In my memory, there was an oubliette guarded by steel traps; I wasn’t supposed to venture in that direction, ever. A black fog swirled in the air above it; brushing against it left me light-headed and sapped my energy. Backing away from it, my memory cleared, but it only picked up several years later when my mother had vanished and Ursula was suddenly my stepmother. But Ursula had been there, in the house, for a long time. She had been in the house that very night my mother tried to kill me.

Caroline’s soul was still beside me, giving me the strength I’d always lacked. My mind returned to that oubliette and—for the first time in my life—I peered inside it.

I saw my father running into the basement. My mother screamed at him, and he wrestled the knife away from her, then shoved it with all his might into her stomach. She screamed, collapsing beside me on the floor, covering me in her blood.

For the first time in that darkness, I screamed.

CHAPTER 49 DEIRDRE

CHAPTER 49

DEIRDRE

“Maybe we should wait for the cops,” I said.

“You should wait for them,” my father said decisively. “You almost died already today. I’ll do this.”

“Like hell,” I said. “I’m going with you.”

We trudged across the road again and down the driveway, the broken bone in my foot aching. The headlights of Theo’s car were still on, and I saw blood on the three steps up to the house and wood slats in front of the door. My father tried the front door, but it was locked.

“We can get in at the back,” my father said.

My phone rang, but I ignored it as I hurried around the side of the house. The porch door was still hanging open, its torn screen blowing in the breeze.

The door to the house was still unlocked.

We stepped inside a mudroom. To the right was the kitchen, where Teddy’s abandoned pint of ice cream was melting over the table. To the left was the living room, with a large fireplace. To the left was a step up to a hidden door that blended with the wood paneling. It must’ve led into the addition, presumably upstairs.

“No blood trail,” I whispered.

We crept to the foyer. Blood was streaked over that floor. The path ended at a closed hallway door. We stopped, listening for any sound. There was nothing.

“That’s the cellar,” my father whispered.

“We need a weapon,” I said.

“We need to hurry.”

My father pulled something out of his pocket and started to jimmy the lock open. I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife in the counter block. By the time I’d run back to the hall, my father had the door unlatched.

“How come you never showed me how to do that?” I whispered.