Page 54 of Mine

Cillian said I have twenty-four more hours here. Until what, Astor kills me? Has one of his men take care of me? Or releases me, maybe? Or ... falls in love with me.

The latter is what I’ve landed on because the former is too unsettling. I’ve decided that if I have twenty-four more hours with Astor Stone, I am going to make them count.

I feel invigorated by this decision. For once in my life, I am truly passionate about something. Motivated to actually put in effort, to work with purpose. To be triumphant in the end.

This must be the feeling people have right before a major change, I muse. Yes, I want that. I want change. I want this passion, every day, for the rest of my life—and I’m going to fight for it.

So, I start by going to the library, to Astor’s office, unsure what I’m going to say or do but determined, nonetheless. The door is locked, of course, and I can hear him on the other side, on a conference call.

I linger for more than an hour, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Impatience finally gets the better of me, and I shift my focus to the vast library that surrounds me. The Stone Manor library houses books from every genre, even erotica. Many are autographed by the author, and many are first editions that I assume cost a fortune. I leave those untouched.

In the end, I choose three books to read outside.

A five-hundred-page biography of some famous World War II veteran. (To help me fall asleep should I try to nap.)

A self-help book that promises a better me in thirty days. (How about twenty-four hours?)

And last but not least, an erotic fantasy. Monster peen, here I come. (Pun totally intended.)

Guess which one I started first.

Cillian was right. It is a stunning spring day. I’ve been curled on a chaise lounge on the deck all afternoon.

It’s the kind of weather that it’s cool enough to be in the sun while snuggled under a blanket. The air is fresh, clean, and perfumed with an organic earthy smell that makes me want to frolic around the forest and pretend I have fairy wings.

It’s a very freeing place, which is ironic considering the darkness of the home. While the forest feels light and happy, the lake house feels heavy and haunted, an angry energy vibrating through the walls. It’s not only that someone is putting decapitated dolls on my bed, or that Astor’s dead wife is memorialized in every room, but also that I can feel her everywhere. Lingering, watching, displeased by my presence.

I wonder if this presence (am I ready to call it/her/she/they a ghost?) is the reason Prishna looked fearful when I showed her the doll. Does she feel Valerie’s presence too? Is that why she was crying and muttering manically in her room?

I can’t stop envisioning Valerie in her deceased child’s bedroom, dismembering the dolls, slashing the pillows, punching the walls. Such pain. Such madness.

It’s unnerving.

And very, very nice to be outside.

The hours pass quickly, there under the sun, and it is now late afternoon. I’m in the thick of an MMF scene in my erotic fantasy book when I suddenly get the unmistakable feeling that someone is watching me.

I lift my gaze from the page and focus on the trees that surround the dock. Hundreds of them, dense and heavily shadowed. A million different places to hide. My stomach tickles with nerves.

I tune in to the sounds around me—the water lapping lazily against the shore, the wind rustling through the trees, the eerie isolation of the property.

I set down the book and sit up, then look over my shoulder at the lake house. Though the windows are dark, I see no one standing behind them, watching me.

Where is Prishna? Leo? Cillian?

A flash of black zips past the dock, followed by another, and another.

Bats.

I shudder in disgust. I’ve always hated bats.

Movement in the woods pulls my attention. For a second, I see someone—something—move behind a tree.

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