Then he waits a long, hateful moment, his grin tightening, before adding, “Pity we don’t have an attic. I know how much you love those.”

Her hands curled into claws, Bee starts toward him, but the others are right there, flanking him in an instant. They’re everywhere, they’re unrelenting, and in the dark, their eyes are all I can see.

I put a hand on Bee’s arm. “Jane isn’t here,” I whisper, and though the rage is still quivering in her, every muscle in her body constricted, Bee nods.

We back away from the crowd, edging toward the side of the house. That’s the only chance we’ve got—to shortcut around, not through. It isn’t safe to walk back into that party. But as we pass the side door, it jerks open, and the three girls from the bed emerge, blocking our path.

“Leaving already?” they ask, their voices in unison. They smile at me, everything about them so serene, as they refuse to budge an inch. Their heartbeats flutter a little faster, and I fall back a step, not because I’m worried about them, but because I’m worried about me. I might be able to hold them back, to hold everyone here back, but with my hunger burning brighter, I’m not sure I can hold myself back.

Rochester watches us before shaking his head. “Such a shame,” he says.

Bee glares at him. “What is?”

“You.” His eyes are on her. “I’d always hoped you’d turn out differently.”

A rueful laugh. “And how did I turn out?”

“Exactly like your infamous mother.”

Something in Bee’s face cracks, just a little, just enough that he sees it. He knows her, knows the thing that will hurt her most.

She scoffs, trying to play it off. “You haven’t changed a bit, Edward.”

“But you have, Bertha.” He crosses toward her, closing the distance in a flash, his long shadow draped over both of us. “Do you remember when we met in Spanish Town? The way you dazzled me?”

A memory flickers in Bee, as he reaches out and runs his fingers softly through her hair, before whispering, “How did you ever get so old?”

And there it is again: that rehearsed laughter, all the girls pretending he’s so very funny. I hate them for it, for how they’re mocking Bee, but Rochester’s reveling in this moment, reveling in his power, so this is our chance. I squeeze Bee’s hand, and together, we run.

Back at the car, Daisy barely glances up at us. “Was she there?”

“No,” Bee says as we slide inside and I crank the key in the ignition. The Buick doesn’t hesitate tonight. It roars to life, and we squeal out onto the highway, not turning back.

“So,” Daisy says, picking at a piece of yellow foam through the leather seat, “did you meet him?”