Page 90 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Ninety

What Her Mother Did

Everything inside her cracked.

She rushed to the door again, twisted the knob, praying it was a mistake.

“No. No, no, no—”

She slammed her palm against the wood. Banged with her fists until her arms ached.

No one came.

She turned to the window—the large one to the left of her bed.

Pressed her face to the glass.

Nothing.

The estate grounds stretched out below, wide and still.

She’d yelled from this window before. Screamed her throat raw for Walter. For anyone.

No one ever heard.

The height made sure of that.

Tonight was no different.

Just more cruel.

She backed away.

Her eyes scanned the room.

Something. Anything .

She dropped to her knees, checked under the bed, yanked drawers open, tore through everything she hadn’t already destroyed.

She examined the hinges on the door. Solid. Reinforced.

Even if she had tools, she wasn’t getting out that way.

I’ll wait, she thought. I’ll wait for the maid. I’ll hit her. Run. Grab Noah.

She grabbed the heavy perfume bottle from her vanity and tucked it beneath the blanket like a weapon.

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Morning came.

No one.

Afternoon came.

Still silence.

She curled into herself on the bed, her stomach hollow, her body aching.

Then—her hand grazed the edge of the mattress.

She remembered.

The journal.

She pulled it out from between the mattress and box spring with shaking fingers.

She didn’t open it. Just stared.

The door creaked.

Bernarda stepped inside, silent as always, her face unreadable. She placed a paper towel folded over a protein bar on the nightstand, followed by a small bottle of water.

As she turned to go, her eyes landed on the journal in Lyric’s lap.

Bernarda stared at the journal a moment longer. Something passed over her face—regret, maybe. Like she’d waited too long to say something that had been clawing at her for years.

“Where did you find that?” she asked, voice hushed.

Lyric said nothing. Her hand was quietly searching for the perfume bottle.

Bernarda hesitated, then stepped back toward the door.

“I once told you I knew your mother… ”

Lyric froze.

“I didn’t just know her, I practically raised her. She was like my own.”

A pause.

“This is a cruel house to live in… especially for women.”

She looked over her shoulder, just once.

“I always believed she escaped through the attic. Mrs. Thornwick never figured it out. I think… there might be another door.”

Her gaze dropped to the journal in Lyric’s lap. Her voice softened.

“I never stopped thinking about her. I prayed she was okay.”

Her lips parted, like she might say more.

But she didn’t.

She turned, slipped out the door—and then she was gone.

Lyric looked at the journal, her pulse quickening. A tangle of guilt and shame twisted inside her.

Guilt for planning to harm the only woman who had kept her alive. And shame for not finding the courage to do anything—anything at all—to save herself and her son.

She stared for a while at the journal on her lap.

Another door. A way out?

Then leapt off the bed, dragged the heavy dresser aside, and ripped back the wallpaper—

Revealing the attic door.

She didn’t hesitate.

She opened it slowly, hope flickering—not certainty, but a chance.

Maybe… just maybe, there was still a way out.