Page 122 of Petrify

Defeat sags her shoulders. I let myself watch her cry as the heat from the flames inches closer. The snakes skate across my boots.

“The fire will eat all the oxygen in the room.” Already sweat beads at my forehead. “You can let the smoke choke you, or youcan kick the stool. Choice is yours. Though, the snakes might not wait for you to choose.”

Marianne says she’s sorry one more time.

It’d be pathetic if it wasn’t so…poetic.

How many times did I cry, only for it to go unheard? How many times did I bang on the walls and beg to be let out? How many times didIhave to say I was sorry before I realized no one was listening?

Only when I put the scene behind me, letting the heavy doors of the ballroom slam shut, do I hear one final, shrill scream within. Maybe it’s my name, I don’t know. I’m not listening.

The rest of the house is empty. Every staff member sent away, every resident dead or running. The front doors are wide open, snowflakes drifting in, so that the floor of the foyer is covered in a dusting of white.

It will take a while for the fire to truly catch. I wouldn’t put it past Maxim to send an anonymous tip to the authorities, especially once the smoke is visible from the sky.

The deed is done. I stand on the front step, looking out at the estate, at the long winding drive that leads to the gate somewhere in those woods down the hill. Tire marks litter the snow, more debris from the party scattered about. I have to give it to Desmond, he cleared the house fast. It’s as though they all fled from some great disaster, dropping everything where they stood and running. When half the party is drunk on substances heightening their paranoia, the other half nearly knocked unconscious by the drugs, their drivers made quick work of fleeing the estate, if only to keep their masters from making fools of themselves.

It’s quiet. The snowflakes whisper as they touch the ground. The chill seeps into my skin. I don’t remember the last time I could see my breath fog in front of me. It’s so quiet my ears ring, a long droning sound, a discordant funeral peal.

And Mallary is nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 53

The Pianist

Three Months Later

The skyline winksthrough the windows as the apartment’s door falls shut behind me, the city’s lights guiding my way into the otherwise pitch-dark hall. I enter to silence, to a sea of shadows, and if I weren’t so exhausted from the hours of traveling, my unease would have me turning on every light switch. I don’t like the dark. After dropping Henri off at his new school, I want nothing more than to collapse into bed and not open my eyes again until noon.

I let go of my bags in the front entry before keying in the alarm code. The building comes with its own security, but I had them wire in a system. Just in case.

The echoes of traffic below are loud enough to be heard through the glass of the windows, even as high up as the apartment is—penthouse suite, paid in full for two years. More glamorous than anything I’ve ever even dared to step foot into. When I officially became Henri’s guardian, I wanted to make sure he is safe, and as comfortable as money can buy.

None of the money is mine, of course. Most of it is in a trust fund, but the monthly allowances we receive is enough to pay for a lifestyle I could only ever dream of maintaining. A lifestyle Henri wasusedto. The process to become his guardianwas surprisingly quick—his only other living relatives were an uncle in prison on his father’s side, and his grandparents on his mother’s side. Henri refused them, and chose me.

He helped me pick out the apartment. Those first few nights we watched movies and made pillow forts in the living room, ate so much candy until we felt sick, giggled with delirium until the sun came up.

It’s quiet without him here. Too quiet.

I told him I’d visit every weekend, even though he assured me he’d be fine. Hewantedto go to boarding school. I don’t blame him—for wanting to feel some version of normal after everything.

Kicking off my shoes and leaving them in the entryway, I shuck off my coat, shake off the little bit of rain in my hair.

The thermostat says it is only half past ten, but I feel like I’ve been awake for a week straight.

Sleep hasn’t come easily. Most nights, I stare at the ceiling. I tell myself it’s because of the change—my life has flipped upside down in only a few short months. Not so long ago I was rationing takeout and waiting for a call that was supposed to come from the symphony director.

My days are filled with music now. I wasted no time calling Violet Lavigne. I practice every day, and it hardly feels like work when it’s where I want to be, doing what I love. Next week, she’s set me up at a lounge, nothing crazy, but it puts me in front of other notable names, who also happen to be her colleagues. An opportunity for her to brag, she said. After that, a solo performance in a concert hall. Aticketedperformance.

Maybe it’s because my wildest dreams are coming true that I cannot find sleep.

But the headaches are gone.

And I don’t dare ruminate on what that might mean.

My steps are silent as I head to my bedroom. In a tired daze I brush my teeth, comb through my hair. Last week, I had it cut to my shoulders. The blonde ends are gone. Thought it might seem more professional.

Yet as I sat at the salon, I couldn’t help but think, wouldhelike it?