Page 29 of Tainted Serenity

She laughs, and the relief washes over me. She’s not Grey, but she seems kind.

“You shouldn’t be sitting here if you want to survive again. It makes you an easy target.” She reaches out her arm for me to take, and I hesitantly grab it. “Come, follow me.”

The trust issue inside me tells me not to trust her, that she will push me into the wolf’s den and leave me to survive by myself. Yet there is another part of me that begs to finally trust someone, let go of fear clogging my mind, and to just live. Maybe she has good intentions, even though I doubt it. No one rarely has.

“The best advice I can give you is to keep moving, never stand still. It’s easier to get found then, even if you might believe it isn’t.”

Her voice sounds genuine, which instantly makes my muscles relax. Yet, an unsettling feeling lingers, as though she comes with ill intentions. There is something uncanny about her features that triggers a nagging sense of recognition, but I cannot put into words what it is. Who is this woman?

She leads me through the dark corridor until we finally reach another door, this one leading to another corridor that is bare and impersonal, reminding me of Dankworth Institute. I have to swallow as the thoughts rise, pushing them away. She holds my hand in hers, her skin clammy against my cold one. She’s nervous. I see it in the way she holds herself—her shoulders hunched back and her steps quickened. Every other second, she turns her head to peer behind me as if she’s scared someone is following us. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone was.

A loud thump from above makes her wince, her hand pressing against mine until it physically hurts. She quickens her steps, and I can’t help but follow her at the same pace, even though every part of my body hurts. My one knee hurts the most after landing on it below the stairs, shaken up and full of bruises. It takes all my willpower not to let my pain show. I don’t know this girl; for all I know, she might leave me stranded if she finds out I’m hurt, making me vulnerable and easy to find.

Her dress clings to her curves as we walk through the hallway that seems endless, the material rubbing against each other with every step she takes, and the sound rustling. I focus on the annoying sound because if I don’t, my thoughts will go elsewhere, and I can’t allow that.

“What is your name?” I ask her, my words hurried as if it’s forbidden to speak.

“You mean to tell me my name isn’t Grey?”

She looks back at me, a smile hinting at her lips, as I see those gorgeous dimples again. But the amusement in her question doesn’t quite reach her eyes, for there is fear there. An emotion that I, too, feel and have felt ever since I was eight years old, although I never admitted it to anyone.

I’m terrified of death, not knowing what comes after it. More correctly, I’m terrified of the unknown, and this situation is leading me straight to the door of the unknown, making unease trickle to my core.

I return her smile, shaking my head.

“Well, my name is Esther. You’re Naya, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, confusion lacing my reply at how she knows it.

She cast a nervous glance toward a surveillance camera straight ahead. “Mr. Grimhill has talked quite a lot about you. He has been expecting your arrival since you came to that Dankworth Institute,” she casually says, as if mentioning that doesn’t change everything.

These fuckers had it all planned out; I was always supposed to end up here at the dollhouse. The bracelet I found in the attic, still tucked inside my bra, is enough proof that my mother was involved in everything. The thought of that makes me want to fucking murder her all over again and feel her skin flush with the blood that coated her.

“Has he?” I ask, not sure what else to reply.

There’s a sour look on her face that she quickly scolds. “Yes. You are his favorite, or so he told us. That’s why some here will hold a grudge against you. They want to truly be in his possession.”

I’m about to say something more to her, but she looks back at me, motioning for me to keep quiet as we come to a pair of stairs, ascending them together.

She lets go of the grip of my hand, and then we are upstairs in what looks like a living room. But instead of a normal living room, this room is full of several sofas and armchairs along the walls, and a large grand piano in the middle. My eyes take it in, amazed by the different kinds of decoration in here. It gives a different vibe from the rest of the building. On the wall in front of us hangs a large painting, one that appears to be painted in various types of watercolors. It’s colorful—the most colorful thing I’ve seen in the whole building—and something tears at my heart at seeing it.

Esther, oblivious to my state of mind, takes slowed steps toward the end of the living room and the arched doorway there, but my feet only carry me closer to the painting.

It’s a painting of a family standing before a large building, yet there is something hideously familiar about it. The house is complete, its walls almost glowing from the sun that the painter managed to capture in the picture. All around the trees are a clear color of green, full of life—such a difference from what I have seen before. My heart stutters, somersaulting, as I stare at the building.

Grimhill Manor.

I want to tear away my eyes from the painting, but it’s as if I’m in a spell, bewitched by the painting as if it could reach out its branches and capture me in it, too.

In front of the manor stands a large family; an elderly man holding the hands of another looking to be in his forties. A woman is on his other side, her appearance feminine, with a hat on her head that covers most of her face. But that’s not what completely captures my attention. It’s the two boys who stand in front of the adults, one of them appearing to be a few years older than the other.

The shock travels through my veins, sending pulses of electricity through me as my mind has a hard time processing everything. Arthur and Frederick Grimhill stare back at me, their presence overwhelming me despite not being real. They look so happy, too happy, and I feel the rage violently surge through me. They do not deserve to feel happiness, and my fingers itch to tear apart the painting.

Esther, as if sensing my turmoil, comes over to me and has to pry my body away from its spot on the floor just so I can look her in her eyes.

“We don’t have time.”

Her voice is calm, full of understanding, as if she, too, wants to destroy the painting yet knowing we can’t. I nod my head, letting her lead me to the other side of the living room and out into another corridor.

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