Chloe felt the floor tilt. “You’re lying.”
“I was hoping you’d find it,” Irene said softly. “I was hoping you’d come down here. So we could finally talk.” Chloe backed against the cold stone wall. “What is this place?”
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Irene descended slowly, each step deliberate. “This is where I kept you safe, Chloe. When Richard was drinking. When he would come home and look at you the way men look at things they want to break. You don’t remember, do you?”
But she did not throw the key away. The next morning, Irene found a note slipped under the front door. Chloe felt the floor tilt
Chloe’s breath came in short gasps. “You’re insane.”
That night, while Irene attended a gallery opening in the city, Chloe let herself into the main house. The key turned smoothly. The door opened onto a stairwell that smelled of cedar and something sweeter — vanilla, maybe, or decay. So we could finally talk
Chloe stared at the key still clutched in her palm. The rain had stopped. The house was utterly silent.
Chloe shook her head. “That’s not — he was sick, but he never —”