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“I don’t have any tools for this, but this isn’t a very complicated lock. Do you have a bobby pin?”
“Yes.” I exhaled in relief, dashing across the hall into my room to locate one before he changed his mind. Once I handed it to him, Wade unlocked the door in thirty seconds. He pushed it open wide while I stood on the threshold, peering into the dim light.
“What can I do to help?” he asked.
“Could you come in with me?”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable violating a lady’s privacy, no.”
“Then could you keep watch? Make sure Eugenia doesn’t decide to come home while I’m in here?” Same old Wade. He’d go along with my crazy schemes, but only to a point. “Maybe you could watch from my bedroom across the hall.”
“I think I should just watch from my bedroom, darlin’.”
“Suit yourself.”
Wade trudged across the hall. Once he disappeared, I flipped the light switch and was transported to my favorite 1920s whorehouse once again. The room was tidier than the last time I had been inside, and I didn’t waste time rifling through Eugenia’s things. I was on a mission.
I found the rug that I knew would reveal Eugenia’s—or Sterling’s—under-floor lair and quickly rolled it back. Twisting my finger around the pull ring, I gave it a hard tug, no longer shocked when the panel lifted, and the secret space revealed itself. It was shallow—no need for a ladder. I could easily see the concrete floor of the crawl space just a few feet below me. Dangling my legs into the chill, I slid inside.
The cavern was just about six feet long and three feet wide, with near-empty floor-to-ceiling shelving on both sides. There was a step stool in the nearest corner, presumably to assist in getting back out. Whatever this space was, its purpose wasn’t to hold more than one person at a time—or for any significant length of time. Hiding or storage…those were the only things that made sense. Scanning quickly, I made out several cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly on the shelves. I pulled down a box from the top shelf and discovered the lid was covered in a thick layer of dust.
Shit.
If Eugenia took this down and saw fingerprints all over the top, she’d know someone had been in here. But it was too late now. Using the sleeve of my sweatshirt, I wiped the dust layer off the top of the box and flipped the lid.
Inside were three cheap latex costumes, the kind college girls wore on Halloween, stored in individual gallon plastic bags. The first was some sort of cheerleader costume. The second was a schoolgirl costume easily recognizable by the short plaid skirt. The third I had to open to discover what it was. The bag contained a bonnet, a diaper, and a plastic toy shaped like a brightly swirled lollipop. It was some sort of baby costume.
Disgusted, I shoved the bag’s contents into the box and replaced it on the shelf it came from, careful not to disturb the surrounding layer of dust. Sterling had been a pedo and God knows what else—was I really surprised his secret lair was chock full of pervy sex outfits?
I didn’t even bother with the other large boxes. I dragged the stool out and stepped on, lifting my arms out of the hole, prepared to drag myself out before I remembered that the next time Eugenia opened the hatch, she’d know by the placement of the stool that someone had been down here.
Lowering my arms back down to contemplate whether or not I cared, I saw something else. It was a tin with a big, red-faced Santa Claus etched into the top, the kind that held nasty, processed Christmas cookies in little white tissue-paper cups with scalloped edges. I hoped that was all that was inside, but judging by the way it’d been pushed through the layer of dust to the very back of the top shelf and the fact that the garish, practically glowing face of Santa was absolutely pristine, I highly doubted it.
Impulsively, I grabbed the tin and set it on the floor above me before pulling myself out. I probably could have gotten out without the stool, but it turns out I didn’t care after all. Let Eugenia know I was on to her. In fact, I wanted her to know.
Without so much as a sniffle from Wade—surprising since I expected him to eventually mosey his nosy ass on in here under the guise of checking on me—I took my time closing the hatch and replacing the rug before sitting down in the middle of it and popping open my prize. At worst, I expected a dildo or something, but inside was a stack of letters—at least a dozen of them—tied with a thin lilac ribbon. I undid the ribbon and placed the letters in a circle around me. There were no envelopes, just folded sheets of paper. When I unfurled each stack to check the date, I could see each was to Eugenia. “Gerry.” In all, there were fourteen letters, dated between 1969 and 1992—the year before I was born. I put them in chronological order, my hands shaking, before I paused, pressing my palms against my knees.
Are you sure you want to do this, G?
They weren’t mine. Not only that, but Eugenia had gone to some lengths to keep them hidden from prying eyes. But on the other hand, these letters could be the key to finding out who my father was. The final letter was written in the summer of 1992. That would have been around the time I was conceived. I took a deep breath, inhaling dust and expensive perfume. It was wrong, I knew. But I wasn’t going to stop myself. Not when these letters could hold the answers I’d been searching for my whole life. I would read them all, from the beginning.
Reaching to my right for the first letter from 1969, I unfolded it before scanning the signature at the bottom of the page. It was from Sterling. Beloved grandfather.
Dear Gerry, he’d written in a scholarly hand.
Please accept this letter as it is intended—to apologize for my behavior on the stairs today. Had I known then what you later explained to me about your uncle’s unspeakable actions toward you and your mother turning you out of the house as a result, I would not have propositioned you in the manner I did. I understand now your ability to provide for yourself must always take precedence; rest assured, your position as a member of my household staff is as secure as ever.
However, maintaining my professionalism doesn’t come without challenges. You see, you came to Richmond House only one week ago, and ever since I saw you, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. You mentioned your age—fourteen?—and I was taken aback. In your face is the maturity and wisdom of a woman twice that age.
Bile crept up my throat as I scanned the rest of the letter and reached for the next. While it was equally full of flowery compliments, the third letter, apparently written to Eugenia on the night before her fifteenth birthday, stopped me cold. Sterling had crossed the ultimate line. She was fourteen. He was thirty-four. And judging by the apology for his “barbaric” behavior in the first paragraph of the letter and the inquiry into the state of her health that followed, he’d been very cruel indeed. He’d promised to marry her to make it right.
I suddenly felt very alone, sitting on my haunches in the center of Eugenia’s bedroom. Gathering the letters, I stood and took one last look around, knowing this might be the last time I’d be able to access this space. Directly above me was a pull handle similar to the one under the rug beneath my feet, dangling on a sturdy chain. If I jumped, I could grab it and pull.
I looked before I leaped—literally and figuratively. But in the end, I knew I was going to go for it. I jumped, grabbing the chain and pulling. The ceiling opened, and a set of conjoined ladders began to unroll in a controlled, mechanical way. When I looked up at the opening, all I could see was darkness. Cold air swept down the stairs. The third-floor attic.
Taking the steps one at a time, I pushed my head above the ceiling, struck by the chill. Dim light filtered in from the high windows ringing the attic walls. To my left, I could just make out the slave barracks I’d discovered with Janae last week. It took only a moment to realize I was looking at them from under a piece of furniture. The white, fluttering bed skirt gave it away. The secret stairs above the underground lair in Sterling’s old bedroom led to the white bed in the attic.
“Greer.” My name was a command on Wade’s lips. Years of working together told me that I needed to get out of Eugenia’s room.
Quickly.
Because she’d returned.
