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She was forced into a mold, just like me. Only hers was gilded and admired. Mine was locked away and hidden. Her death was a warning to break free.
It’s becoming easier to picture years passing here. Books added to these shelves. Pieces of myself mixed among Vanessa’s things instead of replacing them.
A floorboard creaks outside the door.
I lift my head from the book, my pulse spiking. The cold in the room bites a bit harder.
“Edwin?”
No answer.
I set Dracula on the end table next to the chair and get up to see who it is. When I open the door, the hallway is empty, but the sound continues.
Curiosity pulls me after it. Or that old instinct to track danger. I survived by anticipating the next strike, and just because I’m in this house now doesn’t mean the danger is gone.
I move down the corridor, following someone I can’t see. The sound leads me to the entryway of the house.
By the time I reach the foyer, Edwin catches sight of me from the parlor. As soon as I step in front of the door, someone knocks on the other side.
The sharp crack makes me jump, my hand flying to my chest.
Wallace appears from the adjacent hall, dressed for company like he was expecting this. He opens the door without hesitation.
A man stands on the threshold in a lightweight button-up shirt and slacks, briefcase in hand. Thick humidity rolls in behind him along with the hum of cicadas.
“Dr. Madsen, come in,” Wallace says, polite but clipped. “What couldn’t be discussed over the phone?”
The doctor steps inside. “I apologize for the house call.” His voice is steady and professional. He keeps his eyes on Wallace, unfazed by the opulence surrounding him. “But I thought it best to give the news in person.”
I linger near the edge of the foyer, uncertain whether I belong in this conversation or should disappear from it. It tends to be better if I go unnoticed.
Edwin comes up behind me so silently that I feel him before I see him. His hand finds mine and laces our fingers together.
“I can leave,” I tell him.
His thumb grazes my knuckles. “Stay. You’re part of this family now.”
My vision blurs, and I lower my head to blink away tears. For years I trained myself not to want things. It was easier than carrying the disappointment of never receiving them. Easier than admitting that every story I ever loved contained the same impossible dream hidden beneath the romance and adventure. Family.
Standing here, in the mouth of this great manor, holding Edwin’s hand, I feel the ache of it all at once.
What I found was a family of men with power in their broken hearts. A home in need of healing, just like me.
We move into the parlor off the foyer. The room is formal with heavy furniture meant to entertain guests, but nothing feels particularly lived in. We take our seats while Dr. Madsen opens his briefcase and removes a folder.
“I received Harold’s preliminary toxicology reports,” he says.
Wallace’s posture tightens. “And? He wasn’t on any drugs.”
“Nothing like that,” Dr. Madsen replies. “But Harold’s blood had extremely high levels of tetrahydrozoline, which was likely the cause of his symptoms.”
Edwin’s head lifts, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a chemical found in eye drops and nasal sprays, but it becomes toxic when ingested.”
Wallace’s mouth tightens. “Surely he didn’t ingest it intentionally.”
My thoughts scatter, trying to make sense of what I’m hearing. I picture Harold through the stories I’ve been told. A man who never recovered after losing his wife. A man who retreated to his bed and remained there while the world continued without him. I wonder, in a fleeting guilty thought, if heartbreak could make him choose poison just to stop waking up alone.
