Page 111 of Jane Deyre

“Alopecia. The post-traumatic consequence of losing my daughter. But, my friends, I would havegladlysacrificedeveryhair on my body to have had her returned to me.”

Unwavering, she waits for the audience to quiet, her expression stoic. “The real reason, my friends... if I ever won another Oscar, I couldn’t tell my precious daughter to go to sleep after she watched me win it on TV.”

Tears trickle down my cheeks. I’m so moved by her speech and bravery. Sniffles surround me. I don’t think there’s a dry eye in the house. The tiny woman has again proven she’s bigger than life.

After talking about her foundation, Gone Baby, she concludes her speech on a note of hope.

“I wrote this memoir because I want everyone to have hope. This week, Charlotte will be twenty-one years old. Deep inside my heart, I know I will find her. Or she will find me. Without hope, there can be no future. Happy birthday, my sweet girl!”

Sniveling, I do everything I can not to bawl. My face feels like it’s going to explode with tears, and sobs will burst out of my lungs. Is there any hope in this world for Mr. Rochester and me?”

The ushers return to the stage to help Edwina off it as the theater lights dim.

The theater goes dark and the retrospective begins.

We’re hardly past the credits when Max Fuller gropes my breasts.

A cold sweat crawls down my back, but it’s not the pinch of Max’s fingers that has me gasping. Another horrific, sharp pain attacks my stomach like a hatchet.

I clutch my gut. I’m going to throw up.

CHAPTER 56

Jane

Reader, I had a choice. To spend the rest of the evening in the bathroom sitting on the toilet. Puking in the basin. Hiding from Max Fuller. And avoiding Mr. Rochester.Orto get out of here as fast as possible and go back to Thornhill. I opted for the latter. All I wanted to do was to end this horrible night. Crawl into my bed and curl up like a ball. Put myself out of my misery.

By the time I Uber back to Thornhill, the sky has opened up and it’s pouring rain. With two fists, I pound the front door, hoping Grace will hear me and let me in. The rain gods have no mercy for me in my beautiful red dress. In mere minutes, it’s drenched and I’m soaked to the bone. The pain in my abdomen is so bad I almost keel over. Maybe I should have Ubered to an emergency room. My skin feels feverish despite the chill in my bones. I pound and I pound and I pound. I shout Grace’s name until my throat is raw, my voice hoarse. I have no strength left. Grace must be sleeping or can’t hear me because of the storm.

I have no choice but to head to the guesthouse. Clutching my stomach, hunched over, I wend across the lawn, my heels digging into the soggy grass, my pace slowed down by the weight of my soaking wet gown. The cramping’s so excruciating I fear I may die. I’ll need a miracle in the rain to survive this night. I hear myself sob. My last night at Thornhill, I don’t deserve this fate.

I see the guesthouse in the distance. Lit up. I thought I turned off all the lights, but in my condition, who knows. Since I learned of Mr. Rochester’s plan to return to Oregon and came down with this god-awful flu or whatever it is, I haven’t been thinking straight. Half delirious is what I’ve been.

To be honest, I’m glad the lights are on because it’s pitch black outside, except when forks of lightning splinter across the sky. It feels like an eternity, but I finally make it to the front door. I fish for my keys in the little beaded bag Edwina lent me and find them quickly. Shivering so badly and in so much pain, I fumble to unlock the door.C’mon, open! Please open!After four successive tries, I finally succeed. I close the door behind me, not bothering to lock it. Or do I?

Still hunched over and gripping my gut, I stagger to my bedroom. I’m ready to fling myself onto my bed, drenched dress and all, when I see the door to the room next to mine ajar. The one that’s always locked with the signKEEP OUT. I stumble down the hallway, as if an invisible force is pulling me toward it. As I near it, the eerie sounds I’ve often heard in the middle of the night—the clanking, the thuds, and the groans—grow louder. I curl my trembling fingers around the knob, and open the door all the way. Then step inside. Another door is open. The closet. Light coming from inside it. Maybe someone replaced the burned-out bulb. I take baby steps toward it and peek inside. My eyes grow wide and my pulse speeds up. The shelf in the back has been moved away from the wall. My heart in my throat, I inch behind it. There’s a narrow opening in the wall. Just high and wide enough for someone to slip through it. Despite my unbearable pain, I venture through it. An ancient set of steps awaits me. A chilling mixture of fear and curiosity surges inside me. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. Gathering all my strength as well as my weighty wet gown, I mount them. One steep, creaky step at a time. Eight all together.

Breathless, my strength zapped, I get to the top. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. My jaw drops to the floor.

I let out a scream.

Then vomit.

CHAPTER 57

Ward

Fucking Blanche. The minute the theater goes dark, her long-fingered hand moves to my crotch, and she gropes my dick. Clutching it. Rubbing it. Trying to make it grow hard. It doesn’t respond. My cock only responds to one woman. Jane Deyre. All through this stressful night, I’ve thought only of her. Missing her. Wanting her. Needing her. Feeling like a shit.

I hear the hiss of my fly. Goddamn Blanche is pulling it down. Snagging her wrist, I jerk her hand away and zip myself up.

“What the fuck?” she whispers as I leap up.

Ducking, I scoot across the front of the theater to Jane’s seat on the other end of the row. It’s empty.

A familiar cloying scent wafts up my nose. Still squatting, I look up. Fucking full of himself, Max Fuller. His eyes glued to the screen, he’s oblivious to me. I tug on his tux pants and he startles.

“Where’s Jane?” I ask, my voice low enough not to distract others.