by Blake Pierce
“I will answer it. I am on my way out anyway,” he said.
Cassie stood up too, feeling as if her nerves had been put through the shredder. She walked out of the dining room, overhearing Pierre’s brusque conversation with the visitor at the front door.
“Madame, there is nothing to see here. Margot’s funeral service was yesterday, and I am leaving the house now. If you wish to spend some time remembering her, let me direct you to the churchyard where her ashes are buried.”
He paused.
“You are a reporter? Then you may contact my office for a copy of her formal obituary. Some information on her life, together with excellent photos, is available. Here is my business card with the relevant details. I am still grieving and have nothing to say to you.”
Pierre closed the door firmly behind him, and a few minutes later she heard his car leaving.
Now was the time to act, Cassie decided. She wasn’t going to wait another minute.
She marched up the stairs and along the corridor to Pierre’s bedroom. Taking her cell phone out of her jacket pocket, she scrolled through until she found the agency’s number. Then, lifting her chin determinedly, she turned the door handle.
It was locked.
The reality hit her like a punch to the stomach.
She tried it again, rattling the handle. This door had never been locked, and now it unmistakably was.
There was no way she could access the landline now. She could make no calls this afternoon and receive no good advice. Her only means of communication was gone.
Cassie turned away from the door, shattered. This must be her punishment for rejecting him yesterday.
How had he even known she’d come into his room that first time? Clearly, he’d guessed it or sensed it, and she’d been found out. And now he was telling her that he knew, and he was going to stop her, because this was part of the sick power game he was playing.
Thinking of that, thinking of his odd satisfaction during lunch, Cassie had another premonition of disaster.
She’d left her bedroom unlocked that morning, as Marnie had asked her to do, because she and the children had been at home and housekeeping needed to clean.
Cassie went back down the corridor, took the key out of her pocket, and closed the bedroom door. Then she tried to lock it.
This time, though, the key wouldn’t go in properly. It wouldn’t fit at all, and she couldn’t make it turn. She wiggled it, jiggled it, pushed and pulled. She twisted it with all her might until she stopped, because she knew if she kept trying, the slim metal shaft would simply snap off in the lock.
She took it out and put it back in again and tried a second time in case the lock had developed a glitch, or there was a flake of rust in the way, or her own panic had just meant that she’d done it wrong.
It was the same no matter how many times she tried. She couldn’t turn the key and she couldn’t lock the door.
Pierre had found out she’d been locking it for her safety.
Tonight, he was making sure she couldn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Cassie threw the useless key across her bedroom as hard as she could. It hit the wall and jangled down onto the floor. She didn’t bother picking it up. She turned her back on it and slammed the door as she left.
The low-grade fear that she realized she’d been living with ever since Margot died was erupting into full-blown terror.
She told herself that this was just Pierre playing mind games with her and punishing her for fighting him off yesterday. She tried to reassure herself that she still had options open to her and could sleep in Ella’s bedroom if she had to.
But she couldn’t do that all night, every night. She had no idea when her passport would be returned, and she couldn’t call anybody to ask for help.
Cassie breathed in deeply. She had never felt more trapped or defeated. She was sharing the house with an adulterer who’d set his sights on her, and with a suspected murderer. She had no idea if these were one and the same person, or whether they were two different people. Who had pushed Margot over the balcony? And who had shoved that statue off the pedestal, sending it crashing to the ground as she passed?
Why, oh why, had she overdosed so badly on her meds on that night of all nights, resulting in confusion and nightmares and muddled memories that meant that not even she knew what had really happened, or what role she herself had played in all of this?
She plodded downstairs and went to the kitchen, wondering where Marnie had gone. For all she knew, Marnie had actually quit her job. She couldn’t believe anything she was told anymore.
One of the other kitchen staff was working in the scullery but the kitchen itself was empty.
In the food preparation section there was a big wooden block where the chopping and carving knives were stored. They were all in their place, their handles jutting out from the block, waiting to be used.
Cassie inspected all the knives pushed into that wooden block. She picked out what she hoped was the deadliest weapon of them all—a medium-length one with a hard, shiny silver blade that tapered to a wicked point. Its beveled edge was lethally sharp.
She imagined grabbing it and stabbing it into somebody, point first. Or using that razor edge to slice across flesh, opening a deep gash in her attacker’s throat.
Holding the knife, she felt as if she was at a crossroads. Would she be able to use it?
Cassie shook her head. Tempting as it was to have the protection that knife offered, it was too deadly a weapon and that meant she might freeze instead of using it, because its ability to seriously hurt or kill terrified her. There was also the possibility that it could be taken from her. Then she might end up being the victim, and Pierre could truthfully say he had used it in self-defense.
She needed something less lethal, that would still be an effective deterrent. Pepper spray would have been ideal, but she was sure there was none in the chateau. Would plain pepper work?
Cassie rejected this idea, too. It wouldn’t be practical to use. Then the solution came to her.
Insecticide. She needed a can of powerful bug spray. The poison would temporarily blind or choke Pierre, it would be easy to use, and the can itself could also be used as a self-defense weapon if she smacked it into his face.
In a chateau that was hundreds of years old, there must surely be plenty of bugs, and therefore, spray. She guessed it would be kept in the scullery or broom cupboard.
Cassie waited another few minutes for the maid to leave, and then looked in the scullery, where she found an almost-full can of a toxic-looking insecticide used for cockroaches and other kitchen pests.
She sprayed a test squirt into the air, waited a few seconds, then fanned it toward her. The fumes were choking and eye-watering.
“Come and get me, Pierre,” she whispered, clutching the can with her finger tight on the nozzle. “See how well it goes for you.”
Despite the bravado of her words, her feeling of terror hadn’t budged. In fact, it had worsened. Preparing her defense was forcing her to acknowledge the reality of what she guessed he was planning.
She took the spray up to her bedroom and hid it under her pillow. Then she closed her bedroom door and went in search of the children.
She searched fruitlessly for nearly half an hour, getting more and more worried about where they were and what disaster they might have caused, before the shriek of a car’s engine alerted her, and she rushed to the garage.
Marc had stolen the keys from the dish in the hallway and had unlocked the Peugeot. He’d managed to get the car started, and was perched on the edge of the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly, with his foot flat on the accelerator. The engine was howling in protest and the air was thick with fumes.
Antoinette had brought Ella along to watch the spectacle, and was standing outside the garage, screaming with laughter.
“Stop it now!” Cassie shouted, but over the roar of the car, nobody heard her.
She d
ashed into the garage, coughing as she breathed in the cloud of choking fumes. She wrenched at the door handle and pulled it open, wondering why it felt sticky to the touch.
“Out, now!” she ordered.
Marc grabbed the wheel tightly, shouting in protest. Looking inside, Cassie saw to her horror that he’d brought a cup of cocoa and a honey sandwich into the car with him. The cocoa had, predictably, spilled all over the passenger seat. Marc’s face and hands, together with the car’s steering wheel, the indicator stick, and most of the knobs on the dashboard, were smeared in honey.
Cassie suddenly wondered how complicit Antoinette might have been in all of this. She could imagine her handing Marc the cocoa and sandwich, and suggesting that he go for a drive.
“Out,” Cassie yelled. The garage air was thick with fumes. She grabbed Marc’s arm and hauled him out of the car, before reaching in and turning off the ignition. The key was sticky, too. Every possible surface was thick with honey.
“Marc, what the hell is this? You know you’re not allowed to go into the garage,” she screamed, dragging him outside where the air was, thankfully, clearer. She turned on Antoinette, not caring that the older girl could see exactly how furious she was.
“You were watching the whole time! Why did you let him do that?”
Antoinette just shrugged rudely and spread her arms. The gesture, and in fact her entire demeanor, indicated nothing but contempt for Cassie.
Ella turned away, as if she couldn’t be bothered to continue with her manipulative behavior now that Cassie was trying to enforce discipline. So, Cassie decided, Ella didn’t really like her. She just capitalized on her weakness, and the fact Cassie was putty in her hands.
Her brain felt overloaded. She could almost feel the neurons burning out, one by one.
“Inside,” she snapped. How was she going to make the children realize how destructive, how downright dangerous, this had been? If Marc had gotten the car in gear, he could have run Ella over.
“I don’t want to go inside,” Marc began, and Cassie yelled at him with all her might, bending down so that her mouth was only inches from his ear.
“You are going! Now!”
She marched them inside. Marc dragged his feet in sulky silence, Ella kicking the gravel and whining. Antoinette was still giggling, as if she found the entire situation, including Cassie’s loss of control, too hilariously funny for words.
“Come with me,” she said, and headed upstairs, but at the top of the staircase she turned toward the guest wing. She hustled Marc in front of her, with Ella whimpering behind, and slamming her hands on the doors as she passed. Cassie could hear Antoinette’s silvery laughter bringing up the rear.
She punched the door open, stomped into the bedroom, and pointed through the glass sliding door to the empty podium on the balcony where the statue had been.
“Which one of you pushed that statue off there? Tell me. Now. Because I was walking underneath the balcony when it fell, and it came within inches of killing me.”
She scanned their faces. Ella mutinous, Marc defiant, Antoinette smug.
She expected it would take a while for anyone to confess, and that she might have to watch their body language for signs of guilt. But Marc shouted out immediately, as if he was proud of what he’d done.
“It was me! I was hiding there, because we were playing hide and seek. It looked wobbly so I pushed it. I’m so strong! Look, I can make the other one fall, too.”
He rushed toward the glass doors as Antoinette squealed with mirth.
Cassie dived after him, remembering that Pierre had said a crew would be replacing the statue during the course of the afternoon, which meant there could well be people underneath.
“No,” she shouted. “It’s dangerous, and you could hurt someone.”
“I don’t care!” Marc yelled. He kicked her shins, his toes hammering her painfully in his efforts to make her let go, and as she struggled with the insubordinate youngster, his fingers still sticky with honey, Cassie felt herself consumed by a raw, violent rage.
She dragged him away from the door. He screamed in anger, his face crimson, and his grasping hands left giant smears on the glass.
“You have to stop acting like this! You have to start listening,” she shrieked at him.
“I won’t, I won’t,” he shouted back.
Before she could think about the consequences of her actions, Cassie picked the young boy up bodily and hauled him across the room to the large mahogany wardrobe. She opened the door, forced him inside, and banged it shut, leaning against it for good measure.
“Now stay in there and think about what you have done!” she yelled.
For a moment there was a shocked silence, as everyone took in what had just happened.
Then Marc began screaming, terrified and hysterical.
“Let me out! Let me out!”
He hammered on the door, fists drumming against the wood, but Cassie only pushed back against it harder. She was breathing fast, her heart pounding and adrenaline surging through her. She was not letting him out; she was not.
Marc started to cry.
“I’m scared of the dark. Please let me out, please!”
Clenching her teeth, Cassie stood firm against the door. She could hear the raw fear in his tone and knew how scared he must be, but her anger was more powerful than the inner voice which was telling her she was being unfair to him.
Ella started sobbing.
“He’s scared in there! Marc’s scared!”
“I was scared when that statue crashed down behind me. Marc needs to learn to think before he acts,” Cassie shouted. “And not deliberately do things when he knows they’re naughty and destructive.”
Marc’s crying had quieted down. His sobs were forlorn now.
“I’m so scared,” he whimpered. “Please let me out.”
Antoinette marched up to Cassie, contempt in her eyes.
“Let him out,” she demanded. “You’re being cruel.”
“I’m being cruel?” Cassie raised her eyebrows, a fresh wave of anger surging inside her. “Maybe you should be pointing that finger at yourself, not me.”
Antoinette was furious at being defied. She stepped forward with her face set in a scowl and tried to physically push Cassie away from the door.
Cassie did what her fingers had been itching to do the whole day. She lifted her hand and slapped Antoinette hard across her face.
Antoinette recoiled, dropping to her knees and doubling over, cradling her face in her hands, whimpering in agonized tones.
“Ow, ow, ow.”
Ella ran over and knelt beside her, sobbing as she helped Antoinette rub her face. From inside the wardrobe, Marc’s cries had become nothing more than hoarse, desperate whispers.
“Let me out. Please, please let me out.”
Listening to the fear in his voice, Cassie found that memories were surging inside her. She was having flashbacks to a forgotten experience, one she’d buried deeply.
She suddenly had the weird feeling that she was on the inside of that closet. She knew exactly how it felt in there. How the tiny sliver of light narrowed and then disappeared completely as the door was closed, leaving her in oppressive, airless darkness. How the cupboard space suddenly seemed too small to contain herself and her panic, but no matter how loudly she screamed, she hadn’t thought it would reach outside that solid door.
She knew her father was standing outside that door because she could hear him shouting, even though she couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying. It didn’t matter. He was angry and she had been bad, and that was why he had dragged her upstairs and shoved her into that big, dark cupboard and bolted the door closed.
He’d gone away, Cassie remembered. She’d waited in there for what felt like hours, until her throat was raw from screaming and her heels were bruised from kicking the door, in her desperation to force it open. It was airless and hot, and every breath she took felt like a struggle.
Her
father hadn’t let her out. Eventually, it had been Jacqui who came upstairs and freed her.
Suddenly unable to continue with the punishment, Cassie moved away from the wardrobe and opened the door.
Marc was lying prone on the floor, just as she had done. He crawled out, blinking in the light, and Cassie remembered how light it had been after the suffocating darkness. It had been painful, and she could hardly open her eyes for a while.
Marc’s face was swollen and wet with tears and he seemed more subdued than she’d ever believed he could be.
As he stumbled past Cassie he muttered something that she couldn’t quite make out.
Antoinette scrambled to her feet and tried to put her arms around him but Marc pushed her away and trailed out of the room, turning in the direction of his bedroom.
Antoinette and the still-sobbing Ella followed him silently out.
In her terror and trauma, Cassie remembered she’d pushed her sister away, too.
She’d pushed her hard, and Jacqui had screamed as she’d fallen, down into the dark.
Cassie shook her head violently. She was confusing memories with dreams again. That hadn’t happened. She’d pushed Jacqui, but it had only been a weak, gentle shove. She hadn’t been standing on the brink of a ravine. She hadn’t tried to save herself, her red-nailed hands clutching at empty air as she’d fallen.
Cassie closed the cupboard door and as she did so, she found her earlier rage had evaporated. Instead, she was filled with guilt.
She tried to tell herself that her actions had been justified, that these children had been running so wild that they had needed a serious dose of discipline. That no harm would come to Marc from a few minutes spent inside a cupboard and that Antoinette had more than deserved that slap.
It didn’t stop her from acknowledging what she felt inside, even though she cringed away from the reality.
She’d behaved in exactly the same way as her abusive father.
She had spent years trying to escape him and turn her back on him. She had firmly believed that she was a better person and in any case had been the victim, not the oppressor. None of it had helped her.
