The Knight (Endgame #2)(44)

The asshole and I live the next few days in a sex dream, never leaving the house, barely leaving his large four-post bed. There’s an urgency to our lovemaking, an unspoken awareness that the end is near.

In the mornings he works from his office, and I explore the house—searching for the diary. It’s a half-hearted search, fueled more by curiosity than any real desire to end this. Because the end is coming soon enough. I don’t need to hurry it along.

The gaps in my knowledge loom outside these four walls, waiting, watching. They’ll find me soon enough, but for now I’m safe in Gabriel’s arms.





Chapter Twenty-Eight





By the last day I’m certain I’ve looked everywhere for the diary. It still eludes me. I even checked outside the house, almost getting lost amid the tall hedges shaped into an elaborate maze. I’m actually more impressed that Justin made it through that during my last stay.

I wake when the moon is high, suddenly alert. Did I hear something? Or is it only my anxiety, wondering what tomorrow will bring? This might be my last night in this bed. I know that Gabriel cares about me, but I’m not sure he’s capable of having a regular relationship. Not sure he wants to try.

On a whim I pick up the pawn from the side table.

Slipping from the bed, I walk barefoot through the empty halls. The air still smells faintly of the fresh biscuits Mrs. B. made for dinner. I turn sideways into the library, the fireplace dark in the middle of the night. There’s a small lamp on the table with the chess set.

I put the pawn in its place.

We never did play, not with the set, but we played our own version—the instinctive waters of middlegame. Openings are strategic, mapped out and named. Analyzed with strengths and weaknesses. But middlegames contain infinite combinations, too complex to define. Both fighting for control of the board, trading with the fervent hope that we’ll come out on top.

Keeping the king in relative safety, because that’s the point of the game.

My fingertip touches each piece on the black side—king, queen. Knight.

An unusual piece because of the way it moves. Forward and sideways. The only piece able to jump other pieces. Not the most powerful on the board, but the most dangerous in closed positions.

I pick up the king, my thumb stroking over the ridges, the cross at the top.

Once I read that Napoleon Bonaparte loved chess, though he hadn’t been an extraordinary player. He had played his generals, certain the game held some kind of tactical education. He played every day of his exile, though I don’t remember who he played with. His guards? That hits a little close to home.

And I remember something else—that an escape plan was hatched to hide instructions in a chess piece and send it to him as a gift. The piece in my hand is too small to hide anything, at least anything readable to the naked eye. But the base of the set is tall. Gabriel had it custom carved for my arrival.

I set down the king and test the set, careful not to knock over the lined-up pieces. Heavy. Some sets come with hollow compartments to store the pieces, but this one feels solid.

Unless there’s something inside.

Tipping the surface, I let the pieces slide onto the rug. The king rolls onto the hardwood near the fireplace. I lift the lid of the chessboard and look inside—a leather-bound book sits in the empty space.

My mother’s diary.

I should be happy to have found it, even a day sooner than he had promised to give it back. Instead all I feel is dread. All the demons we’ve been keeping at bay—they’re free now. Free in the form of beautiful scrolling handwriting and a lifetime of secrets.

Turning the pages past wedding plans and honeymoon, past her excited and elaborate plans for the house that Daddy builds her, a single word catches my eye.

Afraid.

My hand trembles as I flip back to find the page.

Everything I wanted has come true—a beautiful house. A kind husband. Security for my family. And yet I can’t shake the feeling that I made a terrible mistake. Even in my own room I can feel someone watching me, threatening me. I’m afraid that I’m going insane.

Was my mother insane? It sounds like paranoia. Diagnoses and treatment of mental illness wasn’t like today. They had less knowledge and far more stigma.

I remember feeling like someone watched me.

Maybe I’m going insane too.

Except someone had written WHORE over the fireplace. That’s not a figment of my imagination, an illness that needs to be treated. And someone took pictures of me.

Geoffrey insists that it’s in my head, but I’m sure it’s not. It’s like the house is alive. Breathing. Whispering. I’m never alone, even when the people have gone.

Unease moves through me. I glance at the shadows around me. I can’t see through them, but I know I’m alone. Don’t I? I remember my terror the night I saw someone outside the window. Is that how my mother felt all the time?

I thought she loved the house. And at the beginning she did.

It turned into something sinister in these pages.

The strangest thing happened tonight. I saw Jonathan at a party for the Alberts’ anniversary. We both pretended we had never met. When he asked me to dance, I said yes so we could talk. I asked him how he got an invitation. He told me he had worked with Ralph Albert, but he refused to go into details.

So the mystery man had a name. Jonathan. Not that it told me anything. I didn’t know anyone by that name, and it’s common enough that it wouldn’t help me if I did.