Franklin ripped open his apartment door, dragging Sam toward the rickety stairs, his hand wrapped tightly around the rope binding her wrists. Descending the stairs rapidly, he yanked Sam behind him. She stumbled onto the decaying top stair, unable to grab the railing for support, her foot slipping. Twisting to avoid falling, Sam crashed into a crumbling wall, and her ankle rolled sideways, drawing an anguished cry from her lips.
Glancing backward, Franklin’s eyes narrowed. “No dawdling, Miss Hastings.”
He jerked the rope and Sam flew forward, tripping down two steps, pain radiating in her ankle. It was swelling.
Franklin turned, pulling her down the second flight of stairs. She stumbled after him, her arms stretched out in front of her. Unable to hold up her skirt, she stepped on her hem, catching the material and tearing it. Losing her footing, she pitched forward. Her hands were torn from Franklin’s grasp as she tumbled down the last flight of stairs.
Sam landed hard, smashing her knees on the floorboards and crumpling. Her chin ricocheted off the wood, ripping the breath from her lungs. Crying out, Sam rolled onto her side, screaming in agony, shrinking into a tiny ball.
Descending the staircase, Franklin paused at her feet, glancing down. He kicked her boot, his dark glare holding no sympathy. “I do not remember you being extremely clumsy. Stand up.”
Sam uncurled, glowering at him. Blowing a tendril of hair from her sweaty face, she lifted her head from the grimy floor, a barrage of pain catapulting down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing her scream. Taking several deep breaths, Sam reopened her eyes, scowling at Franklin’s amused face.
“Let us see how well balanced you are when your wrists are bound, Franklin.” A wave of medication overwhelmed the pain. She heaved twice, her body contorted with nausea. She vomited and collapsed, not caring about the disgusting floor or the mouse poking around her foot.
Franklin rolled his eyes. “Give me your hands.”
With a groan, Sam raised her arms, refusing to lift her head off the floor.
Snarling, Franklin grabbed the rope, yanking upward. He pulled Sam into a sitting position, dragging her upward until she perched uncomfortably on her bruised knees. Her arms, dotted with specs of blood from tiny cuts and splinters, ached as he held them over her head.
“Try not to move,” Franklin said with a sneer, “I would hate to carve up your beautiful face.” He fished a penny knife from his waistcoat pocket and unfolded it. The blade glinted dangerously in the sunlight streaming in from cracks in the roof. With a flick, he sliced the sharp edge across the ropes, allowing them to fall easily to the floor.
The binding had etched painful burns into Sam’s delicate skin, the red marks glowing in the dim lighting of the foyer. Massaging her wrists to ease the prickling feeling crawling through her fingers, Sam moaned with relief.
“Manners, Samantha.” Franklin clucked. “Now you must say, Thank you, dear Cousin.”
“Thank you, Cousin,” Sam ground the words through clenched teeth.
“No.” Franklin shook his head, accompanying the movement with a wave of the knife. “I said dear. Can you not follow even the simplest instructions?”
“Thank you, dear Cousin.” She forced a smile.
“You are welcome.” He pushed open the door and bowed low, a grotesque smile on his lips as he mocked her.
Tearing her eyes from Franklin and the sharp blade, San stared through the open doorway. Bright sunlight painted the cobblestones, falling on the top of a black coach which waited just outside the building.
“Your carriage awaits, my dear.” Franklin bowed, adding a genteel grin.
Sam rose unsteadily, leaning against the doorframe. Taking several minutes to brush real and imaginary debris from her skirt, her eyes studied the buildings along the road. How would she escape with Franklin watching her so closely? She hoped someone would pass by; however, the street remained empty.
In truth, not one person had crossed her path since Franklin brought her to this horrid place. Outrunning the carriage was not an option, and with her wounded ankle, she would never escape Franklin without some sort of distraction. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself once they reached the townhouse. As long as Franklin did not possess the jewelry, he would need her alive.
How long would that be?
Her eyes flicked to the coachman. The faceless mass, bundled in rags, refused to acknowledge her presence. He sat stoically, frozen in his hunched position, a ghoulish marionette waiting for its master. Resolutely, she squared her shoulders and attempted to walk elegantly through the door. A burning sensation stabbed her ankle, sucking the air from Sam’s lungs. She gasped, tripping forward and grabbing onto the carriage’s wheel.
Smirking, Franklin stepped forward and offered his hand, a smirk on his lips. “May I offer some assistance?”
She shied away with a shiver and shook her head. Lifting her skirt, she stepped onto the carriage rung and climbed into the darkness without a word. As she settled on the cool bench, a shudder ripped through her spine.
Sliding the knife blade closed, Franklin dropped it back into his pocket. He ambled to the front of the coach, gesturing for the driver to lean down. Whispering for a brief moment with the featureless coachman, Franklin returned to the cabin door, whistling a hollow tune. Climbing into the carriage, Franklin swung the door closed and seated himself across from Sam, knocking on the window. The coach jerked forward.
“Our adventure begins.” He grinned, rubbing his hands together.
They rode in silence for several minutes. With the curtains drawn tightly, it was impossible to determine their location, or which route the coachman followed. The only light that entered the cabin crawled through a crack at the bottom of the door.
How far was Franklin’s lodging from the townhouse? Perhaps she could trick him into telling her. A flash caught her eye in the semi-darkness. Sam glanced up and bit her lower lip to prevent a scream from slipping past her teeth.
Franklin had extracted the knife from his pocket and was using the tip of the blade to draw light patterns across the palm of his hand. He seemed pensive, watching little white lines appear in his skin. Five minutes passed before he finally spoke.
“I am curious,” Franklin said without glancing up. “How did you come to learn of the location of the jewelry?” His dark eyes flickered toward Sam’s face as he continued etching bizarre sketches in his skin.
Sam gulped. Unsure of the direction of the conversation, she responded nonchalantly. “I deciphered the note from Father, the one we discovered in the back of the watch.”
“I see.” Franklin’s eyes gleamed, his voice remaining calm. “Where did the clue direct you?”
“To the study in the townhouse,” replied Sam without hesitation.
A skeptical look followed her statement. He leaned forward, his face inches from hers. Sam could feel his hot breath tickling her skin as he studied her eyes.
“Where in the study?” he asked, his eyebrows rising partially.
Sam’s mind raced. If she revealed the true location, there would be no further reason to keep her alive. However, if she lied, Franklin would know. Would she be able to stave off his fury? Faced with the possibility of her imminent demise, she opted for deception.
“They are hidden in a desk.”
“Did you inform anyone of the true location of the jewelry?” Franklin regarded her with a peculiar expression.
“No.” Sam shook her head. That part was true.
“Rebecca’s desk?” Franklin pressed, centimeters from her face.
“Yes,” she squeaked, praying Franklin believed her lie.
“I checked the desk,” muttered Franklin, leaning back on his bench. He fell silent for a moment, his head tilted oddly on its side. The knife continued its macabre dance across Franklin’s hand.
Sam held her breath as she watched Franklin’s eyes clear. He shot across the tiny coach, shoving Sam against the bench and pressing the knife blade into her throat. She choked, trapped between the carriage and Franklin’s gleaming knife.
“I checked the desk.” His eyes narrowed. “You are lying to me, Samantha.”
Pain erupted in Sam’s jaw as Franklin struck her across the face with the back of his hand, her cheek throbbing from the blow. Franklin hit her again. The force threw her against the opposite side of the coach. She slammed into the carriage wall and slumped down on the bench, unable to escape Franklin’s brutal rage.
He bore down on her, yanking her from the bench and wrapping his hands around Sam’s throat. He pushed her down onto the carriage floor, straddling her legs. His fingers tightened around her neck. As he squeezed, she struggled to shove his body off her chest, kicking her feet futilely. Her strength failed. Franklin crushed her chest with his knees, pressing the oxygen from her lungs, his black eyes glittering with venom.
Sam clawed her fingernails across Franklin’s hands, raking deep scars through his skin, yet his hold did not lessen. Her hands frantically flailed along the floor. The wasted effort caused Franklin to laugh callously as he watched her struggle under his weight, a fish gasping for air.
“Edward,” she whispered, “please forgive me.”
Creeping in from the sides of her vision, darkness threatened to overtake Sam’s mind. She refused to allow Franklin’s sneering face to be her last memory. Twisting her head sideways, her eyes fell on the tiny crack under the door. Flashes of color whipped past in hues of deep green. A deafening roar rushed in her ears, then… nothing. Peace. Everything stopped.
The carriage halted.
Franklin’s head whipped up. He grinned with delight, slowly releasing his fingers one by one. Oxygen saturating Sam’s fevered brain, she sucked in raspy gulps of air, her chest heaving. Benjamin’s green eyes burned briefly in the darkness before fading into the shadows.
Ripping open the coach’s door, Franklin bounded from the carriage. He spun around with a feral grin and offered his hand again in a dramatic gesture. Sam shook her head stubbornly and remained crouched on the floor, refusing to budge. With a shrug, Franklin leaned into the carriage and seized Sam’s closest leg, his fingers digging into her skin. Dragging her forward—hand over hand—he murmured in a low tone as she slid onto the street.
“If you make one sound or draw any attention to us, I will kill all three of those wretched nieces, in front of you. Do you understand?”
“I do.” Sam nodded, her wide eyes focused solely on Franklin.
“Excellent.” He grasped her elbow and bobbed his head at the driver. A whip cracked, and the carriage disappeared down the empty street, Sam’s hope vanishing with it. With a snicker, Franklin grabbed her chin and forced it toward the townhouse.
Sam gasped. A burned shell remained in place of the sitting room. All the family memories and pictures were destroyed. Wilhelmina’s favorite settee, now a pile of ashes, smoked ominously in the center of the room. Sam choked down a sob as her eyes scanned the scorched space.
Grinning, Franklin dragged her closer to the damaged abode. “Would you prefer to enter through the front door or the sitting room?”
Sam’s eyes jumped from the charred townhouse to Franklin’s jeering face. “Why, Franklin? Why did you do this horrible thing?”
“I am not responsible for igniting the fire. I received assistance with that happy task.” Franklin snorted and gestured at the burned ruins. “The Hastings family has more than one enemy.”
Shoving Sam toward the ashen steps, he wrenched her arm behind her, propelling her up the stairs, their shoes leaving prints in the soot. Franklin ripped open the door with a snarl. A shudder raced down Sam’s spine. She glanced left and right, pushing back against Franklin’s bulk and hoping someone would notice them. The street was empty. With a cluck, Franklin thrust Sam inside and slammed the door.
The motion disturbed the ash flurries floating languidly through the hazy air, whipping them around Franklin and Sam like a grey snowstorm and embedding themselves in Sam’s hair. Franklin pushed Sam forward, prodding the center of her back with the knife tip.
“Lead the way, my dear. I hope the jewelry is here… for your sake.”
Sam inched along the hallway, avoiding various, unrecognizable pieces of charred furniture. Franklin dug the blade sharply into her spine, a silent reminder of his presence. She took a deep breath and pushed open the study room door, relief washing over her. The study remained mostly intact. The only damage came from the shared wall between the study and the sitting room. Singe marks, from where the flames entered through the grate in the lower portion of the partition, danced their way up the wall in gruesome patterns.
Her gaze sought out her mother’s desk. Approaching it, Sam’s heart hammered. Please let the dollhouse be here. Her fingers trailed over scorch marks, which licked their way across the delicate surface of the desk. Sam’s breath caught, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. A flash of light caught her eye. Something peeked out from underneath the desk. The dollhouse! Sam exhaled.
Franklin followed her over to the desk and shoved her to the side. Sam stumbled, crashing into Edward’s desk. Ignoring her, Franklin ripped the top of her mother’s desk up, revealing the writing surface and six drawers, still organized in her mother’s haphazard manner. Franklin thumbed through the paperwork on the desk, flinging papers over his shoulder as he searched. He tore open the drawers, dumping their contents on the ground with a growl. In the final cubby, he discovered a stack of letters, loosely bound together by a blue ribbon and tossed them in Sam’s direction. Unprepared, she dropped the stack. The letters hit the floor, exploding into a flurry of envelopes.
“I see no jewelry.” Franklin glanced back at Sam, his black eyes shrinking to slits. Spinning around, he grabbed Sam, slamming her body against the bookshelf, his hand closing around her throat again. She struggled, kicking her feet. Franklin pressed himself against her body, pinning her legs against the wall. He extracted the knife, placing the blade against Sam’s neck.
She swung her arm, knocking books off the shelves, one volume striking Franklin in the head. Leaping backward, Franklin slashed the knife through the air, the arc barely missing Sam’s face. She scrunched herself against the bookshelf, trying to avoid the blade. Without warning, Franklin reached out and grabbed her hair. He yanked her to his side, ignoring her screams.
“Where are they?” He snarled, spit flying from his lips.
Sam shook her head. “I will never tell you,” she yelled, fumbling behind her. Her fingers closed around the rim of a vase, situated on a small table next to the bookshelf. She swung the vase into Franklin’s head, smashing it, scattering pieces across the floor.
Franklin stumbled and released his hold, a trickle of blood leaking from the cut on his forehead. He howled in frustration, blindly swiping the knife at her.
If she could just get to the front door, someone would see her. She limped across the rug. As her hand touched the study doorknob, her head slammed against the wood. Franklin spun her around and flung her across the room. Colliding with the corner of her mother’s desk, she tumbled over the edge. It upended itself with the force of her body.
Sam crashed to the floor with a pain-filled moan. Franklin wound his fingers through her hair again, lifting her from the ground, pitching her across the room. She rammed into several armchairs, knocking them askew, and landed in a heap, her feet twisted in a morbid dance. Struggling to roll onto her stomach, Sam crawled toward Edward’s desk. Franklin advanced and grabbed her ankle. Wrapping her fingers around the leg of Edward’s desk, Sam screamed for help. With a smirk, Franklin kicked her in the side, cutting off her yells and dragged her back to the middle of the room with a sneering grin.
“I have all day Samantha. How long do you think you will survive?” The knife flashed.