“And she can hurt us,” Roz pointed out. “We’ve seen that.”
“So we go up there armed with cameras and tape recorders.” Logan shook his head.
“We happy few,” Mitch stated.
“Well, she’s raised the stakes.” Logan took Stella’s hand. “Since none of us are willing to fold, let’s ante up.”
“We stay together,” Roz said as they started up the stairs. “No matter what. We’ve never really confronted her as a group before. I think there’s strength in that.”
“She always had the upper hand, she always moved first.” Harper nodded. “Yeah, we stay together.”
When they reached the third floor, Roz turned toward the ballroom. Going with instinct, she stepped forward, pushed the double pocket doors open.
“There were lovely parties here. I remember creeping up at night to watch the dancing.”
She reached in to switch on the light. It showered down on the shrouded furniture, and the lovely pattern of the maple floor. “I nearly sold those chandeliers once.” She looked up at the dazzling trio of them dripping down from ornate plaster medallions. “Couldn’t bring myself to do it, even though it would’ve made day-to-day living easier. I gave my own parties here, once upon a time. I believe it’s time I did so again.”
“She came in this way, that night. I’m sure of it.” Though her hand was already in Harper’s, Hayley tightened her grip. “Don’t let go.”
“Not a chance.”
“She came in the terrace doors. They weren’t locked. She could’ve broken the glass if they had been. She came in, and oh . . . Gilt and crystal, the smell of beeswax and lemon oil. The rain dripping, dripping from the gutters. Turn on the lights.”
“I have,” Roz said quietly.
“No, she turns on the light. Harper.”
“Right here.”
“I can see it. I can see it.”
The fog rolled in the doors behind her, smoking damp over the glossy floors. Her feet were caked with mud, with blood where she’d trod on stones, and left streaks of that mud, of that blood, where she walked.
Alive still. Heart beating blood.
This, this is how they lived at Harper House. Grand rooms lit by sparkling chandeliers, gilt mirrors on the walls, long, polished tables and potted palms so lush they smelled of the tropics.
She had never been to the tropics. She and James would go one day, one day they’d go and stroll on sugar sand by warm blue water.
But no, but no, their lives were here, in Harper House. They had cast her out, but she would be here. Always here. To dance in this ballroom, lit by crystal drops.
She swayed, a partnerless waltz, her head tilted up flirtatiously. The blade in her hand shooting light from its keen edge.
She would dance here, night after night if she chose. Drink champagne, wear fine jewels. She would teach James to waltz with her. How handsome he would be, wrapped in his soft blue blanket. How sweet a picture they would make. Mother and son.
She must go to him now, go to James, so they could always be together.
She wandered out. Where would the nursery be? In the other wing, of course.
Of course. Children and those who tended them didn’t belong near grand ballrooms, elegant withdrawing rooms. Smell the house! How rich its perfume. Her son’s home. And hers now.
The carpet was soft as fur on her feet. And even so late, even when the house was in bed, the gaslights glowed on low.
Spare no expense! she thought. Money to burn.
Oh, she should burn them all.
At the stairs she paused. They would be sleeping down there, the bastard and his whore. The sleep of the rich and the privileged. She could go down, kill them. Hack them to pieces, bathe in their blood.