Page 36 of Mine

Wow. Day one in Stone Manor and I already have an enemy.

Fantastic.

I turn on a floor lamp and then make my way to the coffee table. Inside the canvas bag is a handful of drugstore toiletries and cosmetics. The foundation and concealer are not my color, but I can make them work. The clothes consist of two pairs of baggy boyfriend jeans, each a size too large, and two ill-fitting sweatshirts—the kind a junior-high basketball player would wear to practice. Finally, two pairs of granny panties—nude—and one bralette, two sizes too small.

There’s no question who did my shopping.

I begin folding the items back into place when, across the room, a silver sparkle catches my eye.

Frowning, I walk over to the picture frame resting on the bedside table.

The woman in the photo is in her mid-thirties with long blond hair and a soft pixie face. She’s painfully skinny, reminding me of a ’90s Kate Moss, but in the same way as Kate, she’s uniquely beautiful. She’s wearing a white silk dress, giving her an ethereal appearance. She’s looking directly into the camera—directly at me. Around her neck is a gold pendant of one half of a broken heart. On her ring finger is a massive diamond. I recognize it immediately as the one Carlos tossed to Astor after showing him the picture of his dead wife.

This is her.

The wife.

Nerves tickle my stomach.

I look over my shoulder at the door, then back at the picture, absolutely certain the photo wasn’t in the room when I arrived last night.

Twenty-One

Sabine

By noon, I’ve showered, brooded to the point of self-loathing, and paced the bedroom so many times my feet hurt.

I’m wearing the clothes I was “gifted”—a baggy gray hoodie, a pair of even baggier mom jeans, and a pair of flannel slip-on house shoes I found in the closet. Although I look like a fourteen-year-old boy, I feel marginally better. Definitely more confident than in the red minidress I plan to burn the second I get out of here.

I hid the photo of Astor’s wife in the bedside drawer. I can’t look at the woman whose husband I just kissed, even if she’s no longer around. And I’m still uneasy about the whole thing. I’m certain the photo wasn’t on the table last night. So, how did it get there?

Bottom line, I have to get out of this damn room before I lose my mind.

On a whim, I try the doorknob. It’s unlocked. Someone must have unlocked it while I was showering.

For a second, I consider making a run for it, but then remember that I have no phone, credit cards, or vehicle, and also that there is a thunderstorm raging outside.

Astor unlocked my door; I’m sure of it. Rage and regret, and all that guilt. So, I take this as an open invitation to look around my new prison.

Sheets of rain slash against the windows as I make my way down the hallway. The house is quiet with not a single light on.

Where is everyone?

Despite the ominous atmosphere, I am in awe of my surroundings.

I press my palm against the sweeping windows that line the great room. The pane is cool and an outline of condensation forms around my hand.

The view of the lake and mountains is exquisite in the daylight, even through the muted gray of the storm. Massive pine trees line a pebbled walkway that leads to a wooden staircase that disappears down a rocky cliff. Below is a large deck with a boat slip and a covered seating area with a full outdoor kitchen. The lake water is crystal clear, the bottom dotted with large moss-covered rocks.

At the top of the staircase, an American flag whips in the wind.

A patriotic man. Interesting.

Turning away from the window, I survey the room, zeroing in on a framed picture, then another, and another. An entire fireplace mantel of Astor’s late wife.

In the middle, a small white candle burns brightly. It’s the only light in the house.

I move from photo to photo, my stomach knotting tighter with each image. It’s a shrine to her, and it’s creepy as hell. In every photo, she is wearing the same half-heart pendant. There has to be at least a dozen pictures of her—only her. Astor is not in a single one of them.

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