Chapter Twenty-One
Lilac
I’m perched on the tufted sofa with wooden frames in our room, with a bowl of buttery popcorn, stuffing my face and watching an old rerun of Girlfriends.
The last few days, I’ve felt like I’m going out of my mind.
Irvin left to go on his assignment. The mansion has been peacefully quiet.
I’m reduced to doing my classes online, which I hate.
I miss the campus and the classes. I miss the café and the library.
Irvin also hired security, so men patrol and guard the front and back doors.
God, he gets on my fucking nerves. The mansion feels empty without him, though.
The dull ache in my chest never goes away.
My plan isn’t working. I’ve failed at manipulating Irvin into letting me go.
In fact, he’s tightened the invisible leash on me.
I’m mentally exhausted from fighting him.
My hope of escaping is dying slowly. I sigh out loud.
Heat floods my ears. What am I going to do? He’s not someone I can reason with.
My phone buzzes with a notification. I pick it up and read the message from the group chat. Lyrical is hosting a kickback at her farmhouse. I shoot her a message.
Me: I’m sorry, I can’t make it.
I can’t let her know what’s going on. She can’t do anything to help me. Snow hates Irvin with a passion, and I doubt he’d help me get out of this sticky situation.
I stuff a handful of popcorn into my mouth, realizing that I need salt and pepper, so I stroll to the dark pantry in the kitchen. I sprinkle some on the warm popcorn, then make my way back to the bedroom.
A cool draft from the floor-to-ceiling window tickles my skin. I crinkle my nose. Who opened the window?
My eyes widen. My hands are clammy. I warily peek out of the window. The dark clouds hover over the charcoal sea, and the naked limbs on the oak trees sway in the wind. An owl screeches. An animal howls in the distance.
The air is icy—thicker, as if someone has been standing here. Exhaling, I shut the window, turn around, and scan the bedroom—nothing is out of place.
The king-size bed sits in the middle of the room like a throne. The walls are painted dark purple and black. I search the walnut dresser and the walk-in closet. Nothing is amiss. I scan the bathroom and yank the curtains from the shower.
My heart rate slows, and my shoulders relax. I yank my scrunchie off, wrap it around my wrist, and slowly run my fingers through my silky hair. I’m freaking myself out. Then I laugh out loud, looking at myself in the mirror.
“Get it together, Lilac,” I murmur.
I stroll back to the bedroom. An object glints in the moonlight, sitting on my white pillow. My heart beats like a drum. Slowly, I amble up to it, furrowing my brow.
Is it what I think it is?
I pick it up and examine it. I gave this locket to Emerson, and I read the engraved words around the heart: I will love you always and forever. Your little sapphire, Paige.
The locket feels like it weighs a ton in my hand. I drop it on the floor.
Nausea settles in my stomach. My hands shake like leaves. My knees buckle.
How did it get in here? Am I going crazy? I chew the inside of my cheek.
What the fuck is it doing here? He was wearing it on the day of his execution.
I freeze in place. My feet feel like cinder blocks. My hands tremble. Everything else—the walls, the moonlight, the dresser—blurs together. I can’t breathe. My mind can’t make sense of it. Emerson is dead. He is dead. Yet here it is, in my hand. My world is destroyed.
This was buried with him at the funeral. I didn’t go, but my friend Ambrose sent me a picture of it.
I snag my phone from the nightstand, Google the news clippings of Emerson’s death, and stare at the picture of him in the casket.
It’s the exact same locket.
I scan the place, hit every light in the mansion. I rush to Irvin’s nightstand and snatch his gun frantically.
Someone is playing tricks on me. This mansion is eerily quiet. Too quiet. It reminds me too much of the night my parents were killed—the silence after the gunshots went off, the dread of seeing their bloody corpses.
“He’s back,” I shriek.
But that can’t be.
Then how do I explain the locket?
I place the gun back into the nightstand, lock every window in the mansion, and dash to the front door. One of the security guards leans against the cobblestone wall.
“Did you see anyone on the property?” I demand.
He shakes his head. “No, Mrs. Ashford.”
My heart thumps hard. I don’t believe him.
“Are you sure?”
Nodding, he eyes me warily. “You’re not allowed to have visitors.”
I yank the ends of my hair. “Can you check the camera, please?”
Sighing, he grabs his phone and shows me the footage of the front entrance and the backyard.
This isn’t adding up. Someone is on this property. They have to be.
“Check the footage from my window?”
He cocks his eyebrow.
I dig my nails into my palms until it aches. “I’m sure Irvin placed cameras by the windows.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”
I scan the footage, but there isn’t any sign of anyone breaking in.
This is strange. So strange.
I want to mention the locket to the guard, but he’ll tell Irvin. I don’t want him to find out about my past.
I slam the door, rush back to the living room, wrap my colorful blanket around me, and lie on the couch. My breath is shallow, and my pulse races. I toss and turn as I clutch the locket in my shaky hand.
I scan the expensive paintings on the walls and the entertainment center to see if anything is out of place.
What about the balcony door? Did I check that?
I rush to the glass doors and peek outside. I open the door, step onto the wooden floor, and lean against the rail. A guy in a hoodie perches next to an oak tree.
I blink hard. My heart feels as if it’s about to explode. I fumble with my phone, turn on the flashlight, and aim it at the figure—but no one is there. Sighing in relief, I rush back in and lock the doors.
Should I tell Irvin?
No, I shouldn’t. Because Emerson is not here.
Someone is playing mind tricks on me.
They know who I am.
I know it’s not Irvin. He might be mean, but he’s not cruel enough to do that to me—to use my past against me—and he doesn’t know I have a secret identity.
What about the serial killer on campus? They haven’t caught the killer, as far as I know. I could be their next target. Maybe the killer is finding dirt on everyone and using it to kill them.
I check the locks again, then purposely move things out of place to see if someone will move them back.
I tap the screen on my phone, click on the Google browser, and type Emerson Vale. Different articles pop up. I read each one saying the same thing—his execution, my face when I wore my natural sandy-brown hair, my parents’ faces.
My head starts to hurt. I get this image of him standing by a tree on campus, staring at me.
Maybe he got out somehow.
I slap my palm on my forehead and yank my hair until my scalp stings.
No. That’s crazy. I saw the bastard die.
I cut the TV off and sit in complete silence.
And I hear it:
My little sapphire. My little sapphire. My little sapphire.
I sit up and look around, and no one is here.
Emerson used to call me that when we were teenagers.
I toss the necklace into the garbage disposal, crushing it.
Grrnnk. Grrnnk. Grrnnk. The sound vibrates under my fingertips on the counter.
It burns my ears. That isn’t enough. I cut the machine off, remove the bent locket, and run to the fireplace.
I light the electric fireplace, then toss it into the deep crimson flames.
The locket warps at the edges of the fire.
The metal heats unevenly. A faint metallic scent lingers in the air. Smoke hisses and pops.
I check the doors and windows again to make sure they’re locked.
I fumble with my phone and debate whether to call my old friend, Ambrose. He’s the only one who knows I faked my death. I dial his number, and it rings three times before he answers.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.” My tone is shaking.
“Pai—”
My heart bangs against my rib cage. “Please don’t call me that, Ambrose.”
I hear him fumbling, then he tells whoever he’s in bed with that he has to step outside. A door shuts.
“What do you need, babe? Is everything okay?”
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and I shake my head as if he can see me. “No.” I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. “Is there a way someone could track my old identity?”
“No, my father destroyed everything.”
I burst into tears. “The locket I gave Emerson magically popped up on my pillow.”
He’s quiet for several seconds.
“Are you sure you di—”
“I’m sure I didn’t take it with me. Everything he owned, I got rid of. Even the gifts I gave him.”
He invites me to a video call, and I answer. He looks the same but older, with copper hair in a bun and a full beard. His golden chest is smooth.
“That is strange,” he says, “but we watched him die, Pa—Lilac. He’s not alive.”
“But what if he is?”
He loosens his man bun, and his hair falls over his shoulders.
“He’s not. I was there when he was executed and when he was buried.”
My skin tingles. “So you think I’m going crazy?”
“No, Lilac. I don’t. I think you just need to get some sleep and see a psychologist.”
What was the point of this call? I thought I could count on him for help, but I was wrong. I should’ve known he wouldn’t believe me. But I can’t blame him because it does sound crazy.
I exhale sharply through my teeth. “I’ll talk to you later, Ambrose.”
I tap the red button.
Maybe he’s a ghost haunting me. I shake my head. There’s no such thing as ghosts.
I need to shut my mind off and sleep, so I walk to the en suite bathroom, grab my sleeping pills, then stride to the kitchen. I pour myself a tall glass of wine, shove a white pill into my mouth with the fruity liquid, then walk to the living room. I lie in the chair in front of the lit fireplace.
Darkness overtakes me.