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I might be the only person who can give that to her distraught family.
How long has she been here? How long had Red been keeping her in Peter’s lake house before he decided he was done with her? Before he’d finished acting out whatever sick fantasy produced this horrific still life a few feet from me?
As I turn to the kitchen island, movement to my side makes my eyes swivel back to the kitchen door.
Red is coming up the stairs. He’s looking down, watching his step on the icy steps, but he’s so close I can see a smear of dried blood on his cheek.
I drop down, grab the knife I’d dropped on the floor, and dart through the kitchen with my head kept low as I tuck it carefully behind my belt. I hear the door rattle as Red tries to open it, the moment’s hesitation, and then a key in the lock.
Fuck.
I barely slip into the dining room in time before the door opens behind me. I drop down behind a chair, hoping that I’m not visible from the door. It’s torture, holding still, my ears straining to listen to Red as he moves around.
The evidence of my horror is still on the floor. Can he see it? Smell it? The kitchen reeks of food and blood—ha ha, I’d thought he’d been baking a kidney pie?—so maybe not, but I have to be realistic. I’ve got seconds before he realizes he’s not alone anymore. Do I storm him, try to take him by surprise while I’ve still got the upper hand? Or do I search the rest of the house for Charlotte and hope to find her before he tracks me down?
My entire body flinches at a sudden wetthud.Then another. Another. A rasping sound…anotherthud. Then his footsteps as he heads for the door. My heart wants to climb out of my chest, but I force myself to peek around the back of the chair, trying to catch a glimpse of him.
Red opens the door, bucket in one hand, and leaves the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Locking it.
I allow myself a second of relief as I let out a rush of stale air through my lips and sink into a crouch behind the chair again.
Luck.
If I’d been a few minutes too early, or too late…
I can’t think about that now.
I need to find Charlotte, and I know exactly where to look.
If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it. A tall, slim cupboard placed just-so hides the cleverly concealed entrance. There isn’t a scuff on the floor, or a speck of dust to give away the fact that it’s a decoy, but if you decided to move it, you’d immediately know something wasn’t right. Despite the racks of carefully arranged china and ornaments inside, the cupboard glides easily to the side on the discrete runners embedded into the marble floor.
There’s no handle on this side of the door, just a panel for a keycard. I already know the door won’t open, but I push it anyway, hoping by some twist of fate, luck is still on my side.
Locked.
Fuck.
My mind goes to the warm glow of the upstairs light. Red was there just a few minutes ago. Is it possible he left Charlotte up there? Other than the Toy Box, I can’t think of another place she might be.
She’s not in the kitchen. Those aren’t her carefully washed tresses dangling from a cold, stiff corpse. Not her innards positioned like an obscene puzzle only a madman can solve.
Charlotte is alive. I know it. Ifeelit.
I’m not claiming we’re soul mates, but I’m certain if something were ever to happen to my little Charlotte, I’d lose the will to live.
I slide the cupboard back into place before rushing through the living room and hurrying up the stairs as quietly as possible. Just because Red is moving away from the house doesn’t mean I can be careless. He could turn back at any moment. Catch me in the act. Take me out.
When I reach the landing, I’m forced to pause. Everything is the same. At least, minus the bloodstains. These carpets must have been replaced but whoever did it made sure that they bought exactly the same ones as before. Those that furnished the second floor when Peter owned this place.
Did he do it before the trial? Or after his brief prison stay—a sentence reduced from years to months by his overpriced lawyers and a corrupt judge?
Or was someone else responsible for returning this den of depravity to its former glory?
My chest tightens in apprehension as my mind returns to Red. It’s no coincidence he’s here. He must have known Peter. What’s strange is that he’s walking around like he owns the place. Not legally—the bond belongs to Peter’s late estate, still to be parceled off to family or whoever he left it to in his will.
What if he left it to Red?
