Page 146 of Stutter

Ding-ding-goddamn-ding.

The blueprints for the Anderson home show ‘historical entrances from the underground railroad’ cited on the website. I type in the Monroe residence as well then type in the Hoover's address.

Goddammit. They all have them. Not only that, but each blueprint is showing ‘servant corridors' something the wealthy would have pre-plumbing for servants to carry chamber pots out of bed chambers to empty them out and not disgust the owners ofthe homes. We have them in this house. The house staff still uses them to get from one room to the other quickly.

“How long has your home been in your family?”

He arches a dark brow. “Generations.”

I look at my little love. “The Monroe mansion? How long have the Monroe’s lived there?”

Same. Generations.She signs.

“Were there… hidden passageways?”

He takes a sip of his wine, thumb grazing over the condensation from the chilled wine. “Yeah.”

“And for you, Amourette? Did you have them?”

She shakes her head, looking confused, dark brows pinned together.

My eyes roam over the screen, Maverick rising to stand behind me to see what I’m seeing.

“Yes, Siren… looks like you did have them. You probably just never knew where to look for them.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Raven.

The door to the Monroe Mansion opens for me even at this hour without having to knock as though the house itself were expecting me. But once I step through the threshold, there’s no one behind the door.

It only thuds softly behind me.

A game.

Gone are the tinsel and twinkling lights, the ornaments, and the warmth that usually fills this place during the holidays. It’s just a vast, dead silence occupying the large home except for a crackling fire in the fireplace. It’s nothing and everything like I remember. I let my jacket drop to the ground behind me, uncaring if I leave a mess behind.

Let them find me.

A floorboard above me creaks and I already know to whom it belongs to and without another thought, I grab the oak banister and slowly make my way up the stairs, one foot in front of the other.

Memories of sliding down these banisters as a child to annoy Axel haunt me. How many pranks did I play? How many times did I force him to grab his mattress and join me in ‘sledding’ down these same stairs?

Too many to count.

The closer I reach the landing, the more I can see the soft orange glow of another fire emanating from the bottom of the door, calling to me like a moth to a flame… the fucking music that’s coming from inside those walls is nothing like the one being created inside my mind with each step.

A closer step to vindication.

My retribution.

My wrath.

My… sanity.

Whatever’s left of it.

The walls begin to pulsate, screaming to mehere! Here! He’s. In. Here!

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