Page 112 of Jane Deyre
“Your nanny went to the ladies’ room and never came back. Get lost. You’re in my way.”
Every nerve in my body rattles. If the douchebag touched her, I swear I’ll break every bone in his body before this night is over.
Springing to my feet, I sprint up the aisle. Reach the ladies’ room. And like a madman, check every stall. The door to the only locked one swings open, almost slamming into my face. A dour silver-haired woman emerges. At the sight of me, she whacks her monstrous bag against my chest.
“I’m going to have you arrested!”
I flee the bathroom.
And speed dial one person.
My man Manny.
Thank God he’s in the neighborhood, already parked in front of the museum when I dart outside. Hopping into his car, I tell him to floor it to Thornhill.
When we get to the estate, a great big orange-brown cloud billows behind it.
“Manny, call 911!”
My heart in my throat, I jump out.
CHAPTER 58
Jane
The dark, windowless room is illuminated by a single candle on a stand.
A stick of incense is burning beside it.
A forceful wave of nausea rocks my stomach, queasiness already filling my chest. I may vomit again.
Before me is an emaciated man, splayed out on what looks like a hospital bed. His stick-thin arms and legs are chained to the metal bedposts. His ribs protruding, his chest concave, he’s clad only in striped boxer shorts—identical to the ones I saw stacked in the closet below. One of his arms is hooked up to all kinds of IVs and there’s a feeding tube in his stomach. I study him as he makes eye contact with me. He reminds me of one of those Holocaust prisoners... his face gaunt, his head shaven, and his eyes hollow and haunted. Terror flickers in his dark orbs. It looks like he wants to say something, but he can’t move his mouth. All that spills from his thin, cracked lips is a long, sad, desperate groan.
Despite his age and condition, I recognize him instantly from photos I’ve seen. In my shocked state, I rasp out his name:
“Bertrand.”
Bertrand Mason, Edwina’s late husband. Except he’s not dead. Or not yet. My head burns with questions. What is this chamber of horrors I’ve stepped into? How long has it been here? Who would do something like this to this poor man? And why? I fight back the bile that’s rising to my throat. And the roaring pain that rips through my gut.
Bertrand groans again. Then, bucks against the bed, trying to free his enslaved limbs, the metal chains jangling and clanking against the posts.
Clank. Groan. Clank. Groan.A horrific, gut-churning realization hits me.Clank. Groan. The terrifying sounds I’ve been hearing since I got here! I swallow back my horror.
The candle flame flickers, and in the corner of the room, I see a specter looming. A tall, familiar figure. She whirls around and faces me. Her hair is no longer scraped back in its immaculate tight bun, but is instead a wiry gray mass, as unkempt as a bird’s nest, and straggles to her waist. Her eyes glint with evil. In the shadow of the flickering candle, she looks like a witch straight out of a Grimm fairy tale.
Alice Fairfax.
Her voice booms across the attic.
“Charlotte,what are you doing here? You were supposed to be dead by now.”
Another knife-sharp abdominal pain clouds my thinking. I clutch my stomach. One of us is delusional. She called me Charlotte... at least that’s what I think she said.
“D-did you just call me Charlotte?”
She scoffs at me. “Well, thatisyour name. Charlotte... Charlotte Mason. It’s a shame you won’t have time to get used to it.”
I try to process her words. Between the shuddering pain and nausea, I can’t think straight.