Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Instead, it's a grilled cheese sandwich.
Golden brown, perfectly toasted, with tomato soup on the side. The kind of meal you eat when you're sick, or sad, or overwhelmed. The meal I used to make for myself in my tiny Providence apartment after particularly brutal days at work.
I stare at it.
"How did you—"
I look up, but Devyn is already at the door, one hand on the frame, his back to me.
"Eat," he says. "Then you can continue your investigation."
And then he's gone.
I sit there for a long moment, turning the question over in my mind. How did he know? Why did he care?
Then I pick up the sandwich and take a bite.
Oh.
It's perfect. Crispy bread, buttery and golden. Cheese that stretches when I pull it apart. The kind of grilled cheese that takes patience to make, low heat and careful attention.
I hate that it's perfect.
I eat every bite anyway.
I'M ALMOST STARTING to feel like I have actual freedom when I turn a corner and nearly collide with a wall of charcoal suit and warm skin.
Oh no. Not again.
Devyn's hand shoots out before I can stumble backward, his fingers wrapping around my elbow with a grip that's firm but not painful. The contact sends a jolt through me. Like the air before a thunderstorm. Like something waiting to happen.
"You need to watch where you're going." His voice is low. Close. Close enough that I can smell cedar and smoke and something underneath that's just him.
I look up.
He's right there. Inches away. Close enough that I can see the individual striations of gold and amber in his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils have gone just slightly wider than they should be.
Close enough that I can count his eyelashes if I wanted to.
Which I absolutely do not want to do.
That would be completely inappropriate.
I'm counting his eyelashes.
Stop it, Bailey.
"Maybe you need to stop appearing around corners," I manage, and I'm proud of how steady my voice comes out.
He doesn't smile. But something changes around his eyes. That barely-there crinkling at the corners. The almost-smile that hits so hard precisely because of its rarity.
"It's my house," he says. "I can appear wherever I like."
"How convenient for you."
He's still holding my elbow. Neither of us moves.
One second.
Two.
His gaze starts to drop. I see it happening, see the way his eyes begin their familiar journey toward my mouth. And then he catches himself. Stops. Holds my gaze with something that looks almost like effort.
He wanted to look.
He didn't look.
I notice the absence like I notice the presence. I'm keeping track of both now.
What is wrong with me?
Then he releases my arm and continues down the hallway like nothing happened. I watch him go, heart pounding, trying to remember what I was doing before my entire world narrowed down to golden eyes and warm fingers.
Right. Investigating.
Focus, Bailey.
THE CHAPEL IN DAYLIGHT is different from my memory of it. Less ominous, more beautiful. Afternoon sun pours through the stained glass windows, casting patterns of color across the stone floor. Ruby and sapphire and emerald, shifting slowly as the light moves.
I stand in the spot where I woke up, trying to see what I saw that day. The woman in black. Abigail. Rain-colored eyes wild with terror, mascara running down her cheeks. He's gone insane—you should hide too.
She disappeared through a wall that shouldn't have had a door.
And I never told.
I walk toward the back corner, toward the wall that looked solid but wasn't. In daylight, I can see it: a seam in the stone that's almost invisible unless you know where to look. I press my hand against the cool surface, push...
And the wall gives way, swinging inward to reveal a narrow passage beyond.
No light inside. Just darkness.
I glance back at my guards. The younger one takes a step forward.
"Just looking," I call out. "I'm not going far."
I slip into the darkness before he can change his mind.
The passage is cold, narrow, the walls rough stone. I use my phone as a flashlight, the pale beam cutting through the dark.
Twenty feet in, my light catches something.
A stone in the wall, slightly askew. Like someone moved it recently and didn't quite put it back the same way.
My heart beats faster.
I reach out, wiggle the stone. It shifts. Comes loose.
Behind it is a small hollow. And inside that hollow, tucked away like a secret someone was desperate to keep...
A journal.
Small, leather-bound. The cover is soft under my fingers, worn smooth by handling.
I open the front cover.
This journal belongs to Abigail Briones.
My hands begin to shake.
I TAKE THE JOURNAL back to my room because I need light and privacy to understand what I've found.
I curl up on the bed and open to the first page.
The early entries are almost entirely about her father. What he expects. What he wants. How to please him. She writes about him the way someone writes about an impossible exam—always studying, never passing.