Despite Olivia’s warning, I tell Bryony everything when she comes that morning with my breakfast, because for my plan to work, I need her. I make her go over the layout of Ledbury Hall a hundred times, reciting it back to her when she comes again at lunch. She tells me exactly where in Heath’s bedroom I’ll find the brass tin of keys. During the house tour, I’ll have to find a way to lock Olivia in a room to buy me enough time to free Bryony. Then the two of us will drag Olivia, kicking and screaming if we have to, from the manor. The plan is to find a road, a passing car, another house, any civilisation that can alert the police.
By the time supper arrives, I’m confident I know the layout off by heart. Though I don’t entirely trust Bryony, I trust her enough to know she wants to be as far from Ledbury Hall as possible. We need each other.
I lie awake all night, too excited, too terrified to sleep. All the petrifying possibilities tomorrow brings spiders pouring from the crevices of my mind, until my head crawls with them. The thought of Heath catching me out of my room makes me sick to my stomach. What will he do? I think of his dead sister and wonder how he murdered her. Why?
The house creaks and groans around me. Old pipes, moaning ghosts. The walls are thick with secrets. I wonder if I press my ear against them, I’ll hear the slowing beat of Elinor’s heart, the dying hitch of her breath.
I wake to a long-lost chill in the air. After months of suffocating, sticky heat, September has arrived with a gust of autumn. The artillery fire of rain on the roof tiles fills the room. I get out of bed and stand before the rain-lashed windows. Dark, angry clouds swirl in the steel sky. A storm is brewing. When we were children, Olivia and I loved them. We’d wait with racing hearts and wide, eager eyes for the thunderous sky, counting between strikes of lightning. Waiting with bated breath for the next bolt of electric-blue. My heart races now, not for the upcoming storm, but with the wild-animal urge to flee from a trap.
I shower and dress in a white, cotton midi dress that’s loose-fitting. Bryony brings breakfast but we eat in near silence. She glances continuously at the door and I know he’s outside, listening. Before she goes, she gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.
By the time Olivia comes to my room, my stomach is in knots. She hums with a nervous, excited energy. ‘Ready for your tour?’
My heart gallops. I smile. ‘Absolutely.’
She holds open the door and I step into the hall. No handcuffs. No Heath. Even with two large windows at either end of the landing, the storm-darkened sky casts a dim, grey light. Unease skitters through me. Olivia bends down and scoops something from the ground. As my eyes fall on it, my pulse kicks. The brass tin. Of course. All the doors are locked, how else was she going to get into each room when Heath keeps the master key around his neck? I’m tempted to slap it from her hand and take it but force myself to stick to the plan.
‘Let’s start with the bedrooms,’ she says.
I nod.
I pay very little attention as she leads me from one spare room to another, but when she pushes open the door to Heath’s room, my curiosity spikes. It smells of him. Of sea salt and sage, lemongrass and clean skin. The walls are the dark, smoky grey of a storm cloud. The furniture is warm, bare woods. In the corner is a bookcase full of vinyl. A record player rests on the chest of drawers under the window. The focal point of the room though is the king-sized, four-poster bed. I imagine my sister entwined with him and anger bursts in my chest. I look away and that’s when I see it. A large, framed photograph hanging on the opposite wall.
Gazing down at me is a girl, no older than sixteen, wearing a dress in a pretty shade of green. Just for a second, I mistake her for Olivia. Her face is in semi-profile, and she is sitting in an armchair, a smile playing on her lips. In her hands is an open book. It’s as though she has been interrupted mid-read. Her hair is long and glossy and thick. Almost the exact shade of gold as Olivia’s. Her eyes are a startling periwinkle blue. They are fathomless and intelligent, staring at the photographer with unmistakable affection. She’s hauntingly beautiful, just like my sister.
‘Elinor,’ offers Olivia.
Heath’s sister. Heath’s murdered sister. Without looking at Olivia, I ask, ‘Were they close?’
‘Very.’
‘What did he say happened to her?’
‘Ran off with an Irishman.’
‘And she’s never come back?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’ When she doesn’t answer, I turn to her. ‘If they’re so close, I mean?’
She lifts her chin but says nothing. She is wilfully ignorant.
‘You look just like her,’ I say, my eyes ping-ponging between her and Elinor.
Olivia’s lips part and her gaze drifts up to the photograph. She has thought the same and wondered why. She clears her throat. ‘Let’s look at the other rooms.’
She leads me out and locks the door behind us, dropping the key into the tin.
Downstairs, I am led from one opulent room to another. It is only as I am taken into the sitting room that my stomach turns over. Hanging beside the fireplace is a wedding dress. Not just any wedding dress. The one I chose when I was with her. I reach out and touch the dainty, embroidered leaves.
Olivia is grinning, barely able to keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘Are you surprised?’
I swallow. ‘Very.’
Now I know why she wanted to go dress shopping with me. It was never for my wedding to Oscar. It was always for my wedding to Heath. I take a deep, steadying breath, swallowing the burn of fear.
‘This is pretty much it. You’ve seen every room.’
‘What about the library?’
‘You saw it that first day.’
‘Not properly. It’s all a bit of a blur,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it through here?’ I move towards the locked door. For this plan to work, I need to get into the library.
Olivia glances at the clock. ‘I suppose so but we have to be quick.’
She takes a key from the tin and opens the door. My eyes dart around the library until they settle on the door tucked away behind the bar cart. The one Bryony and I discussed at length. I wonder over to it and grasp the brass handle. ‘What’s through here?’ I ask, pretending I have no idea.
‘Wine cellar.’
I feign surprise and then delight. ‘I love wine. Can we take a quick look?’
She frowns. ‘You want to look at dusty old wine bottles?’
‘I actually know quite a lot about wine.’ I don’t tell her this is because of my relationship with Oscar. ‘I love an oaky red.’ I sweeten the suggestion. ‘Maybe I could even pick one out for the wedding. You can tell Heath you chose it.’
Her gaze lights up at this, delighted I’m taking an interest in my looming marriage. ‘Fine. But we have to be really, really quick.’
I nod.
She puts the key in the lock and opens it. Like always, she leaves the key in situ as we descend the stairs. Like always, I am ushered in first. I descend into yawing darkness. As I reach the bottom, a light flicks on overhead, and Olivia follows. I glance up, past her, to the open cellar door. In her hands is the brass tin of keys. I wander over to one of the shelves and slide a bottle of red free, blowing the dust from its label. I wiggle it at her.
‘Nineteen eighty-two,’ I say. ‘Not bad.’
She takes it from me but frustratingly, she keeps hold of the tin. ‘I prefer white.’
I roll my eyes. ‘A heathen’s preference.’
She puts the bottle back and I slide another free. Adrenaline courses through me as I try to work out how I can take the tin, get up the stairs and lock her down here. I don’t want to hurt her. I glance towards the steps. She’s closer to them than I am. I need to draw her deeper into the cellar. I slip the bottle I was holding back and move further along the shelves, pretending to browse. She follows, asking me questions about wine. I answer on autopilot, surprised by how much I absorbed from Oscar over the years. All the while, I am manoeuvring her further and further from the stairs. Once we are as far away as we can get, I pluck a bottle at random but I am shaking so hard with trepidation, I almost drop it.
‘Caitie,’ she admonishes. ‘Be careful. If you break anything, he’ll know we were down here.’ She licks her lips, suddenly nervous. ‘Look, you’ve seen the entire house, let’s go back.’
But only one of us can leave this cellar. I could hit her with it. Knock her out. But even as I think it I know I’m lying to myself. I look down at the bottle in my hand, her warning not to break anything ringing in my ears. ‘OK,’ I say, and as I make to slide the bottle back into its holster, I deliberately drop it. It hits the concrete, shattering. Glass glitters in a seeping pool of crimson.
‘Caitie!’ she scolds. Setting the brass tin down, she kneels, picking pieces of glass from the floor.
I move around her. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Then, while she’s distracted, I snatch the tin from the floor and race across the cellar to the stone steps.
Olivia shrieks my name. She’s fast, thundering quickly up the stairs behind me. She lunges, fingers snatching at my dress and yanking me back. I trip, smacking my knee against the lip of the step. I cry out in pain. Olivia’s frantic, grasping fingers pinch at my skin, trying to get a hold of me. I kick out. My foot meets flesh and she yelps. But I’m free. I stagger up the stairs, still clutching the tin. Heart banging against my ribs, I reach the top and spin towards the door, slamming it shut. Olivia throws herself against it. I fumble with the key and snap it to the right, locking her inside.
Her screams are rage-filled.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I call to her, though I’m not sure she can hear over her own furious ranting.
Then, I turn and run.
Breathlessly, I slide the bolt free on Bryony’s door but when I try to open it, I realise it’s been double-locked.
‘Caitie?’ Bryony’s voice drifts through the wood, voice so thick with disbelief, I can taste it. ‘You actually did it? You got the keys?’
‘Yes.’ I open the box and tip the keys onto the floor then snatch one up at random.
‘Where’s Olivia?’
‘Cellar.’
‘Oh, my God, it worked!’ she squeals. ‘The plan actually worked?’
My cheeks colour, I am not proud of manipulating my sister or of locking her in a cellar. I turn the little plastic key fob over but my insides clench when I see it’s labelled not by room, but by number. I drop that key and pick up another and another. They’re all numbered. There’s no way for me to know which of them unlocks Bryony’s door. Olivia clearly memorised the corresponding rooms but then, she’s had years of experience.
‘Open the door,’ says Bryony, giving the handle a little shake for emphasis.
‘I can’t,’ I say, voice trembling. ‘The keys aren’t labelled “dining room” or “Bryony’s bedroom”, they’re numerical.’
She’s quiet. Then, ‘You’ll just have to try them all.’
I stare down at the pile of keys. There must be at least twenty. The only one that really stands out is an old-fashioned skeleton key in antique brass. Its ornate head reminds me of the key from The Wizard of Oz. It has to be for the front door. I slip it into the pocket of my dress and run my hands over the remaining keys.
‘Caitie,’ Bryony snaps. ‘Can you please get me out of here?’
‘I’m trying.’
I pick one at random. Though it fits the lock, it doesn’t turn. I drop it back into the tin and take another. All the while, I can hear Olivia screaming like a banshee. I am terrified that Heath will return home any second and find me on the landing. As soon as he enters the house, he’ll hear Olivia and he’ll know. She said he’d be back soon. Imminently. My heart starts hiccupping in my chest. I am light-headed with terror. Olivia’s screams are shredding my nerves. I make a decision. On my knees, I start sweeping the keys through the gap beneath the door.
‘What’re you doing?’ Bryony snaps.
‘You can try the keys from the inside.’ I push the last one through the gap. ‘I need to make Olivia stop.’
‘Caitie, no!’ she cries. ‘Stay here. Help me!’
But I am already backing away. ‘You’ve got the keys. Once you’re out, meet me downstairs.’
My legs are shaking so hard, I almost tumble down the staircase. The key is still in the cellar door but she’s so enraged that I’m afraid to open it. It will take both me and Bryony to drag her out of here. As I pace the library, trying to work out what to say to soothe her, the screaming stops. Cut off so abruptly, I stumble. There is only the howling wind and the rain that scratches at the windows. Has she fallen? Is she lying at the bottom of the stairs in a broken heap? The blood drains from me, replaced by icy nausea. My fingers clasp the cool metal key. I’m about to the open the door, to check on my sister, when I hear another key in another lock. The front door.
Heath is home.