Theirs to Keep

“So I’m too fucking curious for my own good,” I admitted. “You telling me not to go in there was probably the worst thing you could’ve done.”

“Ah,” Roderick smirked. “So it’s my fault?”

“No. Of course not.”

Once again he nodded toward the door. “Go on, Karissa. It’s okay. I… want you to see.”

The last part he said hesitantly, and his voice changed a little. It became thicker. Almost like it was difficult for him to speak.

I placed my hand on the knob. Glancing back, I gave him a final look — one last chance to change his mind — before twisting it and pushing the door open.

Immediately I was taken aback by what I saw.

The room was a bedroom, just as I figured it was. Only this one was decorated in ways that were ancient and magnificent. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, every piece of furniture undoubtedly came from the original manorhouse. There were chests and end tables. A big four-poster bed, inlaid with intricate carvings all the way up to the canopy. Hanging from all sides was lacy toile and gossamer, looking sewn by hand. It was all so beautiful. So breathtaking.

“What is this place?”

Roderick didn’t answer. He stepped slowly into the room with me, as the door swung shut behind us.

“I mean it’s almost like a museum,” I said. “But then again…”

I looked again, and saw the more modern truth beneath the antediluvian decor. A comfortable-looking quilt and bedspread that was made in today’s day and age. A big flat-paneled television, occupying one wall. On the nighttable beside the bed I saw a plug-in speaker, even a docking station for a smartphone. These things were out of place, but they weren’t. They belonged here somehow.

And then I saw the photo.

In a silver frame on the dresser stood a beautiful pic of a blonde-haired woman and three men. Squinting, I immediately made out the faces standing behind her.

The guys.

Bryce stood on one side, Camden on the other. Roderick was in the middle, directly behind her. He was even smiling.

But the woman…

The woman was someone I recognized. Not right away, but after three or four seconds her identity came to me in a flash of sudden insight.

“It’s her!”

Roderick looked up slowly, like he was recovering from a trance. “Who?”

“The girl from the painting. In the music room.”

I saw him swallow, and it obviously took some effort. Dipping his chin again, he nodded solemnly.

“Yes.”

“W—Who is she?”

“Was she.”

Goosebumps erupted all over my body. Somehow I knew, even before I’d asked.

“Okay then,” I said, trying to remain calm and respectful. “Who was she?”

The expression on Roderick’s face turned from one of somber remembrance to deep-seeded pain. Unlike most guys, he didn’t try to hide it. I gave him credit for that.

“Her name was Madison,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice from breaking. It wasn’t working out though.

“She was our wife.”