Page 4

She looks nothing like the young girl who fled this house, nor the strong, confident, put-together woman I was only a few months ago. All that bright vibrancy my eyes and pale blond hair used to hold has disappeared, stripped away by everything life has thrown at me lately.

And now, it has thrown me back here.

I draw in a steadying breath and turn to face the Manor.

Each step I take through the darkness enveloping the halls tightens that coil of unease and dread wrapped around my spine.

There was always someone here when I was growing up.

Father rarely left his office at the rear of the house overlooking the water, choosing to work from there rather than maintain an office in the city like most people with homes here. And even if he was out at a meeting or dinner schmoozing someone important, one of the staff was always around, working in the kitchen or endlessly cleaning the dozens of rooms that needed constant attention to avoid a layer of dust accumulating on everything.

The old man has only been dead for a few days, and already, it has begun to build up on the tables, vases, and edges of picture frames.

Eliza would lose her shit if she saw the place like this…

She always ran a tight ship, ensuring the household and all the employees within it were operating like a well-oiled machine.

The mere thought of the woman who was more like a mother than the woman who gave birth to me makes tears burn in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but all it does is make them fall down my cheeks and unleashes the deluge I’ve been holding back the entire drive.

Longer than that…

If I were being honest with myself, this breakdown has been coming for far longer. But I haven’t been in a long time. I can’t be.

It would mean admitting everything has fallen apart, that my life has crumbled, and I’ve had to run back to the one place I swore I’d never return.

But now that I’m here, there isn’t any more pretending things are fine.

I wander the halls and rooms downstairs, weaving through the opulent furniture in the sitting room, past the grand fireplace that still holds the portrait of Grandfather proudly above it, then through the deserted dining room. The long table stands empty now, clear of the massive feasts and priceless bone China and silverware that typically decorated its length.

Memories of countless dinner parties I was forced to endure here flicker through my head. The booms of laughter from Father’s friends who’d had far too much to drink before we even sat down. The flighty giggles from their much younger wives who knew how to play their roles. The looks of pity tossed my way by the staff as they bustled in and out, serving the table without recognition.

God knows I won’t ever use this…

I trail my finger through the faint dust, writing the words I was never able to say to him when he was alive:

FUCK YOU.

It’s cathartic and not nearly enough at the same time.

But knowing the man is probably burning in Hell right now helps dry my tears.

I push through the swinging door to the kitchen to find it as pristine as it was always kept, and I can’t help but smile through my tears, picturing Eliza doing one final cleaning in here before she left.

As great as it would have been to see a familiar, friendly face when I arrived, I understood her need to leave. When Father died, I wasn’t sure I would come back. If things had gone differently, I would have sold this old place and run off with the dough to start a new life.

But I had no choice but to come back.

And not just to close out the estate paperwork with Father’s lawyer.

Because this is the one place no one can reach me.

The one place I’m safe…behind these prison walls.

I stroll back into the foyer and grasp the railing, staring at the darkened winding staircases. A smile tugs at my lips remembering sliding down the highly polished wood, but it instantly vanishes at the echo of Father’s furious scream when he witnessed it.

My grip tightens as I shake off the memory and step up. The second tread creaks under my foot—just as it always has—and I move past it, watching above me, half expecting him to appear like an apparition at the landing, waiting to tear into me for some perceived transgression.

A flash of movement in the shadows above causes me to stagger, my foot slipping as I topple forward, only my hold on the railing keeping me from faceplanting on the Persian rug runner.