Chapter 3
THREE
A shiver runs down my spine as the limousine rounds a corner, taking away the light. Rochester Manor looms ahead, a three-story building that could easily be the set of a movie about a wicked duke who ruins young women for sport. I cross the gravel courtyard, squinting against the wind and rain.
Even the doorbell feels wrong. Not a ding or a buzz, just a deep, echoing chime like Big Ben calling the dead to rise. I’ve never been to London, but I’ve watched enough BBC murder dramas to recognize the sound of doom. I huddle against the doors, waiting for footsteps or chains.
But there’s nothing.
Just the wind.
Just the rain.
And me, shivering like a wet dog left on the porch.
Rain beats down my back like a vicious husband on his wedding night.
I shiver, my teeth clacking, and switch my thoughts to the reason I’m standing outside a creepy old house: Gil.
My ex was more loyal to his underworld bosses than to the love of his life, but when we met, he was a warm blanket.
A lifeline. And he never left me unsatisfied.
At least not until the end.
I wait. And wait. And wait. I tell myself that the distant howl is the wind and whatever’s lurking in the forest. When nobody answers the door, I ring the bell again and press my ear to the wood.
When I hear nothing, I crouch down and peer through the keyhole. It’s dark, so I close my eyes and listen. Minutes pass, maybe half an hour, and a spasm seizes my back. I bang on the door with fists, and yell for attention.
Finally, footsteps approach, slow and heavy, as if the mansion’s interior is cavernous.
Drawing back at the jingle of keys, I pick up my duffel and straighten.
The locks turn, their mechanisms sounding rusty even through the heavy rainfall, and whoever’s behind the door slides one bolt, followed by another.
I back away, already having second thoughts, when the night sky brightens with forks of lightning, followed by a roll of thunder.
The door groans open, and the woman answering is large enough to fill its frame. Broad shoulders, thick neck, black dress starched like cardboard. A matching mask covers the lower half of her face.
I step back.
“Annalisa Burlington?” Her voice is rough, like it can’t decide whether it’s male or female.
“Y-Yes?” I squeak.
“You’d better come in.” She steps aside, leaving barely enough for me to cross the threshold.
I have to squeeze past her bulk into a vast foyer.
It’s silent as a cathedral with stone floors stretching into the shadows, and the ceiling tall enough to give me vertigo.
On the wall are sconces. Not fake ones with electric bulbs, but actual flames that flicker in the draft, making the shadows dance.
I inhale a sharp breath, taking in the scent of beeswax and something medicinal that catches in the back of my throat.
The door slams shut with a thud that makes me flinch.
The woman I assume to be Mrs. Fairfax brushes past, her black dress rustling against an impossibly bulky frame.
Following, I shiver at the eerie silence, broken only by our footsteps echoing off the stone.
I try to take in details—mahogany paneling, oil paintings in heavy frames, a grandfather clock ticking somewhere in the darkness—but she moves too quickly, and I’m too busy trying to keep up with her long strides.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask, my voice small in the vast space.
“Long enough.” Her voice is gravel and smoke.
“And Mr. Rochester? What’s he like?”
She doesn’t answer. Just continues walking toward a staircase that curves up into the shadows like a spine.
We climb to a grandiose landing, illuminated moonlight streaming through tall windows. Then up another flight, where a cobweb brushes my cheek like a curtain. I shudder, distracting my revulsion with portraits of men in uniforms, women in gowns, children with dead eyes watching us pass.
My thighs burn, but Mrs. Fairfax charges ahead without slowing. A painting of a woman with pale skin and blonde ringlets catches my attention. Her eyes seem scratched out in the flickering light. I stop following long enough to lean closer.
“Keep up,” she growls without turning around.
The next floor feels different from the one before.
Smaller. Darker. Crumbling. Even the ceiling is lower, pressing down like it’s designed to crush spirits.
This has to be the servant’s quarters. Before I can ask how many of us live here, Mrs. Fairfax stops at a door at the end of the hallway and produces a key.
“Your room,” she says, turning the lock. “Breakfast is at seven sharp. Do not be late.”
The door swings open to reveal a space that’s both a prison cell and sanctuary.
Moonlight streams in through French doors, illuminating the dark wood floors.
A huge bed dominates its center, its posts reaching toward the ceiling like fingers.
The room is sparse and basic, apart from the velvet curtains around the bed and the balcony doors.
Mrs. Fairfax shifts aside just enough for me to enter. “The wardrobe contains everything you’ll need.”
I step inside, my shoulders sagging with relief.
After a week of paranoia, of feeling like everyone within glancing distance was a cop waiting to drag me to justice, all I want is to be alone to catch my breath.
I never thought my life would turn to shit at the age of twenty-five, but hiding out in the middle of nowhere as a nanny is better than the alternative.
“Burlington?” She asks from behind.
I turn, finding her still looming in the doorway. She stares down at me with an intensity that has me rooted to the spot. My fingers twitch. My breath shallows. I wait in agony for several heartbeats, expecting her to ask the same awkward question as the chauffeur.
“Yes?” I finally reply.
“Welcome to Rochester Manor.” I swear that she smiles beneath that mask before pulling the door shut behind her with a thud.
With a final exhale, I turn the key in the lock.
The first things I explore are the French doors.
They need to open, so I’m no longer breathing air saturated with medicine and polish and rot.
I turn the handle and step onto a stone balcony that overlooks the grounds.
A cool breeze fans over my fevered skin, and I fill my lungs.
The rain has stopped, leaving everything glistening under silver light.
Below, formal gardens stretch away from the house lined by hedges in perfect geometric patterns and pathways that lead nowhere.
Everything here seems too orderly, too controlled.
It feels like the set of a period movie, and I’m an actress who’s forgotten her lines.
My nipples tighten with the cold, and my skin prickles into goosebumps. I rest my hands against the stone railing, cursing Gil for leading me into an ambush, letting those people make me a murderer, and then casting me out.
Mom said God cursed women to desire men but be crushed under their feet.
It was Eve’s punishment for tempting Adam into eating the forbidden fruit.
When she and Dad married me off to Brother Matthew, my belief in the scripture crumbled.
There was nothing attractive about a bad-tempered old man who stank of horse piss.
I used to think she was full of shit until I met Gil.
He was everything—a change from the rich old guys I’d pick up in cigar bars or casinos.
An upgrade from the assholes who’d make me earn my rent money.
He was handsome, charming, attentive, and had the body of an athlete.
Even if our relationship didn’t last more than a month, he was the sweetest, strongest, kindest, most generous man I’d ever met. Until he wasn’t.
Fuck that bastard.
And his boss.
With a shiver, I hurry back through the doors and head for the wardrobe.
There’s a single black dress hanging inside, pressed and waiting like it’s been expecting to be worn.
Arranged on the shelf underneath are white aprons, cotton nightgowns, and underwear still in their packaging.
The Facebook Marketplace ad wasn’t exaggerating. Everything really is provided.
I lift the dress off the hanger and grimace. It might fit my waist and hips, but there’s no way in hell it’ll handle my boobs. The only saving grace is the line of buttons down the front. I can wear it open until they find something that actually fits.
Fugitives can’t be fashionistas.
With a sigh, I explore the attached bathroom.
The walls are tiled in white subway brick that reflects the moonlight in fractured patterns.
When I flip the switch, the bulb flickers once before settling into steady illumination.
Probably because no one updated the electrics since the master of this mansion learned to channel lightning.
I turn on the shower, cringing at the groaning pipes sputtering out brown water.
As I’m picturing how on earth I plan on getting clean on drinking water, it eventually runs clear.
A line of bottles, identical except for their labels, sits in a shower niche, along with a razor and a fresh washcloth.
I peel off my damp clothes, my fingers shaking from more than just cold.
Now that I’m alone, the adrenaline crash hits me like a fist.
Tremors wrack my frame as I grip the edge of the bathtub.
I’m safe. Safe from my shitty old family.
Safe from Gil’s bosses. Safe from the FBI.
I step under the spray and let it pound against my neck and shoulders until my skin throbs.
I scrub harder than needed, trying to wash away the last week and everything that led me here to this creepy old manor on a Godforsaken island.
Lavender fills my nostrils, relaxing my muscles. I finally allow my shoulders to sag.
“Thank God,” I say in a breathy exhale. I really got away with murder.
A creak fills the air, making me freeze. Was that just settling? Or footsteps? I hold my breath, listening to water hitting porcelain in sync with my racing pulse.
It could be pipes. Or someone lurking. In a creepy old house like this, it’s hard to tell the difference. But I sure as hell can’t afford to get it wrong.
The spray turns to ice, making my stomach lurch. With a scream, I leap out and grab a threadbare towel. My pulse hammers so hard I think it’ll burst.
What the hell was that?
I turn off the faucet before anything else goes wrong, wrap myself in the towel like it’s a safety blanket, and hurry back to the bedroom. I wrestle my way into the nightgown, which pulls tight across my chest. My lungs constrict. Tomorrow, I’ll ask for a larger size.
After folding my old clothes and shoving them back in the duffel bag, I turn off the main light and slide into bed. The mattress is unexpectedly soft, a vast improvement from Gil’s waterbed. And the sheets smell like lavender and fresh starch. I settle into the pillows, letting my body melt.
My eyes flutter shut, and the permanent knot in my stomach loosens. I’ve made it. No one will think of finding me on this remote island, let alone this old estate.
But as I reach for the lamp, the balcony door slams.
I bolt upright. Did I forget to lock it?
Sighing, I pad across the wooden floor. Wind blows in through the gaping door, making me think of Lucy from the Dracula movie who was turned into a vampire through an open window.
I grab the door, only to see a figure outside in the garden.
It’s a man.
He remains perfectly still on the lawn, head tilted up toward where I’m standing. Even from up here on the balcony, I can see he’s wearing a mask. Is that the chauffeur? Why the hell is he just lingering there in the dark?
I place a hand over my heart, and he copies the movement. My breath quickens. I drop my hand. He does the same. The pulse between my legs comes to life.
Is he… mirroring me?
No. Whatever he’s doing is none of my damn business. And it’s not like I have a mask kink. That was Gil’s thing. Not mine.
But then he raises a gloved hand and beckons.
Panic bursts across my chest. I scramble back, the nightgown gaping open at the front. When I steal another glance, he’s still there. Watching. Waiting. For me?
Fear and arousal twist together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I pull the balcony doors shut, turn the lock, and check it twice. Once I’m sure it’s secure, I yank the curtains closed, blocking out the moon, the gardens, and the creep. With a shiver, I rush back to bed and pull the covers over my head.
My door is locked. The balcony is shut. He’s irrelevant.
That’s what I tell myself over and over until the words blur into nothing. Until memories of men, manipulation, and murder melt toward oblivion. Until footsteps echo in the hallway outside my door.
Heavy. Slow. Deliberate, they pause outside my room. I swear there’s someone breathing on the other side of the wood.
My pulse kicks up several notches, and I try not to think about the masked man. Or the way he called me down. “Please let it be Mrs. Fairfax,” I whisper like a prayer.
But the footsteps sound masculine. And whoever’s out there is panting like the Hound of the fucking Baskervilles. I ball my hands into fists. The door is locked. Even if he has a skeleton key, he won’t get it in.
After what feels like an eternity, the footsteps fade down the hallway.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pull the covers over my head, and tell myself I’m safe.
Goddammit. I have to believe it.
Because if I don’t, I’m trapped in a deserted mansion on an island with nowhere left to run.