Chapter 7: JADE - A Very Good Bad Idea

I feel the burn of Burke’s glare on the back of my head the whole way up the stairs, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. If he thinks he can intimidate me with his little speech, he’s got another thing coming. It just shows he has no clue who he’s dealing with—a fact I plan to use to my maximum benefit. Precious sticks close to my heels as he climbs the stairs with me, and he doesn’t look back at Burke either. He’s well trained in the art of throwing shade.

On the second floor, I hit the light switch on the wall of the west-wing hallway, illuminating one flickering bulb out of the three domed Tiffany glass light fixtures dotting the ceiling. With the absence of natural light and the succession of closed dark-wood doors, the corridor seems narrower than it did when I brought my bags up earlier. More shadowy and strangely stretched, like a set piece from Alice in Wonderland.

I purposely chose this corner bedroom because Clara told me it’s the master she used most recently, until scaling the stairs became too challenging and she refused to consider an electric stair lift. Instead, she had Gunther relocate her to the staff quarters off the kitchen. But it’s still likely this is one of the most updated bedrooms in the house—the most comfortable.

And I am my father’s daughter, so I hedge my bets too.

It’s the same reason I brought Precious on this excursion to Nightmareville, even though I could’ve left him with Piper. Because solitary confinement is cruel and unusual for a reason. Before I yeet Burke off the property, Precious will give me companionship, comfort—he’ll give me an edge. And because you never know what’s going to put you over the top or get you across the finish line a second before your competitor, every advantage—even a Chihuahua-sized one—can mean the difference between glorious victory or agonizing defeat.

The bedroom is large with cream-colored walls that are water-stained in the corners, a cherrywood chair rail, white-trimmed French doors that lead out to the balcony, and a wall of crusty oceanfront windows. The view will be spectacular in the morning, but at the moment, there’s not even a sliver of moonlight to illuminate the sand or sea. I close the heavy navy drapes to try to quiet the breakers hitting the beach, but the rhythmic sounds still find their way in—Mother Nature doesn’t have a mute button.

Precious’s manicured little claws click against the hardwood floors as he smells his way around the room. I tug the protective sheets off the furniture in a haze of iridescent dust, revealing a mahogany four-poster bed with a taupe quilt and half a dozen round, pleated, decorative grandma pillows. I imagine Clara shuffling around, asking Gunther to help her make this bed for the very last time—hospital corners and all—even though she wouldn’t be sleeping in it anymore. Because that’s just the kind of meticulous person she was.

There’s a door that leads to a dark-paneled closet and adjoining bathroom with a pedestal sink, a porcelain-lined cast-iron claw-foot tub, and peeling Copenhagen blue floral wallpaper.

I heave my suitcases onto the bed and unzip them. Precious’s cashmere dog bed goes in the corner, toiletries in the bathroom, and I fit my clothes as best as I can in the dresser and closet. Usually there are people around to do these things for me—growing up Buchanan is not without its perks.

With the empty suitcases in the closet, I kick off my shoes and sit down on the bed, so very tempted to curl into a ball and pass out. It’s been that kind of a day. But I don’t, because routine is crucial and consistency is the skeleton key of success. So I drag my ass up and into the bathroom.

When I turn the sink faucet on, the pipes rattle worryingly behind the walls, raining down several specks of plaster. Thankfully, the water runs clear and odorless from the spout. I’ve seen and smelled what old pipes can do to water—it’s not pretty.

I remove my makeup, wash my face, and apply eye masks under both eyes. It’s odd not having a phone to set the timer. Almost as odd as not having schematics to review in bed or going over the next day’s schedule with Piper before I go to sleep. I brush my teeth, and floss—because I’m not an animal—then I slip into my silk nightgown, matching sleeping bonnet, and robe, and put my fuzzy beige slippers next to the bed. The final step of my routine is to remove the eye masks and apply night cream.

Precious is already snoring in his dog bed. I give him a scratch behind his ears and kiss his furry head. “Sweet doggie dreams, my precious boy.”

Then I climb onto the bed, slide my silk sleep mask down over my eyes, lie back against the pillows, pull the soft quilt up to my chin . . . and settle in for my first night at Spicket Manor.

* * *

It doesn’t go well.

I toss and I turn, I fold the pillow and flatten the pillow, I breathe steadily and count the skyscrapers of the New York City skyline in my mind—because sheep, or farm animals of any kind, are not my thing.

But no matter what I try, I can’t fall asleep.

It’s not that the bed is uncomfortable. Everything else is.

I’ve never gone camping, never stayed the night at a friend’s house growing up. I’m not practiced in tuning out the disquiet that comes from sleeping in an unfamiliar place. Every rustle and creak hits me like a sip of caffeine. Not to mention the disturbing pitter-patter of vermin emanating from the ceiling and walls—a mouse might not have been stirring the night before Christmas, but there’s a whole lot of stirring happening here.

I kick my leg with a frustrated growl when the ankle monitor gets tangled in the sheet for the millionth time, yank my sleep mask off, and sit up to squint at my watch on the nightstand.

Three-frigging-a.m.

It’s not like I have an early meeting to be up for, but still, sleep is nice—and insomnia sucks.

Just as I finish that thought, a sound rises around me, filling the room. It starts as a grinding, metallic clatter and ends on a terrifying, inhuman groan.

“Chrrrrrrrraaaaaahhhhhhhg . . .”

I whip off my bonnet and reach for my J. Crew ultra-bright headlamp, pulling it down over the top of my head and flicking on the button—shining the spotlight around the room.

Nothing seems out of place. Until—

“Chrrrrrrrraaaaaahhhhhhhg . . .”

It sounds like something tripped over an object and injured itself.

Or someone.

And it’s definitely coming from downstairs.

“Precious! Precious!” I hiss low and loud, because Precious may be small, but his bite is mighty, and when provoked, he can jump as high as any big-city rat who’s determined to eat your face off. Unfortunately, Precious also sleeps like a rock, so even beneath the glare of my high-powered headlight, he snores away, oblivious.

“Chrrrrrrrraaaaaahhhhhhhg . . .”

I briefly consider that this could be Burke’s doing—his attempt to freak me out and send me screaming from the house like the final girl in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre film.

It’s a good strategy. I’m actually disappointed I didn’t think of it myself.

Of course, it also might not be Burke’s doing.

“Chrrrrrrrraaaaaahhhhhhhg . . .”

“Oh, hell no,” I whisper to myself, because either way—I have to find out.

I shove my feet into my slippers and my arms into my robe, tying it at my waist with a snapping tug. Then I pull open the closet door and grab one of the hangers off the bar, slicing it through the air like an Olympic fencer and wishing I’d thought to pack my pepper spray. Or that my father had raised us to be more religious.

I gaze at the ceiling. “Whoever you are up there, please don’t let me die here.”

I tiptoe to the door and soundlessly turn the knob, peeking through the crack for signs of approaching danger. If this were a horror movie, now would be the moment the audience yells at the main character not to investigate the strange noise in the strange house, in the dead of the night.

We were allowed to watch horror movies growing up. My father thought they set an excellent example of the consequences of being stupid—because in his hierarchy of sins, stupidity has always been at the top.

And yet, here we are.

When the coast looks clear, I slip out the doorway and slide down the hall with my back against the wall and my head-mounted spotlight darting to and fro. I make it to the end of the hallway and peer over the railing down into the shadowy, still foyer . . . listening.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Ahh!” I squeak, whirling around and blindly striking out with my makeshift sword.

“Ow! Christ almighty, Mommy Dearest—no wire hangers.”

Burke’s familiar voice breaks through the haze of my startled reflexes, and I lower the hanger.

“You scared me half to death! What are you doing out here?”

Shirtless, I mentally add.

Because in the spotlight of one hundred watts, it’s impossible to miss that Burke is wearing a pair of low-hanging, gray cotton sleep pants . . . and nothing else. The glare of harsh light should highlight every flaw, but besides a red welt on his chest courtesy of yours truly, there’s not an inch of imperfection on him. His skin is warm-bronze and smooth, drawn tight over ridges of abs and swells of muscle. He’s cut like a boxer in top form—powerful but not bulky, with a delectable dusting of rugged chest hair.

Damon Burke may be a bastard of the first order, but the fact that he’s a sublime specimen of a man can’t be denied.

He raises a hand, flinching from the light. “Turn that thing off.”

I reach for the off switch—because while blinding him isn’t the worst idea, now is not the time. But I press the battery release instead, sending the triple-As flying into the shadows and leaving me lightless. Crap.

Burke gazes down at me. “I heard a noise and figured you were up to something.”

I glance toward the foyer. “I heard a noise too.”

Right on cue, the unholy sound floats up the stairs.

“Chrrrrrrrraaaaaahhhhhhhg . . .”

“Did you make sure the doors were locked before you came up?” I ask. “Front and back?”

“No. Did you lock up when you brought your dog in?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure. It could be burglars. The obituary ran in the paper yesterday.”

Because just when you think mankind can’t sink any lower—you remember that scanning the obituary section for newly vacant houses to rob is an actual thing people do.

Burke gives me half a nod, scrutinizing the abyss at the bottom of the stairs.

I grip my hanger with both hands, pressing it to my chest. “I’m not going to be able to sleep until I know the house is secure.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Burke walks down the stairs and I follow. We check the front door first, which is locked. We move to the parlor and though nothing seems out of place, I make sure all the windows are locked. Burke picks up a 10-inch marble candlestick holder—because we’re now apparently living out a live-action version of Clue—and tests the weight in his hand, giving it a swing and then a nod of approval. As we head into the music room, the sound comes again and our eyes meet.

“Basement,” we say at the same time, and walk in matching strides to the rear of the kitchen.

Basements are a rarity in beachfront properties because they tend to flood and leak due to the high water table. Clara’s basement is most likely more of a root cellar—low ceiling, damp and murky, rough concrete walls with thick layers of waterproofing paint.

Burke cautiously opens the basement door and I tilt my head to look around him. I see the top of the wooden steps, cracked and cobwebby, that lead down into darkness.

Black, bottomless, nothingness.

My hands go numb, and my throat squeezes so tight, it’s hard to swallow.

He takes a step forward and without thinking, I reach out—grabbing his arm and holding on tight.

“Damon, wait. We can’t . . . we shouldn’t go down there.”

I don’t know why I say it.

I don’t know why every muscle in my body is stiff and rigid, and my feet are fused to the floor and my heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it.

Except . . . that’s not true.

I know exactly why.

“What are you talking about?” he says harshly, turning around.

My voice is a hollowed-out whisper when I reply, “We could get trapped.”

Stuck. Locked. Entombed underground. In a dark that’s so total and complete, you can’t see your own hand in front of your face, even if you wave it. Even if you smack yourself with it. So dark, it’s like you’ve been swallowed by emptiness and you start to wonder if you even still exist at all.

“Trapped?”

I can hear the edge of contempt in his voice. Impatience and disdain. Because I know I’m being absurd. But my fear doesn’t feel absurd.

It feels terribly, paralyzingly valid.

Burke stares at me—his gaze ghosting over my too wide eyes and too pale skin, while mine stays locked on the bottomless basement.

I expect his next words to be taunting. Scornful. I expect him to ridicule my worry mercilessly.

It’s what I would do.

“Jade.”

He puts his hand over mine on his arm. It’s warm and large, covering mine completely. “Jade, look at me.”

I make my head turn, force my chin to lift, until I’m looking up into those deep blue orbs.

His features are softer than I’ve ever seen them and his voice is slow and steady—almost gentle. “I have to go down and make sure no one is in the house. You can wait up here. You don’t have to go.”

It’s shockingly decent of him. Kind.

And my insides curdle with humiliation.

Because in my world, compassion is just too close of a cousin to pity.

I’m accustomed to Burke’s insults. I can handle his snideness and sneering—it keeps me on my toes.

But his pity?

That’s too low a blow to bear.

I compel my lungs to expand, to breathe deep, and in my head I hear the slap of my father’s voice telling me to snap the fuck out of it.

“No, I can go, I just . . .”

I search desperately around the room—because I can’t actually go. Not yet. My feet won’t move.

I spot the chair at the round kitchen table across the room and drag it over to the basement door. It’s thick wood, reassuringly heavy—you could kill someone with this chair. They don’t make them like this anymore.

I brace the chair against the basement door, testing it to be sure it’s unmovable. When it holds, relief seeps through me—relaxing my limbs and easing the grip on my throat.

After a moment, I turn to Burke and square my shoulders. “Okay. We can go now. I’m good.”

He looks at me intently, his brows drawn together. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” I bite out, annoyed at his hesitation. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t. Let’s go already.”

Any trace of gentle disappears from his expression, replaced with an irritated scowl. “Going forward, how about you keep that multiple personality disorder on a tighter leash, huh? It’s annoying as shit.”

And somehow, all seems right with the world again.

He turns back toward the basement. “Stay behind me.”

There’s no switch for the basement light, and no railing, so we carefully descend the uneven steps, one hand on the wall, feeling our way down. We stop at the bottom, standing on the cold concrete floor, listening for any sound, trying to sense any movement. The basement is every bit as dark as I envisioned, but with the door wedged open behind me and Burke in front, it’s not nearly as frightening. Burke moves forward a few steps and I move with him, coming to a stop in what should be the center of the room. I hear the sound of a chain being pulled and, like the burst of a camera flash, the basement is flooded with bright white light from the bare single bulb swinging from the ceiling.

When the clanking, groaning sound comes from behind us, we whip around, weapons raised, and come face to face with . . . the boiler. The old, noisy, probably circa 1920s, oil-fueled boiler. Of course it’s the boiler. I snort at myself, shaking my head, and from the corner of my eye, Burke does the same. Then he turns my way, about to say something . . . and stops short.

Because the knot of my robe has loosened and fallen open. And Burke’s not even pretending not to notice.

His eyes move downward, drifting over my shoulders and across the lace neckline, pausing at the low dip there, before traveling to the curve of my waist and slight swell of my hips. Then they slide back up, settling on my breasts—where the shadow of my nipples pokes against the thin satin material.

Because that boiler is obviously all talk and no action—it’s like a refrigerator down here.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Burke asks, sounding genuinely pissed off.

“A nightgown.”

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“Like you’re one to talk, shirtless wonder.” I wave my hand at all his . . . man flesh. “Do you always sleep half naked?”

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Actually, I usually sleep all naked. If that’s gonna offend your delicate sensibilities, you should really think about leaving A-SAP.”

I take a step closer, folding my arms across my pointy nipples. “Not a problem at all. Sounds liberating. I might try it myself.”

And we stay like that for several long seconds, in that damp, dank basement—belligerently staring each other down, stubbornly refusing to look away. Standing so close, I can feel the heat of his skin and smell the sandalwood of his aftershave. For a moment, everything stops, melts away, and it’s just Damon and me . . . and the thrill of who will break first.

Clashing with him like this, going toe to toe and word for word, feels exciting. Daring and exhilarating and just a little bit reckless.

But winning? That feels even better.

Triumph surges through me when Burke turns away sharply. Because ding-ding! This round is mine.

“Go to bed, Jade,” he growls with his back to me. “And for fuck’s sake, stay there.”

Then he walks away.