CHAPTER EIGHT

When I dream that night, I’m in the bay, underwater, falling, falling back down into the depths of the sea. I try to open my eyes, but it’s blurry, and I can barely make out the surface, the hazy view of the main house staring down at me, eclipsing all else. I piston my arms, trying to pull myself up, to get my head above water, but it feels as though something keeps dragging me down, an unseen hand pulling me to the ocean floor, wrapping its fingers around my ankle and giving a good tug.

I open my mouth to scream, but the sound is stuck in my throat, and it feels like I’m choking on the sea, the salt water in my lungs—

I lurch upright in bed, struggling to catch my breath, my body heaving with the effort.

The dream felt so realistic, the sensation that I was drowning terrifying. When I was a little girl at the beach in Varadero, I once was knocked over by a wave. It carried me off for a moment before my mother scrambled over to where I was and plucked me out of the water, and I still remember the fear that I felt in that moment—I tasted it this evening in my sleep.

It’s hardly the first bad dream that I’ve had since my parents died, but there was a sharper edge to it than the other ones. It felt altogether too real, like the darkness that seems to be settled around Marbrisa had invaded my subconscious, too.

I toss and turn on the cool linen sheets, struggling to get comfortable, but it’s of no use.

I can’t fall back to sleep.

The fight with Carolina turns repeatedly in my mind. She’s right that I came here because I had little option, but at the same time, I had hoped that with our parents gone we would be able to bond in our shared grief, that if anyone could understand the tremendous loss I’d experienced, it would be her. I’d hoped that it would bring us closer, but now it feels as though we are perpetually meant to be apart, and if anything, my arrival is only serving to drive a wedge between us, dredging up old memories and resentments.

Carolina didn’t come to dinner this evening. Neither did Asher or his friend Nathaniel.

I ate my meal in silence in Marbrisa’s cavernous dining room, wishing I’d stayed in Havana. Perhaps I could have found work. Maybe the distant cousins wouldn’t have been so bad after all. The excitement I experienced when the boat first motored me up to Marbrisa yesterday feels like it was ages ago.

As soon as I secure my inheritance, I can focus on the next chapter in my life—college, then a career doing something I love. The money my parents left me will support me through the next few years, but it won’t last forever, and I have no desire to end up trapped in a marriage because I have no other options. I need to know that I can support myself. There’s so much uncertainty in the world now with the war overseas, and it feels as though I stand on the precipice of a change I must be prepared to meet.

My stomach growls loudly.

I barely ate at dinner, the food unappealing despite the obvious talents of Marbrisa’s chefs.

I turn on the lamp on the nightstand and climb out of bed, grabbing the robe I discarded earlier and slipping it on over my nightgown.

I pad over to the dresser, searching for the hair ribbon I placed there.

I still.

There’s a hairbrush resting on top of the dresser, the ribbon beside it, a bottle of my perfume sitting next to them.

The necklace is gone.

I set it on my dresser after I found it in my room, intent on asking Carolina if she had left it or if she knew anything about it. But Carolina wasn’t at dinner, and now the necklace isn’t here, either.

Did one of the maids put it somewhere else when they came into my room? Or even more disturbing, did someone come into my room while I was sleeping and take it?

Rain begins pelting the windows, the sound filling the silence. Like earlier when I was caught outside with George, the weather changes quickly from clear skies to falling sheets of water that hit the roof with loud thuds. A crack of thunder explodes, lightning brightening the night sky.

The house is unusually quiet at this late hour. The interior is as still as a crypt, while outside the weather rages on. The wind whips against the windows, slamming the glass panes. The roar of the ocean rolls in the background.

How can anyone sleep through this racket?

I slip out of my room, heading downstairs in search of food. Hopefully, there’s something to snack on in the kitchen again. I just pray Nathaniel is still abed.

Some of the lights are on in the hallway, partially illuminating the house. I assumed my room was in the guest wing, but I’ve yet to discover where Asher and Carolina’s rooms are. As much as I wanted to explore Marbrisa’s gardens, the house is still too intimidating. There are so many tensions between the people living here that I’m afraid I will inadvertently stumble onto something I shouldn’t, the sheer size of the place daunting.

I miss the city.

I walk down the staircase, careful to keep hold of the railing, my earlier near-accident still fresh in my mind. The shoes were, indeed, ruined by the rain, the rest of my outfit thankfully salvageable. I have no idea how I even go about replacing my wardrobe these days; do I ask Asher for an allowance like a child? My father’s will made no such provisions for how my affairs are to be handled, merely that Asher is responsible for the financial administration. Considering my parents’ relatively young age when they passed away, I doubt my father spent much time contemplating the situation, believing he was preparing for a contingency that would likely never occur. But now that I’m here in this position, I can only pray that they chose wisely and that I can trust Asher. It’s more than a little unsettling that his own wife doesn’t seem to.

Another flash of lighting hits, followed by booming thunder, and then the house is plunged into semidarkness once more, save for a light emanating from an open doorway down the front hall.

I hesitate.

I hate to admit it, but the whole ghost business has me unsettled even though I know there’s no such thing as ghosts. Although, I suppose in a manner of speaking, it’s harder to prove that something doesn’t exist even if I’ve never seen one myself.

If such things were possible, Marbrisa would certainly be a prime candidate for haunting.

It makes you wonder why someone like Nathaniel Hayes would choose to be a guest here. He may be Asher’s friend, but there are plenty of hotels in Miami now, and judging by the fine cut of his clothes, he can afford to stay elsewhere. Is it merely the lure of free accommodations keeping him here or is there some other enticement?

I walk toward the light, reminding myself ghosts aren’t likely to employ electricity.

The lights flicker.

I blink, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me when it happens again, a zap of power followed by a millisecond of darkness and illumination once more.

A creak echoes from above, the sound of weight being pressed upon the floorboards.

Is Carolina walking upstairs? Or is it something else? After this morning’s encounter, I only hope it isn’t Nathaniel.

The lights flicker again.

Goose bumps rise on my arms.

“It’s just the storm,” I whisper to myself. “Storms take out electricity all the time.”

I head toward the light, stopping at the threshold.

Asher stands in the library, his back toward the open doorway, his gaze cast toward the window.

Another crack of thunder echoes throughout the house.

I jump, the noise catching me off guard, a hiss escaping my lips.

Asher whirls around at the sound.

Our gazes connect.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

“The storm woke me. I haven’t been sleeping that well anyway. Too many thoughts, I suppose. I started having bad dreams after my parents’ death, and since I came to Marbrisa it’s only been worse. I was on my way to the kitchen and saw the light, and well—”

“You came to investigate?”

I nod.

“I’m sorry for the troubles. For the peacock and all that. I know you’ve been through a lot. I certainly don’t want things here to make it worse for you.”

I take a few steps closer, and the full force of Marbrisa’s library hits me before I can muster a response. Whoever built the room must have loved books, because the library is an homage to reading. Two out of the four walls are covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Another wall is positioned with enormous glass doors that in daylight must provide a stunning view of Biscayne Bay. The wall opposite the doors boasts a fireplace with an intricately carved mantel. It’s far too warm to consider lighting it, but it looks good just the same, and there’s something cozy about the sight of those logs stacked up for use even if I doubt they’re employed very often.

Artwork hangs over the fireplace.

“They’re the original architect’s blueprints of Marbrisa,” Asher says, following my gaze.

I walk toward the blueprints, studying the rendering on the wall. I know nothing about architecture, but it’s fascinating to see how the house was laid out, to appreciate all the hard work and vision that must have gone into a project of this magnitude.

The estate’s name is scrawled there.

Marbrisa

Beneath it is a familiar signature.

“Who drew up these plans?”

“The architect’s name was Michael Harrison. Why?”

“His signature—I recognize it. It’s on a painting in my bedroom.”

“He dabbled in art as well, even if architecture was his first love. He was incredibly talented.”

“What else did he build?”

“Some small projects here and there, but Marbrisa was his grandest design. He was my inspiration for buying the place.”

“How so?”

“I was at an auction and those plans were there. I’d never seen the place, but I liked the vision in his drawings. I asked my agents to do a little research on the house, and when they did, I was fascinated by what they uncovered. The house had been dormant for well over a decade, was owned by the state after the original owner died without heirs to pass it to. I decided I needed to come down here and see Marbrisa for myself, and the rest is history.”

There’s something endearing in the way he tells the story, the passion that shines through his eyes. For a moment, Asher reminds me of the man who drove up to our house all those years ago to pick up my sister. I think that was what my young eyes recognized back then—Asher was a romantic. The man standing before me seems to have lost all traces of such whimsy.

“You were that taken by the plans?”

He nods, looking a bit abashed.

“I see what initially drew your interest, but what inspired you to buy it?”

“Temporary insanity?” He winces. “I don’t know . . . there was just something about it. It felt like it was speaking to me, which I know sounds utterly ridiculous.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, seemingly shaking himself out of his stupor. “I thought it might make a good investment, and it was a steal considering the condition it was in and its history. There, does that sound better?”

“More logical, maybe, but I know what you mean about feeling like the house is speaking to you. I felt that from the first moment I saw it. Although, the house’s voice almost seems to change. Like it has different things it wants to tell me.” I flush, more than a little embarrassed by how fanciful this all sounds. “I’ve always been interested in history,” I add, hoping that explains. “I don’t believe in ghosts or anything like that.”

“No, I don’t, either,” Asher replies, and I can’t tell if we’re assuring each other or ourselves of that fact.

“And it doesn’t feel like this place is haunted, like there’s someone else here,” he adds. “More like it has different lives beneath it, secret histories begging to be uncovered.”

I nod. “Exactly.”

“It was the scope of the project that attracted me. The house seemed like it was drawn by a dreamer, and I wanted to see what became of his vision.” His cheeks flush. “It sounds silly, I know.”

“Not silly. The house looks like something out of a storybook. I mean, it has actual gargoyles. I doubt you’re the first person to come down here and be struck with fanciful thoughts.”

He shrugs. “Well, you would have thought it was ridiculous if you’d seen the estate when I first visited. It looked like the whole place had been cursed.”

“That bad?”

“It was a money pit from the start. But it was such a unique property even in a state of such sad disrepair. The years it had sat vacant had taken their toll—much of the furnishings and art had been sold off to repay the estate’s debts, other pieces damaged or stolen by the teenagers who used to sneak in here on a dare. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to see what it was in its days of grandeur. I suppose I wanted a dream of my own. Business—the kind I’m in, investments and the like—there’s no beauty in them. You trade money around, but you quickly realize that there’s beauty in the things you can buy with your money, in using it for the attainment of something higher. In building a dream.” He gives me a conspiratorial smile. “I didn’t grow up in a place like this. I worked for what I had. Every inch of this house, of the grounds. I guess it felt like a way to say I had arrived. I just needed the rest of it—the family, the wife.”

Carolina certainly would have fit the bill on that account.

I can see his point to a degree, but considering the economic depression that has ravaged so many, it seems like surviving is a reward on its own. There’s something likable about Asher, an earnestness I can relate to. Whereas Carolina puts up a wall between herself and the rest of the world, it feels like Asher is letting his guard down from how he behaved when I first arrived.

“Did you know about Marbrisa’s history? What exactly did your agents uncover?”

He hesitates, and I realize that despite his pretense of candor, whatever he’s about to tell me is not going to be the truth.

“I asked around about the house a bit. The locals were hardly forthcoming. This town has seen its share of fortunes rising and falling. Back when Marbrisa was built, everyone came to Florida looking to get rich—running to something or from something. I got the sense that people from around here were pretty fed up with rich northerners coming in, buying up land cheap, and leaving their mark on Miami, lording their good fortune over everyone else just trying to make it. So no, no one really gave me the full story. Just enough pieces for me to gather what I could already glean with my own two eyes, which is that clearly the house had fallen on hard times.”

“Why did you come to Miami?” I ask him. “Were you running to something or from something?”

He smiles. “Maybe a combination of both.”

He takes a long swig of his glass, swaying slightly as he sets it down on the wood with a heavy thunk.

If he isn’t already drunk, it seems like he’s on his way.

“Would it have made a difference?” I ask him. “If you had known what you were getting into? About how strange things would be here?”

“Would I have saved myself from my hubris and folly?” He laughs, the sound anything but funny. “Hell if I know. I’d like to think I would have. But the truth is, I wanted this place too damned bad to listen to reason. Marbrisa sank its teeth in me for one reason or another, and I wasn’t going to rest until I saw the project come to fruition. I had this vision of my children playing games on the back lawn, of my wife sitting on the porch watching them, me beside her.” His knuckles are white on the glass. “The house isn’t the only thing that didn’t turn out the way I expected.”

We’ve officially spoken more words to each other this evening than I think we have in the entirety of being relations through marriage, and as uncomfortable as I feel seeing this vulnerable side of Asher, it’s clear that the fault line that runs through Marbrisa runs through his marriage to my sister, and I can’t help but be curious as to how they’ve gotten here in the first place. Carolina is right—I know nothing about being married, of the affairs between man and wife. I know what I’ve seen from the outside looking in on other people’s relationships, but it’s a far cry from living such experiences myself. Although, given the apparent unhappy state of my sister’s marriage, I’m hardly eager to enter the bonds of matrimony myself.

“Are you alright?” I ask. It’s a personal question, but he is my brother-in-law, family if only by marriage.

He shakes his head. “Sorry—I was just thinking. I fear you’ve caught me at a bad time. There’s something about this place . . . a feeling . . .” An embarrassed laugh escapes. “You must think me mad.”

“No, of course not—I’m just sorry I interrupted you. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Please. Stay. I didn’t mean to chase you away.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Here I am complaining about my problems when you’ve suffered a great deal. What happened—I can’t imagine the shock you’ve been through. Some things are too horrible for words, especially when such losses happen to good people. Your parents were very kind.”

“They were. Thank you.”

I’ve received a variation of his condolences from everyone who has come to pay their respects following my parents’ death, and I am still no more equipped to handle them. I wish there was a blueprint for events such as these, a map of grief to follow that would tell me how to act and what to say. Everything that comes naturally simply feels inadequate, and I constantly feel as though people expect more of me, as though they are studying me in my most intimate moments. It was like that at my parents’ funeral, the whispers and gazes nearly unbearable.

It’s impossible to not feel like there’s something wrong with me when I see how unflappable Carolina is regarding the whole business. However she’s managing her grief, she seems unbothered by others’ opinions of her.

“I know we haven’t had a chance to speak much of their affairs, but we should discuss the terms of your father’s will and your inheritance soon,” Asher says, tearing me from my reverie. “I don’t want to bother you with it while you are grieving, but I want you to know, you have nothing to worry about. It means a great deal to me that your father trusted me to help with the administration of his estate, and I promise I’ll do right by you and by his wishes.”

Relief fills me. “Thank you.”

“What do you intend to do now?”

“I’d like to go to university. I’ve always enjoyed reading and I’ve always been interested in history. I thought perhaps I could be a teacher.”

As far as plans go, it’s not as fully fleshed out as I’d like, but considering the war and the enormous question of whether the United States will join the conflict, it’s hard to know what the world will look like in six months, much less in the autumn of 1942 when I would start university. If the men are sent off to fight, then there will be opportunities at home and abroad for women to join the war effort and fill the positions left behind. It feels like the world is collectively holding its breath as more horrific reports come out of the situation in Europe. If my parents’ death has taught me anything, it’s that I can make all the plans I’d like, but life is going to play out on its own terms regardless.

“That sounds like a fine plan,” Asher replies. “You will, of course, be missed at Marbrisa.”

It’s clear he says the last part out of politeness and little else, no real affection in his words, but then again, we’re barely more than strangers, so I can’t exactly blame him. More than anything, he looks a bit relieved, as though my absence will give him one less thing to worry about here. Or perhaps I’m being unkind, and he truly is concerned about my well-being and safety. I get the sense that the mantle of duty Asher carries on his shoulders is a heavy one, and if we were closer and possessed any intimacy between us, I’d advise him to sell Marbrisa to the most willing bidder and hie off somewhere where he isn’t plagued with such worries. What sort of man clings so tightly to something that causes him such trouble?

I glance back at the framed rendering over the fireplace. “The painting in my room that was done by the same man—this Michael Harrison—it’s of Anna Barnes.”

Asher nods. “I bought the painting at the same auction where I bought the plans for Marbrisa.”

“Who had them?”

“They were sold off to settle the estate’s debts and changed hands a few times over the years. There’s a market for items that have, shall we say, a troubled history. It was pure chance that I was there that day; I had intended to buy a little horse statue that my art dealer said would be a good investment.” He shrugs, looking somewhat abashed. “Like I said, I don’t have a lot of expertise with these matters. Most of the furnishings, the artwork, were bought by agents I paid for their expertise.”

I admire him for the lack of pretense, the honesty with which he admits something most people would consider to be a flaw.

“The blueprints piqued my interest, and when I saw the painting, I knew nothing about brushstrokes and the like, only that it was another part of the story, a piece of the puzzle that made me want to know more.”

“People talk about Anna Barnes like she’s responsible for everything that’s going on here. Like she’s a—”

“Ghost?” Asher finishes, his tone wry. He sighs. “I know all the rumors. That locals think Marbrisa is haunted and all that rubbish. Hell, I can’t complain too much, considering I benefited from the stigma; the reluctance people felt about owning an estate like this certainly drove the price down. That’s why it was in such a state of disrepair in the first place, why it was empty for years. People think it’s cursed. After all, it’s easier to chalk up whatever misfortune comes your way to the fact that there’s some specter hanging over the house rather than the reality that it’s a behemoth with all the costs and trials and tribulations that are associated with running such a place.

“Carolina hates it,” he says almost absent-mindedly, more as an aside to himself than anything else. “She initially loved the idea of living here, of the notoriety that came with it. We own one of the grandest estates in all of Miami and everyone knows it. When I proposed, I don’t think it hurt that I came with Marbrisa in tow.”

No, I imagine it didn’t.

“And now?” I ask, curious about my sister’s innermost thoughts, the parts of herself she keeps locked away from me. It feels a bit disloyal to ask her husband if he is privy to them, but concern for my sister and for myself make me want—need—to know more.

“Hell if I know what Carolina thinks anymore. I would imagine she would confide in you more than anyone else.”

“We’ve—we’ve never been close. Not really.”

I would think Asher would know that, considering he’s her husband. If not him, who is Carolina confiding in? I see no evidence of female friends here, no familiarity with the staff. She corresponded with our mother but rarely, me even less, and as far as I know, there were no pen pals in Havana, either. She must be incredibly lonely.

“Why aren’t you close?” Asher asks.

“Do you have siblings?”

He shakes his head.

I sigh. “I don’t know. The age difference, perhaps. I always felt like she was too many steps ahead and I was too many steps behind. Maybe it was in my nature, the order of things to want to catch up to her, and natural for her to want to make sure I never did. We were different. Different personalities, different interests. There was just this gulf between us that kept getting wider in every way. Our parents probably didn’t help things. It’s easy for siblings to be cast into certain roles, harder still to break out of them once they’re set.

“Carolina wasn’t happy in Havana. Found the society there and our parents’ wishes for us to be too stifling.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I supposed it was easier to go along with things than to rock the boat.”

“Carolina can be—”

“Complicated,” I finish.

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a beat. “I met your sister in Miami. At a party at the Biltmore Hotel. It was so fast. We must have spent a total of twenty minutes together. Hardly enough to know each other, hardly enough to know my own mind.”

“Then why did you—never mind, I shouldn’t ask.”

“She was lovely. The loveliest thing I had ever seen. And at the time, it seemed like we got along so well, that our personalities were similar, our desires the same. It was fast enough for me to be charmed. Utterly.” He grimaces. “I seem to have a habit of rushing into things against reason and ending up biting off more than I can chew.”

I can’t help but feel a little sorry for the man and how earnest he is, how completely and miserably he misjudged my sister. Carolina is a great many things, some of which I thoroughly envy, but “lovely” is much too mild a word to describe my sister.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s the trouble—everyone looks at Carolina and draws their own conclusions of who she should be rather than considering who she is.

Silence falls between us.

“I should go to sleep,” Asher says. “I have an early morning meeting with the head gardener about hiring some new workers.”

“I met him earlier,” I say, lest Nathaniel tattle to Asher about my stroll in the maze. “George, right? He seems dedicated to the gardens. The grounds are lovely.”

Asher nods. “He’s young, but he knows his business. He was already on the staff and was promoted to head gardener when his predecessor left without a word after the dead alligator.”

“It must be difficult to lose staff in such a manner.”

“It’s certainly frustrating. I don’t know how to assure the workers that they won’t be next. They’re convinced that this ‘ghost’ will eventually escalate to people.”

“Admittedly, I don’t know much about curses, but why do they think Anna is haunting Marbrisa?”

He’s silent again, and I already know the answer by how obvious it is that he doesn’t want to say it aloud.

“Because she was killed here.”

So, there was some truth to what Carolina told me.

“How?”

“In the bay. She drowned. Michael Harrison found her.”

“Carolina said—well, she told me Anna’s husband murdered her.”

“That’s the rumor. That he pushed her into the bay and watched her drown.”

“How horrific.”

How cold. How could you do such a thing to someone you professed to love? I can’t contemplate a marriage disintegrating to such a point.

“Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?” I ask. “Living in a house where someone was murdered?”

“It’s another problem in a long list of them,” Asher replies, his voice dry.

---

I return to my room, leaving Asher alone in the library. I stop in front of the painting of Anna Barnes, studying her image once more.

“What happened to you?”

What was she thinking in the moment when this was painted? There’s something in her expression that looks . . . resolved? A glint of determination that suggests Anna Barnes could be a force to be reckoned with.

Tomorrow, I’ll ask around and see if I can learn more about Anna and her husband. I’ve been so moored in my grief over the loss of my parents, my future uncertain. At least this gives me something to focus on, something to fill my days, a way to understand this strange place a little better. Mrs. Morrison wasn’t in the house this evening, but tomorrow I’ll talk to her as well. If she worked for the Barnes family, then she must know more about what happened to Anna.

I walk over to the window. It’s a full moon tonight. The weather has finally calmed down; the rain stopped as quickly as it started.

I pull the curtain back in place, turning away from the window when I spy movement out of the corner of my eye.

A woman in a dark blue dress heads in the direction of the gardens, walking toward the hedge maze, her strides quick.

Carolina.

She lifts her skirts, running now, her dark hair trailing behind her.

Is she meeting her lover? At this hour? Was she waiting for the storm to lift all evening, waiting for her opportunity to sneak out of the house?

I just left Asher; he’s likely still awake. What if he looks out the window at this precise moment and sees the same thing?

I can’t blame Carolina for chasing happiness; if losing our parents the way we did a few weeks ago taught me anything, it’s that life is short, and it can all be taken away from you in the blink of an eye. But I’m worried about her all the same.

I move away from the window, sweeping the curtain closed.

I climb back into bed, leaning over and turning off the lamp on my nightstand. I lie down on my side, pulling the covers over my body.

A peacock shrieks off in the distance, the loud noise piercing the night.

I groan.

The peacocks seemingly have little concern for normal waking hours, and I’ve already learned that they have no problem squawking whenever they please, even if the rest of the house is sleeping. It’s the most disconcerting thing to be lying in bed and to hear the unusual noises they make.

I pray they will quiet down soon so I can finally sleep. It feels like it’s been weeks since I got a proper night’s rest, and while tonight is going to be another night in a string of them when I’m awake more than I’m asleep, I hope I can at least get a few hours before the sun breaks through the curtains.

Another scream, this one different in tone and immediately recognizable.

I bolt upright.

Carolina.

I lurch out of bed and head toward the window, yanking back the curtain. I can no longer see Carolina outside the maze, only the entrance visible to me now. There are a few gas lanterns lit around the entrance, giving off a warm glow, but it’s impossible to see the twists and turns I walked just this morning.

I run down the hallway, to the staircase, my bare feet slipping against the marble, my nightgown swirling around me. I race through the house, my heart pounding, legs pumping as fast as they can carry me.

When I reach a set of back doors leading out to the patio, one of them is already yawning open. I push my way outside, the stone terrace scratching at my bare feet until I hit the soft grass.

The scream came from the direction of the maze, where I last saw Carolina near the entrance, and I head there now, belatedly realizing that not only did I fail to put on shoes, it’s also possible that I’m running into a situation I might not be prepared for if Carolina is indeed in danger. As soon as I heard her cry, all I could think was that my sister needed me.

Did she find another dead animal? Or did she see something else?

The maze’s entrance comes into view.

I hesitate for a moment. In the morning light, the maze looked enchanted. Now, cloaked in darkness, only a hint of illumination to guide the way, it looks menacing.

I wish I’d grabbed a flashlight.

I wish I’d brought a weapon.

“Carolina!” I call out, desperate to see my sister emerge from the maze.

I take a step forward, my heart pounding, the entrance before me. I’m out of breath from the mad dash from the house, the eeriness of the maze in darkness making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

The sound of footsteps crunching on gravel fills the air.

Relief fills me.

Thank God.

“You scared me,” I call out to Carolina. “I heard you scream.”

The sound of crunching footsteps gets closer, and a figure emerges from the maze.

It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with what my eyes see. I expected Carolina to round the corner of the maze.

Asher walks toward me.

He looks—stricken, shell-shocked—as though he’s seen a ghost.

His snowy white shirtfront is covered in red.

He carries a bundle in his arms.

It’s so reminiscent of how he looked on the patio with the peacock, that for a split second I convince myself that he’s found another bird somewhere in the bowels of the maze.

He staggers, his knees giving out beneath him, and he falls to the ground, just as he looks up, as our eyes meet, and a heaviness floods my veins.

I glance down at what he’s carrying.

“Carmen,” he croaks.

“No.” I barely recognize my voice or the sound I make as I stumble toward him, my limbs moving as of their own volition, my mind struggling to keep up.

Carolina lies in Asher’s arms, her dress marred with blood.

“Carmen,” he says again, but his voice sounds so small, far away, as though I am being pulled underwater like in my nightmares and I’m struggling to come up for air.

My hands tremble as I reach out, sliding them up to her neck, searching for a pulse, desperate to feel her life beating beneath my fingers.

She’s gone.