We played right into his fucking hands.
“So you really killed your own fucking son?”
“Charles died in a tragic accident. And West…” He glanced at me. “You killed West. It can happen with mistresses, unfortunately.”
My blood went cold, and I glanced at his now clean shoes. “What? What happened to West?”
Grayson’s yell clamored down the dark hallway like a monster crawling up from the cave.
Feral.
Haunting.
Beryl Crowne smiled at me. “Still think he’s not coming for you?”
I clenched my jaw, fighting the fear in my throat.
“You know, the day you moved in I knew you would be trouble.”
I stifled my shock. As far as I knew, Beryl Crowne didn’t even know I existed until Grayson.
“It wasn’t Tansy bringing up her irritation for the new, insubordinate maid that kept staring her in the eyes that tipped me off—Antionette always has some issue with some servant.” He waved his hand at an imaginary fly. “It was Grayson. His sudden, odd urge to skip work. For what? To torment the new maid.”
He stared at me.
As if I wanted his daily torments? All those wasted soap buckets. All the times he tracked mud through my newly cleaned floors.
“I’m sure he thought nothing of it—but it was more important than the Crowne. Just like now, Grayson will choose you. Choose both of you.”
I knew Grayson would come for me, but I hoped he didn’t.
That was exactly what Beryl wanted.
A trap had been set, and I was the bait.
Fifty-Eight
GRAY
Lottie stared at her dead brother, face blank.
Like waking up from a nightmare, I looked around the room.
“Story?” I called for her, panic dragging my voice. “Where are you?”
I ran back into our room, up the stairs, sweeping the entire fucking wing. No Story.
I paused at my nightstand, my green pocket square now drenched in blood. I grabbed it, running back, my chest clenched from running…from fear.
Lottie still stared at West, his blood soaked into the hardwood like spilled wine. I gripped her shoulders, spun her to me.
“Where the fuck is Story? What did you do to her?”
Lottie stared back, eyes wide, mouth parted. I knew by her ashen face, her ragged breathing, she didn’t know any more than I did. Who’s the real monster?
Two women in labor.
One dead brother.