Chapter 5
Clementine
The Intruder, the Kidnapper, and Me
I’m sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, my notebook open across my lap, pen in hand, fully determined to complete a methodical inventory of this room before moving on to the next.
My notes are already spreading across the page.
Green velvet sofa. Probably 1920s. Condition: fair despite accumulated dust. Matching armchair, worn armrests but solid frame. Solid oak coffee table, turned legs, several scratches on the surface.
I write everything down with meticulous care.
This is exactly the kind of task that reassures me because it’s concrete, measurable, and controlled.
My attention moves from one piece of furniture to the next as I continue cataloging everything around me.
I’ll need to transfer it all into my computer later, but I decided it would be safer not to turn it on. Otherwise, I’d inevitably check my work emails and end up working instead of completing the task my grandmother assigned me.
Suddenly, a creak echoes above my head.
I stop writing, my pen hovering over the page.
I look up at the ceiling, frowning, waiting for the sound to repeat itself.
Several seconds pass without another noise.
It’s just the wind.
Or the house settling.
Old buildings do that.
I shake my head and return to my notes.
Dark wood writing desk. Victorian style. Three drawers with brass handles. Standing reading lamp with cream fabric shade torn along one side.
Another creak sounds.
Longer this time.
More distinct.
It sounds like...
Footsteps.
I freeze, pen still suspended in midair, my heartbeat suddenly louder in my chest.
Okay.
That’s not the wind.
But it isn’t a ghost either.
Maybe an animal?
A bird trapped in a chimney?
I set my notebook on the coffee table and slowly rise to my feet, listening carefully.
Silence stretches through the manor.
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe I’m starting to let all those ridiculous haunted manor stories get into my head.
Mrs. MacLeish and her tragic couple.
Ewan and his vague warnings.
The German tourists asking for guided tours.
I sigh and start to sit back down when a heavy thud echoes from upstairs.
BOOM.
Something just fell.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Okay.
There is definitely someone—or something—up there.
And I’m alone in an isolated manor with no phone signal.
Fantastic.
My gaze darts frantically around the room, searching for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon.
The sofa cushions?
No.
Ridiculous.
The standing lamp?
Too heavy.
And honestly, what would I even do with it unless I planned to electrocute someone, which isn’t exactly part of my strategy.
I yank open the first drawer of the writing desk.
Inside are old yellowed letters, a rusty letter opener, mismatched buttons, and a piece of string.
I grab the letter opener and weigh it in my hand.
Pathetic.
I look like the heroine in a low-budget horror movie who runs through the woods in high heels.
I put it back and slam the drawer shut.
“Think, Clementine. Think,” I mutter.
I’m not sure whether hearing my own voice is reassuring or making me even more nervous.
Upstairs, the noises begin again.
Panic surges through me.
I turn toward the fireplace and spot an iron poker leaning beside the hearth.
I hurry over, grab it with both hands, and attempt to lift it.
Good Lord.
It’s heavy.
I awkwardly hold it out in front of me.
If I actually have to defend myself with this thing, I’m far more likely to throw out my back or drop it on my foot.
Possibly both.
I lean it back against the fireplace, discouraged.
Then my gaze lands on the mantel.
A heavy brass candelabra sits there, three branches topped with ancient candles still fused to the holders.
I pick it up.
Solid.
Heavy enough to do damage.
Light enough to swing.
Perfect.
Well...
Maybe perfect.
I creep toward the staircase, holding the candelabra in front of me like a sword.
My heart pounds.
My breathing is too fast.
I force myself to slow it down.
This is ridiculous.
I am ridiculous.
But I’m certainly not going to stand here waiting for an intruder to casually stroll downstairs and murder me.
Another sound echoes from the second floor.
I think it’s coming from the hallway rather than one of the bedrooms.
Something is moving up there.
I reach the foot of the stairs and lean forward just enough to see—while hopefully not being seen in return.
I look up.
The second floor is drowned in shadows.
The curtains lining the hallway windows are drawn shut.
I swallow hard and take a cautious step forward.
Now I’m standing directly in front of the staircase.
The steps are tall.
Wide.
Wooden.
Come on, Clementine.
You’re an adult.
An adult armed with a brass candelabra.
Everything is fine.
I place my foot on the first step.
The wood creaks beneath my weight.
I freeze, holding my breath and raising the candelabra a little higher.
Nothing moves upstairs.
I’m about to climb the second step when three sharp knocks sound behind me at the front door.
And that’s when everything happens at once.
I jump violently.
A shriek escapes me.
I lose my balance.
My foot misses the step.
My arms flail wildly as I attempt to regain my footing.
Apparently, I possess very little balance because a second later I realize I’m falling.
Not dramatically.
Just awkwardly.
I land squarely on my backside at the foot of the stairs, the breath knocked out of me.
The candelabra flies from my hands and rolls noisily across the hardwood floor into the middle of the hall.
I remain sitting there, stunned, palms flat against the floor behind me, trying to process what just happened.
The front door swings open.
Right.
I forgot to lock it.
A man walks in.
Young.
Tall.
Dark hair slightly tousled.
An expensive-looking white shirt.
A surprised expression.
He spots me on the floor and stops dead in the doorway.
He looks every bit as startled as I feel.
“Hello,” he says with a polite but visibly awkward smile. “I’m Cameron McGregor, a real estate agent, and I—”
I stare at him.
I look at the candelabra three yards away.
I look at the staircase.
Then I look back at Cameron McGregor.
I hit my head.
That must be it.
I fell, hit my head, and now I’m hallucinating a real estate agent.
“I’m not selling anything,” I snap.
One eyebrow rises slightly.
“You’re... sitting on the floor.”
“I noticed. Thank you.”
He takes a step toward me.
“Are you hurt?”
I attempt to stand with what remains of my dignity—which is approximately none at this point—while calculating how long it would take me to reach the candelabra before this stranger decided to attack me.
He automatically offers me a hand.
I ignore it completely.
Getting up on my own, I discreetly rub my bruised backside.
Then I look at him suspiciously while edging a little closer to my improvised weapon.
“How did you get in?”
He moves at the same time and gestures toward the front door.
“It was open. I heard you scream, so I came inside.”
I clench my jaw.
An awkward silence settles between us.
He opens his mouth, clearly intending to resume the speech I interrupted.
“I’m not here to buy the manor. I’m here because—”
BOOM.
I jump.
Both of us look up at the ceiling simultaneously.
This noise is much louder than the previous ones.
My stomach twists.
“There’s something up there,” I say in a strained voice.
Cameron looks at me calmly.
“Or someone.”
I shoot him a dark look.
“Thank you. That’s incredibly reassuring.”
My eyes dart toward the candelabra.
It’s lying near Cameron’s feet.
Of course it is.
Cameron follows my gaze and notices it.
An amused expression crosses his face.
“You were planning to defend yourself with that?”
I lift my chin with all the dignity I can still muster.
“It’s solid brass. It could do some serious damage.”
He bends down, picks it up, weighs it in his hand, then offers it back to me.
“You may need it.”
I take it, surprised that he’s handing my weapon back so willingly.
Cameron gestures toward the staircase.
“After you.”
I stare at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You were about to go upstairs, weren’t you? I’ll come with you.”
“Why?”
A slight smile appears.
“Because I’m a gentleman. And because I’m curious about whatever’s making that noise.”
As if on cue, another creak sounds upstairs.
I release a long sigh.
“A real gentleman would go first.”
Cameron nods solemnly.
“That’s true. In that case, I’ll lead the way, if you don’t mind.”
He watches me while my brain spins at top speed.
If I let him go first, he’ll encounter the danger before I do.
Which, according to my survival instincts, isn’t necessarily a terrible idea.
On the other hand, I’m not some damsel in distress who needs a knight in shining armor to protect her.
My attention returns to Cameron.
Aside from the fact that he’s annoyingly handsome—which is a completely irrelevant thought right now—he doesn’t strike me as threatening.
No.
If danger exists, it’s upstairs.
“Let’s go together,” I decide.
He simply nods.
We climb the staircase side by side.
Every creak beneath our feet echoes through the hall.
I grip the candelabra tightly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Cameron’s presence.
Unlike me, he doesn’t seem particularly frightened.
Halfway up, he speaks.
“By the way, my name is Cameron.”
I don’t turn my head.
“I know. You said that when you came in.”
“And you are?”
Something tells me he already knows.
Still, I answer.
“Clementine.”
“Nice to meet you, Clementine.”
I can’t resist responding with sarcasm.
“Yes. Likewise. It’s always a pleasure meeting someone while landing on your backside.”
I hear Cameron suppress a laugh.
To my annoyance, a small smile tugs at my lips in return.
We reach the top of the staircase.
The hallway is dark.
Several closed doors line both sides.
One door at the far end stands partially open.
The noise came from there.
I glance toward Cameron and whisper:
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
He whispers back.
“Absolutely not.”
Wonderful.
Fantastic.
I love my life.
We slowly approach the half-open door.
I raise the candelabra higher.
Cameron shifts slightly in front of me, as though trying to shield me.
I nudge him aside with my elbow.