Page 89 of The Villains We Make

He smiles, puts his hands in the air, palms facing me. “Not taking any chances, Mrs. Cruz.”

I sigh. “You know what?” I say more to myself than him. “I think I’m going to go upstairs and have a bath and let Silas cook when he gets back.” I pick up my wine glass and my cell phone from the kitchen counter and head upstairs to the bathroom in the primary bedroom. I’d seen candles in the cabinet under the sink, and I take them out, setting them along the windowsill and on the edge of the tub. I run hot water then light the candles and switch off the overhead lamp.

Only then do I strip off my funeral clothes, pin my hair up, and slide into the still filling tub, closing my eyes, and laying my head back against the lip of it, the only sound that of water rushing as I soak away the day.

A few moments later, a strange pop startles me. I sit up quickly, splashing water out of the tub, but before I have a chance to even switch off the water, my phone rings. I turn the tap off and reach for it, but it’s on the counter and I can’t. By the time I step out of the tub, the call has gone to voicemail. I dry my hands, dripping water on the bathmat and swipe to see who called when it starts to ring again. It’s Silas.

I answer. “Hey.”

“Where are you? Where’s Hamish?” He sounds panicked.

“What? Why?”

“Just where is Hamish?” he barks.

“Downstairs, I guess. I’m in the bath.”

He sighs with relief. “Shit.”

“Silas, what is it?”

“I’m on my way back. I just—There’s Hamish calling now. Let me take it. Have your bath.”

He disconnects before I can answer and I set it down, irritated and cold. I switch off the phone, no longer wanting a bath, not remotely relaxed. I reach for a towel when I hear the bedroom door open.

Surely, he’s not back already? I open the door ready to give Silas a piece of my mind but stop dead when I see it’s not him. It’s not Silas at all.

34

SILAS

“Hamish! Why didn’t you answer?” I bark into the phone, driving like a mad man back to Boston, back to the brownstone. At least I got hold of Ophelia. She’s fine. Ethan is at the funeral. He doesn’t know she’s at the brownstone.

A text comes through from Nigella. I glance at the phone in its cradle on the dash and read it while passing a car.

Nigella: Got hold of Wells. They’re going to pick up Ethan.

“Hamish?” I say, realizing he hasn’t answered.

There’s a strange sound, a gurgling. And in the background, a thud.

“Hamish?” I press my foot to the accelerator. “What the fuck is going on?”

I barely get the sentence out when I hear Ophelia’s voice caught between a gasp and a scream before the line goes dead.

I race to the brownstone, but I’m at least twenty minutes out. I dial 911 and tell them to get to the house, yelling at the operator when she asks questions that don’t matter. When I’m sure they’re on their way, I begin to dial Ophelia and Hamish in turn, but my calls go to voicemail over and over again.

By the time I make it to the brownstone, I see the lights of police cars outside, and an officer stops me from entering the street.

“That’s my house. I called 911!”

He says something, but I don’t hear him. I put the SUV into park and open the door to run the rest of the way but my phone pings with a message. I stop because it’s from Ophelia.

Dread twists my gut. My hand trembles as I reach to swipe, to open the message.

And I read the single line of text.

Can she swim yet, bro?

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