But maybe not quite so abandoned. As Bee pulls off to the shoulder, I spot that pale Volkswagen parked at the top of the driveway. It might not be too late.

“Please,” Jane says as we clamber across the lawn. “We don’t need to do this.”

She’s grasping for us, desperation setting in, but I won’t listen. With Bee at my side, I twist open the front door and step inside. It’s dark, except for a small blaze in the fireplace casting strange outlines on the wall.

“I’m glad you could come.” Rochester. He’s waiting for us, stoking the flames with a brass poker. “I started this for you, Bertha. I know how much you love fire.”

The blaze dances higher, and all at once, the strange outlines around us start to move. The shadows in the dark are girls, his girls: Bellflower, Vervain, and Rowan at the forefront, others looming behind them. There are fewer of them than last night—six, maybe seven of them total—but they’re more determined than before. Only the most devoted must have gotten an invitation this evening. That’s why they were so eager to prove they were worthy last night. It was an audition after all.

“I’m so sorry, Bee,” Jane whispers, and the truth finally settles deep in my bones.

A trap. Jane let us walk right into a trap.

Rochester motions to her, and with her head down, she goes to him, not looking back, not even when Bee reaches frantically after her.

“My Jane’s been a wonderful help,” he says, and runs his hands through her hair, never noticing when she winces a little. “We couldn’t have done it without her.”

Bee gags up a sob, as we both finally understand it. That’s why Jane came to us, why she was talking to Rochester back in L.A., why she was waiting in Golden Gate Park to separate me and Bee while the girls got the urn. This was always about Dracula.

Behind us, the front door is gaping open. We could turn back right now and run, but the fire dances, the light in the room shifting, and I see it there. The urn, wrapped in a silk handkerchief and clutched tight to Rochester’s chest.

“How did you even know about him?” Bee asks, her voice like sandpaper on stone.

Rochester beams, and I’ve never seen anyone so smugly impressed with himself. “You see,” he says. “I don’t just call out to you, Bertha. I listen too.”

These words boil in my bones. I was right. All this time, he’s been eavesdropping on us, the same as Dracula. There are no secrets these men won’t steal, no private conversations they don’t invite themselves to.