed repeatedly.
Though my head is telling me to run, I step deeper into the room.
There are many framed pictures, but this time, Astor’s wife isn’t the only subject. Most are of a beautiful little girl with long blond ringlets.
My heart pounding, I pick up one of the photos. Porcelain skin, white-blond hair, and dark chocolate eyes. The girl is almost an exact replica of Astor’s wife, but the eyes ... they are the same ones that bored into me the night before.
The frame drops from my hand.
Astor’s daughter.
The picture shatters on impact, and I swoop down and pick up the broken glass, cutting my thumb. I hardly feel it.
My mind races.
Astor had a secret wife, and now a secret daughter. Where is she? And who destroyed her room?
What other secrets does this man have?
A drip of my blood drops on the picture. I swipe it away, then stick my finger in my mouth and quickly gather the broken frame—which would be clear evidence of my snooping.
With two handfuls of broken glass, I stand, whirl around, and run out of the room, closing the door behind me.
Movement out the bedroom window catches my eye.
Outside, Astor is standing with his back to the house. He’s wearing a black jacket with the hood pulled up, standing in the pouring rain, unmoving, his head bowed. Alone.
I walk to the window and watch him, transfixed by the growing enigma that is this man. Somehow, I can feel his pain.
Rain pounds his shoulders. He doesn’t notice.
Thunder rumbles overhead. He doesn’t notice.
Slowly, he lowers onto his knees, doubles over, and drops his head in his hands. His body shudders with emotion.
He’s crying.
I can now see what he was looking at.
In front of him are two small memorials surrounded by dozens of blooming daffodils. One is marked with a small white cross, obviously new. The other with an identical pink cross, dingy and faded.
One belongs to his wife, the other to his daughter.