Chapter 4
The front doors are twice my height, dark wood with iron hinges. A woman stands in the doorway, back straight, hands folded. She's somewhere past sixty, silver hair pulled into a knot so tight it looks painful. Her uniform is gray. Her smile is missing.
"Mrs. Blackwood,"
she says.
"I'm Mrs. Hale. I manage the household."
"I'm not--"
I stop. Rule Two.
"Thank you."
Mrs. Hale's eyes drop to my ring. Then to my face. She doesn't blink.
"Your rooms are ready. Follow me."
Adrian has already disappeared. One minute he was beside me in the SUV, the next he was gone, swallowed by the house. I want to run after him. I want to demand answers. But the doors close behind me, and the sound echoes through a marble hall the size of my old apartment.
The house is cold. Not temperature. Something else. The ceilings are too high. The portraits on the walls are too old. Every footstep multiplies, like there's a second person walking just behind me.
Mrs. Hale leads me up a staircase wide enough for a car. At the top, a corridor stretches left and right, lined with doors.
"The east wing is closed,"
she says.
"Do not go there."
"Why?"
"It's closed."
She doesn't elaborate. She stops at a door at the end of the west corridor and opens it.
The room is beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bed with silk sheets. A fireplace already lit. Roses on the nightstand, blood-red and too perfect.
It's also a cage.
I see the cameras first. Small black domes in the corners. One above the bed. One above the door. One inside the bathroom, angled at the mirror.
"There are cameras,"
I say.
"For your safety."
"In the bathroom?"
Mrs. Hale's expression doesn't change.
"The estate has many enemies, Mrs. Blackwood. Mr. Blackwood insists on full security."
Mr. Blackwood. Which one? Elias? Adrian? Both?
She walks to the closet and opens it. Dresses. Dozens of them. Black, gray, deep green. All my size. I haven't told anyone my size.
"These were prepared for you,"
she says.
"By who?"
"The family."
I step closer. The dresses are expensive. Tailored. The kind of clothes I've only ever seen in magazines. I reach out and touch one sleeve. Silk. Cold.
Then I see it.
At the back of the closet, behind the others, hangs a dress that doesn't match. Dark blue. Simple. Familiar.
I know that dress.
Celeste wore it the last time I saw her. Three years ago. She came to my apartment, hugged me too long, and said,
"If I don't come back, don't look for me."
I told her she was being dramatic.
She wasn't.
I pull the dress off the hanger. My hands are shaking. The fabric is worn at the collar. There's a small stain near the hem. Coffee. Celeste always spilled coffee.
Inside the collar, a tag.
Celeste Voss.
I turn to Mrs. Hale.
"Why is this here?"
Mrs. Hale looks at the dress. For the first time, something flickers in her eyes. Fear? Pity?
"That room belonged to her,"
she says quietly.
"What room?"
"This one."
The floor tilts. I grab the closet door.
"Celeste lived here?"
"She was a guest."
"For how long?"
Mrs. Hale doesn't answer. She walks to the door.
"Dinner is at seven. Mr. Blackwood expects you."
"Which Mr. Blackwood?"
She pauses.
"Both."
She leaves. The door clicks shut. I hear a lock turn. From the outside.
I'm alone.
Both Blackwood men expect me at dinner. One of them is supposed to be dead.