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Wednesday

My sleep is filled with confusing dreams—I can’t figure out exactly where I am and I’ve lost the map. When I finally see another person, it’s a man with his back to me. I want to ask directions, but I’m afraid of him.

Excuse me, sir?

He turns around, and it’s Tim. His face is bloody and terrifying. And he’s holding what looks like a swaddled baby. But it isn’t moving.

He takes a staggering step toward me, and I wake in a sweaty panic.

I glance at the clock. Seven, and the house is quiet. I tiptoe downstairs and find Harrison seated in the kitchen, his chair sandwiched between the cat and dog.

“Natalie’s still asleep?” he asks, looking up. “I don’t think her friend left last night.”

“You probably won’t see them until noon.” I find a coffee mug and pour myself a cup. “School’s over. They’re supposed to be looking for jobs.”

“Not sure that’s going well,” he says. “What happens if she can’t find one?”

“She’d better find one. It’s that or volunteer work. This is a hill I’m willing to die on.”

He looks amused. “Want an egg? I could whip something up.”

“No time,” I lie.

But I wish I never had to go back to the mansion.

***

With no meetings scheduled, I spend the morning at my desk. Today’s task is a redesign for the third-floor railing. Replacing a large section of the banister—and all the balusters on the third floor—won’t be cheap, but if I attempt a revamp of the existing pieces, the smooth line of the staircase will be ruined.

It’s difficult to care and impossible to concentrate. Beatrice is on a call, chattering away with someone about furniture delivery times. Meanwhile, Hank is blowing up my phone with texts.

Hank: Hey, got a minute? I want to apologize for last night.

I don’t respond, because I’m not in the mood for that phone call. Fifteen minutes later he tries again.

Hank: Rowan? Can I call you? I’m really sorry.

Am I supposed to be grateful that he’s sorry? Wincott men seem prone to taking what they want without asking. The more I know about them, the more Poseidon seems like a worthy choice for the family mascot.

Now he wants to apologize, because I’m his architect and we have to maintain a professional relationship.

But the girls who once lived in this house weren’t so lucky.

I ignore Hank’s second message, too, but his next gambit is a little more straightforward.

Hank: Can we reschedule the budget meeting for tomorrow at one? I’ll come to your office, or we can meet wherever makes you most comfortable. My deepest apologies for my behavior last night.

A response is necessary, because that damn meeting is essential to the next phase of my work.

Rowan: Don’t worry about last night. No harm done. One p.m. works.

I hesitate on the location question. I don’t really want to be alone with Hank. But if he’s sober in the middle of the day, then I should have nothing to worry about, right? And I don’t want to discuss a multimillion-dollar budget at the coffee shop.

Rowan: My office is fine. See you then.

That done, I put my head in my hands and let out a nearly silent groan. Stupid Hank. His drunken kiss isn’t even in the top five of my biggest issues right now. I keep picturing Laura Peebles clutching her mug of tea, telling me that story of how Marcus Wincott handcuffed a girl to a chair.

I’m not stupid, you know. They brought me a dead baby. He was so cold .

That happened right here in this building. I believe her, but I don’t think Detective Riley was convinced. “That’s a wild story,” Riley said after listening to the recording. “Is there a morgue in the mansion?”

I had to tell her no.

“Rowan?”

I look up to find Beatrice watching me. “I was just about to ask if you’re okay, but then I remembered that you hate that.” She gives a tired smile. Actually, it’s a very tired smile. She looks more haggard than I’ve ever seen her. “How’d last night go at the thing with Hank?”

“Fine.” I’m never telling her the truth. Not about the drunken kiss, and not about the way Hank asked me about her. “The speeches were too long. And I cut myself off after three glasses of wine to be a professional. But three felt insufficient.”

She laughs. “Been there. Was this one at the art museum? Or in that design studio? That place feels like a basement dungeon.”

“The art museum,” I murmur. But my brain snags on basement dungeon . “Hey, Beatrice? Do you remember what was in the basement? Before we started the demo?”

She blinks at the non sequitur. “Bunch of old metal furniture. Why?”

That’s what I remember, too—metal baby cribs and folding chairs. Plus, another creepy old birthing table with stirrups at the ready. I rub my eyes, forgetting how much concealer I’d applied. “I was just trying to remember what all was down there. Like”—I grasp for an excuse—“hopefully, an old section of the third-floor banister?” I push back from my desk. “Maybe I’ll take a look and jog my memory.”

Zombielike, I walk out of the room. I turn toward the back of the mansion and head for the door to the servants’ quarters.

“Rowan, hold up.” Beatrice is on my heels. “It’s locked.”

“Oh.” I wait for her to catch up. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says, going ahead of me with her giant key ring.

In the stairwell, we head down to the left. The first turn of the stairs is well lit. But then we reach an old-looking arched door that predates all the mansion’s nineteenth-century finery. It’s a rare glimpse into the earliest section of the house.

Beatrice flips through her keys and locates the one that fits the old door. It swings open, and she takes a step down, feeling around in the dark for the light switch.

Even when she flips it on, the light is barely adequate. “Watch your step.” I don’t want her turning an ankle just because I had a wild hair.

The stairs were hammered together from plywood several decades ago after the original staircase rotted. We’ve got a dehumidification system running down here now.

It still has that scary-old-basement smell, though. And as I descend into the gloom, the air temperature drops.

“So... what are we looking for?” Beatrice asks as we reach the mottled concrete floor.

If I answer that question truthfully, she’ll think I’ve lost my mind. “The first time we were down here, all the furniture was at this end.” I point toward the front of the house. “Metal bed frames and baby cribs. Rusty folding chairs.”

“And that big old incubator.”

“Right. But that was on this side.” I turn my body toward the back of the house, where the shadows are deepest. My memory is visual, which is why I need to stand here, taking in the space again.

Suddenly I’m sure I saw an old chest freezer down here. Gray. Boxy. I can picture its shape against the wall. Edging in that direction, I let my eyes adjust to the gloom. Freezers need electricity. And, yeah, there’s an electrical conduit running along the wall, with an outlet about knee height.

There, on the wall a few feet away from the outlet, is a shadowy patch, freezer-shaped. My guess is that the freezer’s coils had caused condensation on the wall behind it, encouraging mold to darken the surface.

I lean down and rub my finger against the wall’s rocky surface. Dark, powdery mildew comes away on my finger.

“There’s a reason this room isn’t on the new floor plan,” Beatrice points out. “What are you looking at?”

“Do you remember a freezer?” I ask slowly. “I think I do.”

Beatrice squints at me a moment before shrugging.

“It was big,” I say, indicating the size. “And yet there was another freezer upstairs in the galley. A walk-in. Why would they need two?”

“No idea.” She shakes her head. “There were a lot of people living here during the sixties and seventies. You’d need a lot of food storage?”

They said they brought him from the morgue .

I turn once more in a slow circle, picturing the room as it was the first time I saw it, before everything was cleared out. The birthing table shoved up against the incubator. The old furniture crowded together.

Scrap metal fetches a nice price, so Beatrice gave the moving contract to a scrap company. Workmen came to carry everything out via a pair of bulkhead doors—like in The Wizard of Oz .

I inhale sharply.

“What?” Beatrice asks.

“The bill of sale. Can I see it? From the scrap company?”

Before she can answer, there’s a loud bang at the top of the stairs.

We both jump practically out of our skins, because it’s deafening. And then I realize that the door at the top of the stairs has slammed shut.

Beatrice glares up at it, rubbing her arms. “Don’t even say it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Fine.” I let out a nervous laugh. “That was definitely just a breeze. Because ghosts aren’t real.”

“You don’t think...”

I know what she’s asking, and I don’t want to say it aloud, either. Are we locked in this basement? My mind flashes to an image of my phone, which I’d stupidly left on my desk.

“I guess I’m finished down here,” I say, ignoring the hum in my ears.

Beatrice climbs the stairs, with me on her heels. I hold my breath as she reaches for the doorknob. It turns in her hand, and she pushes the door open.

I am full of relief as I flip off the light switch and leave the basement.

Back in our office, I wait impatiently as Beatrice hunts through her files.

“Here,” she says eventually.

She passes me two stapled sheets of paper, and I scan the contents. The scrap was weighed, the inventory detailed. My finger drags down the list until I find the heaviest object on the list: Chest freezer, 200 lbs .

I snap a picture of the list with my phone.

“Okay, what is the deal?” Beatrice asks. “Did something happen last night? Why are you interested in an old freezer? You’re acting so strange. Did Hank do something?”

Shit . I wait a beat. “No. Hank was... no big deal.”

Her eyes widen.

I drop the bill of sale on my desk and sink back into my chair, resting my head in my hands. “I understand how loyal you are to the Wincotts, and I admire that. So if I heard a freaky story about the mansion, I’m not sure you’d want to hear it. Let’s just go get lunch and move on.”

She’s quiet for a second. Then she gets up and crosses to the door and closes it before sitting down across from me. “Rowan,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “My loyalty to the family is based on a lot of things. History. Gratitude. But also trust. I’m well aware that not every Wincott lives up to the family name. So if you know a reason why I shouldn’t trust my boss, then I would like to know.”

Discomfort hums through me. Beatrice knows more about the Wincotts than I ever will. I don’t trust Hank at all, and I can’t share Laura’s story. Even if I could, there’s no way I could prove it. That chest freezer might have only held extra hamburger meat.

“I’ve discovered a few things about what Tim was up to before he was murdered,” I say quietly. “He was researching the maternity home. He was born here in this building, and his adoption seems to have been... irregular. Coerced.”

“Jesus.” She swallows audibly. “You’re serious?”

“Very. And if that happened to Tim, then it probably happened to other people. The maternity home was open for more than thirty years. All those adoptions. And potentially a huge cover-up.”

She takes a slow breath. “Can you prove it? The family would lose their minds.”

“No, I can’t. But it’s troubling me a great deal. If Tim’s death had anything to do with his investigation, I can’t just sit at my desk and pretend everything is fine. Especially if the police are trying to pin it on my child’s father.” Or me .

“Well...” She fiddles with the bracelet she’s wearing. “What if I could help? I might be able to access Tim’s adoption record.”

“ Oh ,” I breathe. “That could be really helpful. But what about other records? It would be great to know more about whoever worked here in the eighties. And, uh, one employee in particular.”

She frowns, twisting her bracelet and giving me a serious, blue-eyed frown. “I don’t know how far back that stuff has been digitized. But I guess I can poke around and see.” She grabs a pad of sticky notes. “Who’s the employee?”

“Betsy Jones.”

She tosses the pad aside. “Well, that’s easy enough to remember. I’ll try, okay? But if I found something—what would you do with it? How far are you willing to take this?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I’m just trying to make peace with the work we’re doing here. I want to know if the Wincotts have a clue about the bad adoptions.”

Beatrice blows out a breath. “I’ve basically given my life to this family. I’ve always felt that was a worthy investment. Really hope I wasn’t wrong.”

“I hope so, too.”

“Yeah. But at the same time, Marcus Wincott is dead. You may never get your answers. And Hank would not appreciate us digging into this.”

I think of Hank last night, looming over me on the front porch. His entitled smile. And this job suddenly feels a lot less valuable. “Let’s just make sure he doesn’t find out.”