Page 100 of Jane Deyre
She turns on her heel and retreats to the house. A cloud of sadness falls over me. At least I’ll feel safer tonight.
The day crawls by. I can’t shake my gloom or my queasiness. I still feel like the walking dead and am relieved when Adele is fed and put to bed.
Listlessly, still not having eaten a thing, I head back to the guesthouse following the pebbled path. In my hands, I’m holding Edwina’s memoir and my portrait of Ward. I don’t know what I’m going to do with either. If the fireplace were working, I’d burn them both. Or at least tear out the page Ward signed. Watch them go up in flames and turn to ash. Once upon a time, the portrait might have gone on my vision board. But today, it has no place there.
The pebbles crunch under my sneakers and keep me alert along with the chirping crickets. The August sky has begun to darken earlier, signaling the approach of fall. It’s unlikely I’ll be here after the end of the month. Now that Mr. Rochester is done with Edwina’s memoir, I wouldn’t be surprised if he summons Adele to Europe to live with him and her mother. There’s no better place for her to get a top-notch, worldly education. With Adele gone, I will have no purpose here. And under no circumstances will I continue to work for Mr. Rochester. How could I? With him married to another? That much of a masochist I am not. My heart heavy as a rock, I near the guesthouse.
Awaiting me at the front door is a package addressed to me in red marker. My first thought is it’s a gift from Mr. Rochester. Something expensive to go along with a sorry-it’s-over note. The easy way out.Money.For the first time since his departure, I feel something that resembles hatred. Bending down, I set my book and portrait on the landing, one on top of the other, and tear it open. Inside is a shoebox marked Brooks Brothers, size 10 D on the outside. It’s one of Bertrand Mason’s from his closet.Huh?With a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, I lift off the lid to find a layer of crumbled newspaper. I remove the paper and shriek. Facing me is a mutilated baby doll. Her face slashed. Her arms and legs chopped off. Her torso drilled with holes and singed. Streaks of blood-red marker everywhere. Who would send me something so ghastly? The doll still in the box, I hurry around the house to the edge of the property and hurl it over the precipice. I watch as the doll falls out of the box and tumbles in the air, and finally disappears in the sunless chasm hundreds of feet below. A bone-chilling thought hits me. Does someone want me dead?
Trembling, I return to the house and gather the book and portrait. I unlock the front door, step inside, and shut it behind me. The door doesn’t quite close. My jaw drops; my heart stands still. The person I thought I’d never see again leaps in front of me.
“Surprise!”
CHAPTER 51
Jane
The book and portrait fall from my hands onto the hardwood floor. I don’t bend down to retrieve them. Nor even cast my eyes down. I don’t have time.
In one swift, harsh move, he grips my shoulders and shoves me against the wall. My skull slams against the plaster, the impact making my vision blur though I see him clear as day. His is a face I can never forget. Grinding his hips against me so hard I wince, he reaches into the back pocket of his grungy jeans and holds up two familiar items.
The French lingerie Edwina bequeathed me. The black lace bra and panties. He dangles them in his hand, almost in my face.
“Missed these much?” Madness burns in his eyes. His fetid breath, which reeks of booze and tobacco, heats my cheeks.
Reader, if you haven’t guessed, it’snotMr. Rochester. It’s my worst nightmare... John Reed!
He puts the lingerie to his nose and whiffs it. “Nice. So you’ve become a woman, my little Jane Deyre. I want you to take your clothes off and put these on for me. Do a little dance.”
Fear crawls up my skins like a fever. I feel pinpricks of sweat between my shoulders.
“What are you doing here? How did you find out where I live?”
He snickers. “Ever hear of that four-letter word... Fate? F-A-T-E.”
My heart beating wildly, I remain silent. Say nothing.
“Well, it turns out the lovely folks who live here needed a locksmith. And guess who they ended up calling?”
My eyes drop to his T-shirt. The same one he was wearing at my old place.Lock ’n Roll.
His nostrils flare. His mouth curls into a snarl. The lingerie looped around his hand, he tilts my chin up with such force I cry out. His wild eyes drill into mine.
“Yup. That’s right. Yours truly. The first time I was here to take care of your front door lock I had to take a piss, so I stepped inside and mistook your room for the bathroom... and there it was... your stupid vision board or whatever the hell you call it. I recognized it instantly. Especially when I saw your picture.”
The unsettling occurrences over the past few months whirl in my head like the blades of a blender. So he was the one who slashed my Audrey-esque self-portrait? X’d it with a red marker? Stole my Hollywood star? Tacked on that photo of a cemetery with my name on a tombstone? Left me those menacing notes? Turned on the lights? Made all those frightening noises... the thudding footsteps... the loud clanks. The one who whispered sinister threats outside my bedroom door? Pretended to cry like a baby?
“Y-you have a key to my place?”
He chortles. “I’m the locksmith. I always have a spare.” He shakes the key ring attached to his utility belt.Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
A horrible reality comes roaring at me. John Reed has been preying on me all this time. Terrifying me. Feeding into my night terrors.
He squeezes my jaw. “Did you like my little present? Thoughtful, wasn’t it? I always remember how much you wanted a dolly to play with. You and your pathetic scarecrow!”
The mutilated doll. He left it for me. The blood in my veins freezes, icing every cell of my being.
“It’s been so much fun taunting you. Just like old times, right? Tonight we’re going to set things right... between me and you... foster girl.”