Page 35 of Chandelier Sin
I avoided Aemon whenever possible.
What else could I do but bide my time?
Pushing up, I neared a rosebush and reached out to touch a flower’s petals, my finger brushing over the stem, caught by a thorn that penetrated my skin.
Grounded by nature, I suckled my finger to stem the bleeding, tasting coppery sweetness.
I’d never felt at home here. Not once in ten years. I’d had nothing to do with the manor’s over-the-top decoration. Even after all these years of marriage, I’d not been permitted to add my personality to the interior design.
The guest cottage was mine, though.
Not given to me out of kindness, but because at times I was expected to be out of the way.
My refuge at the back of the estate was where I read in the afternoon or practiced piano—many times shamefully bored.
Atticus had sensed this. To him, I’d been easy to read. Or so he’d made me believe.
That kind of man could become an addiction.
Even as I ruminated over our brief interactions, my body betrayed me with thoughts of what his kiss might be like—a daydream that was fun.
My little secret crush.
If ever I saw him again, I’d punch his arm for carelessly putting Elle and Rachel in danger. He should’ve known better.
It was a pleasant idea thinking he had what it took to challenge the system at Pendulum, but it was a futile one.
I glanced at my watch, having counted down the hours to this meeting.
I stayed out of the main house whenever possible—avoided being inside the thick walls that held in the cold. A ghastly opulence consisting of high ceilings and tasteless furniture prevented any kind of coziness. Priceless, ugly paintings offered a glimpse into Aemon’s psyche.
His favorite painting hung in his office—“Dante and Virgil in Hell” by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. A beautiful yet horrific portrait of a muscular man biting into the throat of his victim.
Ironically, this was what Aemon did psychologically to his victims, inflicting cruelty until all life was drained.
I made my way to the secluded edge of the tree line. Ben Parker was already waiting for me. I wondered if he missed his days with the Chicago police. He’d come to work for Aemon a few years ago. Though retirement was a “dirty word” to him, he’d admitted to me.
Ben gave a nod when he saw me, smartly dressed in pristine black slacks held up by old-fashioned suspenders. His loafers reflected his easy-going nature, a man no longer surprised by anything. Lined eyes full of compassion reflected a man who’d seen the worst of life—like it had wrung dry all his anger and all that was left was empathy.
“What did you find out?” I said quickly.
He let out an exhaustive sigh. “They took her out of the country.”
The news cut through me like a thousand knives, sharp and piercing, stabbing me with the threat of never seeing her again. Leaning against the oak tree, I steadied myself, trying to calm my emotions.
I raised my hand to let him know I needed a few seconds.
They’d ripped her from my arms.
Her cries of “Mommy” still haunted my nights.
I’d believed that was the worst thing he’d done. But hearing he’d sent her across the ocean so far away from me was monstrous.
It may as well have been lightyears away.
I caressed my stomach. I ached for the child that was no longer safe in my belly.
Ben nodded his understanding, and then said, “She was taken to Marazion.”
