Page 17 of Into the Woods

That their consumption had taken over completely. But it had. And now it’s bled over, staining my life with the detritus of their bad decisions.As if they hadn’t screwed me over badly enough…

I pace back and forth across the suite of rooms I was shown to after Christophe blew my world apart with his mention of an auction—theauction. Because, evidently, this is a major event at the club my parents ran that I had no idea existed. Why would I? I’ve focused my entire life on avoiding the things that hide in the shadows. The dark, scary parts of the world that house true evil.

The plush carpeting silences my repetitive steps, allowing me to hear even the tiniest of noises out in the hall as I pace the length of the sitting room. I stop dead in my tracks as footsteps approach the door. My locked door, because let’s not mistake this for anything other than what it is—I’m a prisoner here.

After a soft knock, the lock drags and clicks until the door pushes open revealing a kind faced gentleman in a perfectly fitted charcoal suit. The tray clutched in his arms is laden with covered dishes, a coffee carafe, and another glass of whiskey, but not in crystal. This one is in a plastic cup.

“Mr. Robicheaux said I’m not to trust you with the good glassware. Though it does pain me to serve you a premium blend in what amounts to a child’s sippy cup,” the man says, his clear voice heavily accented, though it’s very posh British as opposed to the lilt of French.

“Can you help me?” I plead. “I need to get out of here, find my friend. I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I don’t belong here.”

His wrinkled face pulls into a sympathetic smile. “Miss L’Ourson, I assure you that I cannot. Now, have a bit of a nosh, take a bath. Salts and essential oils are next to the tub, towels in the cupboard. And then relax. Crawl into bed and sleep. I’m sure you’re exhausted.” He sets his tray on the coffee table and fusses over the arrangement of its contents.

I can’t do that. I don’t know that my stomach could handle anything. Maybe the whiskey, but even that seems like a dicey prospect, not to mention I have nothing to change into. No cleanclothes, and the last thing I’m going to do is hang out here, in Christophe’s mansion, with nothing on. I need to be ready to escape if the opportunity presents itself. I don’t know how I’ll find Tru, but I will—I won’t leave without her. I’ll get us out of here and we’ll run. For however long it takes, however far we have to go.

As if he’s reading my mind, the gentleman states, “There’s a robe, perhaps a few other things in the wardrobe, miss. Whatever plans you think you have, I suggest you forget them. It’s a fruitless folly; you’re here for the duration and I suggest you make the most of the amenities available while you’re able.”

I don’t like what he’s hinting at, but sage advice is sage advice.

“I’m at a complete disadvantage,” I tell him as I edge toward the door. Maybe he left it unlocked, and I can slip out and run.

“How is that, Miss L’Ourson?”

As if there aren’t a thousand different ways that I’m on the struggle bus here. “You know who I am, but I have no idea who you are.”

One step toward the door.

Two.

Shifting my weight from one foot to the other grants me maybe another half step closer to freedom.

Tsk tsk.“No need to try and distract me, miss. You’ll find that the reward is not worth the risk. Mr. Robicheaux has your room under guard, not to mention the cameras throughout the estate. Should you run, you’ll be found immediately and returned to your suites.” He pulls the cover from one of the dishes on his tray. “A proper meal for you or perhaps something lighter? A charcuterie?”

“I—” My protest is cut short.

“Garrick.”

I shake my head, not at all sure I’m following. “What?”

He gives me a proper bow, one hand on his stomach, one on his back. “My name, miss. Bartholomew Garrick Hedgeworth. I am pleased to be in your service.”

My head spins.

My knees wobble.

And I have to fight the urge to slump down to the floor and cry. I don’t have time to cry. Where was this sting behind my eyes and burn in my nose when I needed it for the cops and the damn funeral?

I was close, so damn close to getting out of this town. To getting away from my parents and their pull on me. So close to finally being free.

The support of a warm hand on my elbow brings me back to the shitty reality that is now mine to deal with. If we were anywhere else, I would think Bartholomew Garrick Hedgeworth was a sweet older gentleman, maybe even Santa himself.

But we’re here.

And I can’t leave.

I allow him to guide me to a chair in front of the fireplace.

I accept the plate of food he hands me.

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