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Chloe climbed into the truck but I hesitated. His gaze met mine. Whatever brief curiosity we had for each other reignited in that second. He looked entirely changed; tattoos peeked from beneath his tee, a dangling cross earring glinted in the sunlight, and his presence…it was darker, dangerous and possibly even more chaotic.

“Ready for part two, little bird?” He jumped down, holding the door open.

SIXTEEN

Evening hours

I close the journal, pulling off the blankets with an idea forming. I’m going to test a theory: if there’s a motorcycle, then this journal is based on real life. And if this is based on real life, then there is a missing woman named Sara and two men that might be involved.

Locking Misty away safely, I grab a coat and tip-toe down the halls with darkness, my only constant companion as I use the pale strips of moonlight as a guide.

The house feels different without Kieran’s presence. It’s not exactly silent, more of a stillness permeating throughout. Though from what I’ve picked up, the Lazarus Estate is never truly quiet. Not with the ghosts roaming, trapped behind salt lines, and the watchful way Daisy seems to be inserted into every opportune moment of mine.

Despite the stillness, every sound seems to echo louder, even my footsteps against the soft carpet.

I wonder if this is a version of a sick television show where I’m being filmed and I’ll soon figure out I’m the sacrifice for one great joke?

Paranoia follows me through the halls and I make note of every open room and its shadowy shapes.

A library. A bedroom. A storage closet. A completely empty bedroom with fraying wallpaper.

Every threshold in the house still has a thick line of salt. Is it merely a trick for me? A placebo effect that renders the mind pliant to the idea of safety?

If Kieran Lazarus simply believes I will sit idly and obediently occupy rooms like a decorative object, he has vastly underestimated the deeply ingrained lack of patience I possess for captivity.

He hasn’t held you captive, yet.

Still, the house feels like its own jail, and if I don’t at least continue mapping out the blueprint of this place—this town—I’ll never find my peace.

Answers to the questions I don’t have yet exist somewhere beyond these walls. And if my memories have been stolen from me, then I intend to hunt them down myself.

According to the journal, the driveway didn’t end at the roundabout; it continued past unkempt shrubs and into a nondescript location somewhere by the East Wing. My plan is to keep walking until I find it. From there, I’d take the motorcycle around town to see how far I can get from this place. I wouldn’t leave. No, that makes my stomach feel queasy. I definitely wouldn’t trade the devils I’ve come to know for the devils I don’t.

I slip through a side entrance, careful to avoid the main foyer where Daisy or Tania might appear without warning. Snow is already falling outside; the flakes drifting sideways in sharp little spirals that could have been magical if not for the way the wind carries the distant roar of the sea.

Through a meandering pathway wide enough to fit a single car, I find what appears to be an old attached garage. The main garage door is stuck halfway open, just enough for me to scramble under.

Upon entering, cold air wraps its tendrils around me, carrying the scent of rot and salt. The interior is decaying, much like everything in the East Wing. But it’s what’s awaiting me that gives me genuine excitement for the first time in a while.

A black motorcycle sits alone among a collection of rubble. Old tools, discarded tires and sharp blades of broken steel. It’s a mess.

It’s real, I can’t believe it’s real. And I don’t have to search far for a key because it’s dangling perfectly on a handlebar. For a moment, I simply absorb how suspiciously serendipitous this moment is.

“Well, for one thing, the Lazaruses might just be the most stylish villains I’ve encountered.”

You have encountered no villains you’d recognize.

I ignore my annoying inner critic and wrack my brain for a plan. Starting the engine here would echo through the bottom floor of the house. I need privacy for my little adventure. So I grip the handlebars and begin pushing it along the driveway instead. The machine resists at first, its weight fighting every step, but eventually the wheels begin to roll and gravel crunches softly beneath the tires. Slowly but surely, the estate recedes behind me.

Still, I feel the sensation of being watched. I glance around, noting the shadows hugging the barks of trees, and keep moving.

Snow gathers in my hair and along the shoulders of my coat as I crest the small hill and descend the rest of the winding drive toward the gates.

Once I reach the road, I swing onto the seat and stomp down on the kickstart. Familiarity coursing through my actions. Nothing happens. I try again, throwing my weight into it, and the engine coughs, shudders, then roars awake. A wild laugh escapes my mouth. “Why hadn’t I thought of this earlier?” I rev the engine once. The sound feels reckless in the forest’s stillness, but the thrill of movement overrides the hesitation that briefly flickers in my chest. I steer onto the narrow road, my headlights carving a pale tunnel through the snowfall.

Tall evergreens lean toward the road, their branches heavy with ice. “No matter how much snow falls, the roads are always clear around here.” My voice is a thin stream of steam against the flurries.

I follow eagerly along the twisting path, surprised at the ease with which I can maneuver the motorcycle. This is the furthest I’ve traveled since waking in this strange limbo of life. I let out a long, noisy cry into the early night, testing the waters. If there were monsters, I’d like proof.