Page 38 of Mine

A sting of jealousy hits me hard and fast, and I almost laugh at how ridiculous I’m being.

The bathroom resembles mine, but larger. Marble, copper, and gorgeous. I open the vanity drawers and am surprised to see drugstore-brand skin and hair-care products. Billionaire Stone probably has unlimited access to the most luxurious brands, but he chooses the least high-maintenance products available. I find this endearing.

I notice that there are no female products anywhere.

The rest of the drawers are much of the same, until I reach the last one.

I squat down and survey the dozen little brown prescription pill bottles. Sleeping pills, all prescribed to Astor. None appear to have been used, or even opened.

A tortured billionaire.

I consider slipping a few into my pocket, but I think better of it and decide to move to the closet. Astor’s clothes take up one-tenth of the space. A few suits, a few lounge outfits.

I smell them all.

At last, I come to a dubious door at the far side of the room. It’s locked. Frowning, I step back and study the unusually thin mahogany door. I know it doesn’t lead to the bathroom or the closet, so, where? I try the knob again, this time twisting hard. The door doesn’t budge.

I snoop for keys but find none.

Fisting my hands on my hips, I chew my lower lip and study the lock. Suddenly, nothing in my life is more important than seeing what’s behind that door.

A very, very bad decision.

Twenty-Two

Sabine

I jog to the kitchen, grab a flat cheese knife from the croissant spread, and hurry back to the master bedroom. I slide the shaft between the mystery door frame, press, jiggle, and boom—the lock pops open.

My pulse kicks.

After a glance over my shoulder, I slowly push open the door, completely unprepared for what’s ahead.

It’s a baby’s room, or more accurately, a little girl’s room.

I gasp and cover my mouth.

Dolls are everywhere—plastic, stuffed, porcelain, each missing their heads. Some are completely mutilated, lying in a heap of their own stuffing. A leg here, an arm there. Fist-sized holes dot the walls, as if someone punched through the sheetrock, over and over and over again. The paint is a dusty pink, once a beautiful rose color, I imagine, but now dull and bleak. Duct tape runs over cracked windows that are spotted and dirty, hampering the already dim daylight from shining into the room.

A twin-sized bed sits flush against the wall, the pink comforter unmade, suggesting someone has slept in it recently. A pillow lying at the foot of the bed has been slashed repeatedly.

Though my head is telling me to run, I step deeper into the room.

There are many framed pictures, but this time, Astor’s wife isn’t the only subject. Most are of a beautiful little girl with long blond ringlets.

My heart pounding, I pick up one of the photos. Porcelain skin, white-blond hair, and dark chocolate eyes. The girl is almost an exact replica of Astor’s wife, but the eyes ... they are the same ones that bored into me the night before.

The frame drops from my hand.

Astor’s daughter.

The picture shatters on impact, and I swoop down and pick up the broken glass, cutting my thumb. I hardly feel it.

My mind races.

Astor had a secret wife, and now a secret daughter. Where is she? And who destroyed her room?

What other secrets does this man have?

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