“Henry, it’s okay. You can come out now.” Margarite peered under the bed, only to find it empty.
Henry Willoughby was proving to be quite the challenge. He reminded her more of her original husband than any of the others so far, right down to the puppy-dog eyes that had lied to her face when she’d asked him where he was going that night.
I don’t trust the picture box. The people in it stare as I walk by. They want me trapped inside with them. The animals watch me too—dogs and cats, even the family fish in the tiny glass bowl. I am observed as I observe them.
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The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. It swam across her listless body and stirred the stench of rot that hung in the small space. She inhaled deeply and stretched her arms, feeling the weight of the heavy chains that wound around her wrists and attached to the thick metal rings bolted to the floor beneath the bed.
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He wants to dig up the body.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper to my father beneath the light of the moon.
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