Page 1 of Keep Me

Part One

Sylvie

Chapter One

“You’ve arrived at your destination,” the GPS announces.

“That’s the one, on the left,” Aaron says, looking up from the map on his phone to the large brick mansion on the hill.

“That?” I reply in shock.

“Barclay Manor. That’s it,” he says, staring out the window. Rain pelts against the windows of the car.

“Aaron, you said your family had ahousein Scotland.Thatis a castle.”

“Technically, it’s a manor.”

“Semantics,” I reply, gaping through the windshield at the massive gray stone building. It looms over us like a bad omen. Aaron pulls off on the side of the road, and I turn toward him in confusion. “What are you doing? Drive up there.”

“I can’t,” he argues. “That sign saysPrivate Property.”

My jaw drops. “So what? It’s not like peopleactuallylive here.”

“That’s exactly whatprivate residencemeans, Sylvie.”

“We came all this way.”

“So? What would I tell them? They’re not going to let me in just because my great-great-grandfather once visited here in the summer and wrote his book on the typewriter.”

“That isexactlywhat you tell them. Based on these photos, we have proof that the typewriter is in there. We came all the way to fucking Scotland to see it. Now you’re telling me you’re going to just drive away because of a tiny little sign?”

He turns toward me and gives me a condescending glare. “Don’t talk to me like that, Sylvie. I’m not afraid.”

I roll my eyes. “So at least drive up there.”

He lets out a huff. “Fine. You want to go to jail in a foreign country, let’s drive up there.”

He’s so dramatic. I don’t say a word as he pulls the car up the long gravel drive, through an open gate framed by two tall brick structures on either side. The one on the right displays the words BARCLAY MANOR 1837, and the one on the left has the PRIVATE PROPERTY sign.

The driveway is long but secluded. There are dense trees on either side, and judging by the map on Aaron’s phone, there’s a body of water not far on the other side of the manor. As we travel up the hill toward the manor, the rain continues to pour. It’s rained every damn day since we got here last week. New York isn’t sunny, but at least it’s better than this.

“See, there is no one up here,” I say when we get closer to the house. Aaron slows the car, clearly nervous. “Go around back.”

His head snaps in my direction. “What? Why?”

“Because it’s probably easier to get in back there.”

“Get in? No, no, no,” he barks, quickly turning the car around like he’s about to flip a bitch on this narrow drive.

“Aaron, will you just relax? No one lives here. There’s not a car in sight. My friends and I used to sneak into our school all the time as kids, and that had much better security than this place has.”

“You’re going to just walk into this nearly two-hundred-year-old manor like you own the place? Are you out of your fucking mind, Sylvie?”

“If someone sees us, we pretend we don’t speak English and act like tourists.”

When it’s clear he can’t turn his car around on this road, he pulls up farther to where the road winds around the building. He goes to the back first, his knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“Look!” I say, pointing from the passenger side. “There’s a door on the side.”

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