The car rolled to a stop on the crushed white gravel. The silence of the engine cutting off was heavy, amplifying the sound of the wind rattling through the dark trees surrounding the estate.
Julian didn't wait for the driver to open his door. He pushed it open himself and stepped out into the night, buttoning his jacket with a sharp, fluid motion. He didn't look back at me. He simply walked toward the massive front steps, assuming I would follow.
I scrambled out of the car, my heels sinking slightly into the gravel. The night air was biting, sending a shiver through the thin silk of my dress. I clutched the small black purse to my chest like a shield and hurried after him.
The front doors of the Thorne Manor were double-height mahogany, reinforced with iron straps. They looked heavy enough to keep an army out. Or keep a prisoner in.
They swung open before Julian even reached the top step.
A woman stood in the threshold. She was tall, severe, and dressed in a stiff black uniform that looked like it hadn't changed style since the Victorian era. Her gray hair was pulled back so tightly it pulled the skin of her face taut.
She didn't look at Julian. Her eyes locked onto me instantly.
If the people at the party had looked at me with fear, this woman looked at me with something far worse. Disgust.
"Mr. Thorne," she said, nodding her head slightly to Julian. Then she turned her gaze fully to me. "Mrs. Thorne. We were not expecting your return."
"Obviously," Julian said, brushing past her into the foyer. "Mrs. Graves, have the staff bring my wife's bags in from the trunk. And tell the chef I want dinner in my study. Alone."
"Of course, sir," Mrs. Graves said.
I stepped into the foyer. It was breathtakingly cold. The floors were black and white checkered marble, polished to a mirror shine. A grand staircase swept up the center, splitting off into two wings. It was a house built to impress, not to live in. There were no family photos. No flowers. Just cold stone and expensive art.
I stood in the center of the hall, feeling small and exposed. Julian was already halfway to a set of double doors on the left.
"Julian?" I called out.
He stopped. He didn't turn around. "What?"
"I..." I trailed off. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know where to go. Where is my room? Which way is the kitchen? Where is the bathroom?
"I'm tired," I finished lamely.
"Then go to bed," he said, and walked through the doors, slamming them shut behind him.
I was alone in the hallway with Mrs. Graves.
The housekeeper clasped her hands in front of her apron. She walked slowly around me, her eyes inspecting my dress, my hair, my shoes. It felt like being inspected by a prison warden.
"You look different, Madam," she said. Her voice was like dry leaves scraping on pavement.
"It's been three months, Mrs. Graves," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "People change."
"Some people," she corrected. "Not you. You are like a stain on a rug. You can scrub and scrub, but it never really goes away."
My breath hitched. The staff wasn't just cold. They were openly hostile. Silas had warned me that Elena was difficult, but this was pure venom.
"I am tired, Mrs. Graves," I said, channeling the haughtiness I had used at the party. "I would like to go to my room."
It was a gamble. I needed her to lead the way without her realizing I didn't know where I was going.
Mrs. Graves stared at me for a long moment. Then, a thin, cruel smile touched her lips.
"Of course," she said. "I had the maids prepare the Guest Suite in the East Wing. Since you have been gone so long, I assumed you wouldn't be returning to the Master Suite."
It was a test. I knew it instantly. Silas had said Julian and Elena slept in separate rooms for the last year. If I accepted the Guest Suite, I was admitting defeat. If I asked for the Master Suite, I was inviting myself into Julian's bed, which would be suicide.
I had to find the third option. The room Elena actually slept in.
I looked up the stairs. The house was split into two wings. East and West. If the Guest Suite was East, and Julian's study was on the left (West), then the family quarters were likely West.
"I am not a guest, Mrs. Graves," I said coldly. "And I have no intention of sleeping in the guest quarters like some visiting cousin."
I walked past her, heading for the stairs. I prayed my legs wouldn't give out.
"I will be in my own room," I said over my shoulder. "Do not disturb me until morning."
I climbed the stairs, feeling her eyes boring into my back. I reached the landing and turned left, toward the West Wing. I walked down the long, silent corridor, my heart pounding.
There were five doors.
One was huge, double-doors. That had to be Julian's.
One was slightly smaller, directly across from it.
The others looked like closets or linen rooms.
I took a deep breath and walked to the door across from Julian's. I reached for the handle. If this was a linen closet, I was going to look like an idiot. If it was Julian's bathroom, I was going to look like a stalker.
I turned the handle. It was locked.
I froze.
"Looking for your key, Madam?" Mrs. Graves' voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs. "You left it on the console table the night you... departed."
I looked down. She was holding up a small silver key, her expression mocking.
I had to walk all the way back down. I snatched the key from her palm, making sure our skin didn't touch.
"Thank you," I snapped.
"You're welcome," she replied. "Oh, and Madam? Be careful. The house has been very quiet without you. It would be a shame if accidents started happening again."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and unmistakable.
I turned and ran up the stairs, unlocking the door with shaking hands. I threw myself inside and locked it behind me, leaning against the wood, gasping for air.
I was safe. For now.
I looked around the room. It was definitely Elena's. It was a shrine to vanity. Mirrors covered every wall. The bed was massive, draped in white fur. And on the wall opposite the bed, written in bright red lipstick on the glass of a huge mirror, was a message.
It wasn't fresh. It looked old, dusty.
HE KNOWS.
I stared at the red letters.
Who knew? Julian? Silas?
Or was this message left by the real Elena... right before she disappeared?