Chapter 44
FORTY-FOUR
I stand behind the front door, my pulse hammering loud enough to muffle the racket. Morrison continues knocking as if the house is on fire, and I race through what the hell I’m supposed to say.
If I act too nervous, he’ll know I’m hiding something. Too calm, and I’ll look suspicious. I need to play the part of the confused servant who knows nothing about her employer’s business. Just the help. Just another girl who cleans floors and minds her business.
But what on earth does Morrison know about Blanche’s death?
“Rochester! I’m not leaving until we talk!”
More pounding echoes through the wood, making me flinch. Each blow sounds like it might splinter the frame.
Hands trembling, I glance over my shoulder. I can’t let him see Rowland. Not just because everyone thinks he’s dead. The last thing I want him to think is that I’m hiding a dubious character. But I can’t delay. He’ll break down the door or call for backup.
“Hello?” I say, my voice trembling.
“Open this fucking door.”
“A-all right.”
I smooth down my dress. Remind myself to think like a servant who’s worried about her job and terrified of authority. That’s who Annalisa Burlington is supposed to be.
With a sharp inhale, I turn the lock.
Morrison barrels inside before I can even get the door open. He’s bigger than I remember—shoulders like a bouncer, neck like a tree trunk, and cheeks mottled with fury. And the way he stares down at me like a suspect makes him all the more menacing.
“Where’s your boss?” he demands, his gaze scanning the foyer like he’s cataloging every detail.
“Mr. Rochester hasn’t yet returned,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Answer my question,” he says, his gaze snapping back to me.
“I don’t know where he went. He doesn’t tell me his movements. I just keep the house running while he’s away.”
Morrison’s eyes narrow. “Why are you so banged up?”
My stomach lurches. There wasn’t time to get changed. I shift on my feet, trying to drum up the most plausible lie. “I had an accident.”
His gaze sweeps up and down my ragged form, taking in the bruises on my neck, my torn dress, the blood and cuts and dirt. “What kind of accident?”
“There was a fire in one of the outbuildings,” I rasp. “I tried to put it out before it spread, but I fell and got scraped up. Should’ve called for help, but I couldn’t find my phone.”
Seconds pass, and he continues glaring down at me like he’s trying to decipher my bullshit. One wrong glance and he’ll tear the lie apart. I hold my face steady, but my heart slams hard enough to wake the dead.
Eventually, he curls his lip. I can’t tell if he can imagine me bumbling through a fire or if he no longer gives a damn. “When did you last see your boss?”
My throat dries, but I stick to my original story. “The morning he and his new bride left for their honeymoon.”
“Bullshit.” He strides past me toward the back of the house like he owns the place.
I follow him, wringing my hands. “Is everything alright? Has something happened to Mr. Rochester?”
Ignoring me, he strides into the study, walks over the papers strewn across the floor, and sits on the edge of the mahogany desk. “Call him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Call Rochester. Tell him Detective Morrison needs to speak with him about his wife.”
My throat tightens. My breath turns shallow. “I don’t have his number. Mrs. Fairfax handles all the contact information, and she’s away on the mainland.”
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the tick of the grandfather clock. Morrison watches me with the cold calculation of a predator sizing up a target. Every hackle on the back of my neck rises, and I pray to whoever’s listening he doesn’t scrutinize me too closely.
“You know what I think?” Morrison says, his voice low and menacing.
“What?” I rasp.
“You’re covering for that bastard.” He shifts off the edge of the desk and steps toward me, his glower forcing me to skitter backward.
I shake my head, not wanting to say anything incriminating.
“Stupid of you to protect a sicko who’ll run you around in circles before putting you in the ground.” He stands so close, I breathe in his coffee-scented breath. “Because you’ll end up just like the others.”
My back hits the wall. “What others?”
“Other girls worked here before you. Pretty little things, looking for work, thinking they’d landed a dream job with a rich gentleman.” His gaze drops to my cleavage.
Nausea surges in my gut. He knows. Knows Edward Rochester is a serial killer. Knows he murdered Blanche.
“What happened to them?” I ask.
“They disappeared.” He shrugs as if he’s talking about misfiled paperwork. “Vanished like smoke.”
I flinch at the matter-of-fact way he tells me about Rochester’s murders.
The contemptuous tone an officer of the law would use to identify me as his next victim makes my back stiffen.
Even more disturbing is this entire situation.
He isn’t here to arrest a serial killer.
He came alone because... Oh, shit. Because—
“You’ve been helping him.” The words slip out before I can stop myself.
Morrison grins, showing molars in serious need of dental work. “Smart girl.”
The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. Why nobody ever arrested Rochester. Why he thought he could get away with murdering Blanche. Because Morrison helped him cover up the disappearances. Made sure no one looked too hard for missing servants. Took payoffs to keep his secrets buried.
“How many?” I rasp.
“Does it matter? They were nobodies. Runaways, orphans, women with no familial ties. But I’ll give him one thing. Rochester has fantastic taste.” Morrison grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh.
I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. “Let go of me!”
His hot breath fans against my ear. “Relax. This’ll be quick. Much better than what Rochester’s planned for you anyway.”
I glance around, my mind scrambling for a weapon. The brass letter opener on the desk. A glass paperweight. My knee. If it comes to it, my fucking teeth. I suck in air, ready to scream loud enough to wake the dead.
But before I can move, the door slams open and Rowland charges inside. He hits Morrison like a freight train, his fist connecting with the cop’s jaw. The impact sends Morrison staggering backward, blood spurting from his mouth in a crimson arc.
“Nobody touches what’s mine!” Rowland roars, his face twisted with animalistic rage.
Morrison hits the wall and lunges for the gun at his hip. His fingers close around the grip, but Rowland slams into the cop’s midsection, driving them both into Rochester’s desk. The heavy furniture overturns, sending out a spray of papers and pens.
“You fucking psycho!” Morrison yells, holding the pistol.
Rowland grabs Morrison’s wrist, slamming the weapon against the desk edge until it goes flying. It skitters across the hardwood floor and spins under a bookshelf. The fight continues, with Rowland pounding the other man with his fists, and Morrison reaching for his beard.
I look from side to side for a heavy object to smash over the cop’s head, but they both move too quickly for me to assist. Morrison is bigger, but he’s slow while Rowland lunges with a desperation bordering on feral.
They crash into the bookshelf, sending leather-bound volumes tumbling to the floor in clouds of dust.
Morrison gets his hands around Rowland’s throat, squeezing hard enough to make his veins bulge. Face darkening, Rowland drives his elbow into Morrison’s solar plexus. The cop lurches backward with a gasp, and Rowland breaks free.
Then Rowland grabs a fallen lamp and wraps its extension cord around Morrison’s neck.
The cop’s eyes bulge. He claws at the cable with one hand, making awful choking sounds that turn my stomach. With the other, he reaches for Rowland’s face, only for him to jerk back. I raise my hands to my throat, my pulse pounding so hard its reverberations reach between my legs.
I’m not getting turned on by the sight of a man garroting another for my protection. Despite this, something in my heart flutters. Rowland is choking out a cop for me. Morrison’s face turns red, then purple as his legs kick frantically against the desk.
“Please,” Morrison wheezes, but Rowland’s grip only tightens.
“Annalisa belongs to me,” he growls, every word serrated like blades.
I pant through parted lips. I should be horrified, but my heart thrums with something darker. Somewhere in the madness, I feel safe. But this is beyond twisted. I press my hands to my ears, but nothing can block out the gurgling. Or the desperate scrabbling of a man dying because he hurt me.
Morrison’s death throes grow weaker. More desperate.
His kicks fade into feeble twitches. He turns to me, his lips moving as if to deliver a final curse.
But I turn around. Can’t bring myself to look.
Can’t face that bone-deep sense of satisfaction of finally having a man who fulfills his promises.
Instead, I stare at the wall, counting my breaths, trying not to think about what’s next.
I wait for the nausea, the terror, the guilt, but I feel nothing.
Morrison is just another corrupt cop, like Callahan.
Both men were violent. Both tried to use me as a pawn.
Both died because they couldn’t stay on the right side of the law.
I feel nothing, save for the slow, sinking weight of the fact that Rowland kept his promise.
He said he’d protect me.
And he did.
Moments later, strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, pulling me against a chest that rises and falls hard with exertion. I inhale Rowland’s familiar scent beneath the sweat and blood—salt and cedar and something uniquely him that makes me feel safe even in the middle of carnage.
“He’s dead, Annalisa,” Rowland says, his voice rough from the fight. “That bastard will never be able to touch you again.”
I turn in his arms and bury my face in his shirt, my entire body shaking. “What are we going to do now?”
He strokes my hair, his touch heartbreakingly gentle. He just killed a man… for me.
“You understand why I did it?” he asks.
I swallow hard, my mind already spinning through the consequences. Another dead cop. Another potential manhunt. Another reason to run.
“He would have hurt you,” Rowland says, drawing back to cup my face. “That man helped Edward cover up his murders and would have done the same to you. I couldn’t let that happen. You’re mine to protect, and I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”
His possessive words should be terrifying. Any sane woman would turn tail. But what Rowland just did for me is the closest thing I’ve ever felt to love. I lean into his embrace, taking comfort from his protection, his strength, until the panic subsides, giving space to reality.
Rowland just killed a cop. We’ll both be hunted. Even if we can prove it’s self-defense, that still puts the spotlight on me for my past. I pull back to look at Morrison’s body sprawled face-down across the study floor.
“His colleagues will come looking for him,” I whisper.
Rowland follows my gaze to the dead cop. “I’ll put him with the others. But first, we need to check if Edward’s underground. If he managed to escape the fire, he’ll be trapped in the passageway between the cottage and the basement.”
My blood chills at the reminder of Rochester being alive. That bastard threatened to put me in a prison I could never escape. If he finds out we’ve killed a cop, he’ll use it as a weapon in his arsenal of psychological torture.
I meet Rowland’s dark eyes. Eyes that shine with love and concern. Gathering my courage, I raise my chin. “Then let’s finish this. I’m tired of running.”
Rowland nods. “Stay close. If Edward’s down there, he’ll be desperate. And desperate men are the most dangerous kind.”