by Calia Read
At her words, I sit on the edge of my seat. “He did?”
Cordelia stops rocking and gives me a hard stare. “Because of where they discovered the bodies. Nathalie was in her room. Étienne was in his office. The front and back doors were locked.”
“And Ben would’ve been by the front door,” I say before I stop myself.
Cordelia arches a brow.
“Through letters, I know Ben was a servant for the Lacroixs,” I quickly explain.
She nods. “The official cause was an electric fire, but Daddy was never convinced. He bought Belgrave, ya know. After that last boy died in the war. Oh, what’s his name? Langston? Landon?”
“Livingston,” I supply.
She points at me. “Livingston. Yes, that’s it. After he passed, Daddy purchased the home.”
“I read that somewhere. What made him do that?”
She shrugs a bony shoulder. “Didn’t want Belgrave fallin’ into the wrong hands. Planned on fixin’ it up. He always said that by the time I married, he would give Belgrave to me as a weddin’ present. Even though he sold Belgrave a few years before the Great Depression he had investments that had gone bad, leavin’ him no choice but to sell. He was mighty upset about losing the plantation.”
I nod, but I’m stuck on something she mentioned earlier. “You said that your dad suspected foul play? Did he think the Lacroix family had enemies?”
She’s quiet for so long, I begin to think she didn’t hear me. Or maybe she fell asleep? Finally, she replies. “Of course they had enemies. Especially Livingston.”
“Really?”
“No. Not him,” she replies. “The other one.”
“Étienne,” I say breathlessly.
“That one,” Cordelia confirms. “He had a lot of enemies. That’s what happens when you have money. Everyone wants a piece of it.”
I sit back in my chair, my mind reeling. For so long, I’ve assumed Asa was the one to look out for, and now I have no idea who to focus on. Suddenly, I sit upright. “Did your dad ever mention Johnathan Whalen?”
Cordelia snorts. “You mean the black sheep of the Whalen family? Child, everyone from around here knows about him. He tucked tail and ran to some town in Virginia after he was caught embezzlin’ money from his daddy.” She gives me a knowing smirk I could see Asa doing many times. “It caused quite the scandal, but Daddy was relieved to see him go.”
“What made him go to Virginia?”
“Who knows? It’s hard to remember all the details. I think you’re forgettin’ you’re speakin’ with a ninety-seven-year-old,” she teases gently. “But I think he had a friend who lived there.”
“Who?” I’ve asked a lot of questions, but I can’t help it. I’ve had so many questions and I never received answers. But here is Cordelia, giving me small tidbits that I’m dying to hear.
“I don’t know,” she answers slowly and narrows her eyes. “Who are you related to on the Lacroix side again?”
“Uhh…” I try to think if Étienne ever mentioned his father’s relatives. Then I remember our conversation in the woods. Adrien had a sister! “I’m related to Christine Lacroix. She was Adrien’s sister and lived in New York.” Cordelia doesn’t reply as I abruptly stand. “I should be going. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me.”
“My pleasure, child. But be careful the next time you trespass on private property. There might not be an old, lonely lady waitin’ to greet you,” she says.
I smile. “I’ll keep that mind.”
I’ll keep it mind… when I break into Belgrave tonight.
GROWING UP WITH brothers has many pitfalls.
But it also has its perks. Because of them, I had no limits. I could climb trees and fight with the best of them. There was never time to stop and consider my fears because I was always trying to keep up with them.
That very same fearlessness is all around me even though I know that if I get caught, the repercussions won’t be good. But I can feel time moving forward, and it’s telling me I have no choice but to do this.
The clock on the dashboard flashes one in the morning. I take a deep breath, drop my keys into my pocket, double-check to make sure my phone is in my other coat pocket, that the skeleton key from Étienne’s time is in my back pocket, and step out of the car. At this time of night, the plantation is eerily quiet. It’s just Belgrave and me. I make sure to park a reasonable distance away from the property—who knows if there’s security that tours the ground? Probably not, but it’s better to be prepared. The souvenir shop is locked up with a “Sorry! We’re closed” sign hanging in the middle of the door.
A pole light shines on the small building and across the parking lot. I make a mental note to steer clear of that entire area.
The temperature has cooled off considerably since this afternoon. I wrap my dark blue pea coat tightly around myself and trek toward Belgrave. The iron gates loom in front of me, taunting me to climb over them, but I bypass the front gates. One: It’d be too easy for someone to spot me there. Two: Those gates needed a key.
No, I go toward the second entrance I noticed earlier today. It’s hidden by a cluster of trees and bushes, but I saw a staff member enter through that entrance without anyone noticing.
Twigs snap beneath my feet as I rush toward the gate. I keep my head down, focusing on my footsteps. Darkness has never scared me, but the cacophony of sounds make goose bumps break out across my arms. There’s a stiff breeze that makes the skinny branches clash. The sound of twigs snapping comes from a thicket of trees on my far left. As I fumble to turn on my flashlight, I tell myself it’s just an animal.
Up ahead is the gate. I pick up my pace. When I reach it, I see that the gate is much older than I had anticipated. With the flashlight, I peer closer. It’s more rust than wrought iron and looks like it’s barely standing. Anyone else would tear it down, but the employees didn’t because this could be an original piece of Belgrave. I close my eyes, trying to remember if I ever walked through these gates, but I can’t recall.
Suddenly, I remember the skeleton key burning a hole in my back pocket. It’s a master key, giving me access to any part of Belgrave. If this gate has stood the test of time and is an original part of Belgrave, then this key will work.
I reach into my pocket. My hand shakes as I slide the key into the lock. The lock mechanism creaks as I slowly turn it to the right. Holding my breath, I wait, and then I hear the sound of the lock unclicking. Breathing a sigh of relief, I tuck the key back into my pocket, walk through the gate and shut it behind me. There’s no time to celebrate that I got through the gate; I’m out in the open for anyone to see. I run toward the front driveway, making sure to watch my step along the way.
The walk up the driveway takes longer than I expect, but that could be because I’m paranoid someone’s going to catch me. After fifteen minutes of walking, the trees thin out and the circular drive appears. When I walk past where the fountain was, I swear I hear the faint sound of water drops sprouting in the air before they softly land in the fountain.
I shake my head. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me.
Stopping in front of the steps, I tilt my head back and stare at the massive structure. The confidence I had wavers. What am I getting myself into?
I turn my flashlight back on, but that only reveals the sad state of Belgrave. I won’t let what it looks like in the present effect what I need to do though. Which is get back to Étienne. There might be some link in Belgrave that will bring me back to him.
Slowly, I walk up the steps. In the stillness of the night, my footsteps sound like gunshots. Aiming the flashlight at my feet to make sure I don’t step on a dead animal or fall through a hole, I inch toward the front door. All the windows have been broken out. It would be pointless for the front door to be locked. My hand curls around the knob.
It creaks open. I shine my light into the foyer, and my heart drops to my stomach. The grandeur it once held is gone. Plaster dust coats where the marb
le floors once were. Now it’s uneven wooden floors. Paint is chipping and peeling everywhere. I stop in the middle of the foyer, debating on where to go next.
The piano that was once in the front room is shoved up against the staircase. The keys are now yellow. Most of them are chipped off. One leg of the piano is broken, causing it to lean uncharacteristically to the left. In my mind, I can see Livingston playing. He looks over his shoulder and winks at me.
In a blink of an eye, the image dissolves.
I jerk the flashlight toward the reception area. This is the room where I finally convinced Étienne that I’d time traveled. I remember how beautiful the place once was. How light poured in through the windows, making the fireplace mantel practically sparkle. Now the hardwood floors are covered in so much grime they resemble a slate gray. Sections of the floor have caved in, making it impossible to enter. I shine the light on the fireplace. Pieces of marble are chipped off. Cobwebs are attached to every free area. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the only thing keeping the walls upright.
The chandelier that used to sparkle is gone. Wires now snake out of the ceiling. Fissures run across the ceiling like veins, transporting the decay throughout the house. A huge hole is in the left-hand corner of the ceiling.
I step back and venture toward the once grand staircase. One side of the iron railing is gone, and the other is barely hanging on. The marble steps that once shined brightly are gone. In fact, only small pieces of the marble remain, leaving only plywood layered with dust and mouse droppings.
I have a better chance of falling through the steps than making it up to the second floor. Any sane person would turn around and not risk the chance. But I’m not sane.
I’m crazy. And I’ve been that way since the second I fell out of time and into my own life. I don’t know if I can ever go back to being the Serene Parow I was.
Hesitantly, I curl my hand around the rickety railing and walk up the stairs. I ignore the layers of dust on the banister and dodge the steps that have fallen apart. I tell myself the crunching noises beneath my feet are only broken pieces of plaster and not the stairs disintegrating. My heart beats wildly, and when I finally make it up the stairs, my legs are shaking.
The historical society may have gotten its hands on Belgrave before it fell into complete collapse, but there’s been so much water damage that when I glance at the ceiling, in some areas I can see up into the attic.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
Watching where I step, I make my way toward my room. The wall sconces have vanished. I’m willing to bet they were stolen by vandals. The pictures of Lacroix ancestors are long gone, replaced with graffiti. Most of the doors are open. I stop in a few doorways and peer inside. Of course there’s no furniture left. The windows in nearly all the rooms are boarded up.
As I continue down the hall, I pass what I’m pretty sure are animal bones. I take one look and haul ass. When I turn the corner and reach the hallway where my bedroom is, I breathe a sigh of relief. I know my room won’t be the same—far from it—but I have to see it. Being in Belgrave isn’t enough. I need to be in a space where I once rested my head.
The door to my room is half shut, and my nerves are practically shot as I open the door all the way. Like the front door, it creaks ominously. For the umpteenth time, I remind myself I’m the only person in this house right now and that ghosts do not exist.
But as I drag my flashlight across the room, I swear I feel eyes on me.
For a second, I see my room as I did for the first time: beautiful bed, gleaming wood floors, marble fireplace, and the vanity with rows of French perfume. I picture the windows open with a small breeze coming through.
In the present, tatters of old wallpaper barely hang onto the walls. I stand in the doorway and pick off a piece of wallpaper, surprised it doesn’t disintegrate in my hands. The floors are in awful shape, with numerous holes. I know for a fact that if I step in there, I’ll fall through. I stay in the doorway even though I’m dying to step inside. Layers of dust cover the fireplace mantel. The mirror that used to be above the fireplace is gone. The windows are boarded up. Crown molding has been stripped away. I lean heavily against the doorframe.
A part of me wants to scream that I lived here. In this room. In this home. And it doesn’t matter how long I resided in 1912; all that matters is this place was and still is my home.
I rest my palms against the wall and lay my cheek against the filthy surface.
My heart aches to see Belgrave in such a sad state. I know Étienne’s family would never let it come to this. They would’ve fought to make sure it stayed in the family, and if that weren’t possible, they would’ve made sure to place it in good hands. They worked too hard ever to let this happen.
But then again, so many other Southern plantations have seen the same fate. No matter how derelict Belgrave is, there’s an energy behind these walls. Something trapped and unseen refuses to let this place crumble.
I walk downstairs and head toward the east wing, where the fire started. The walls are charred reminders of that fire, and although it happened over one hundred years ago, I swear I can smell smoke. I turn the corner toward Étienne’s office and stop short. Further down, the hall just disappears. A blue tarp covers the gaping hole. The wind picks up outside, making the tarp gape open and reveal the moon that’s partially hidden by clouds.
I inch toward Étienne’s office, hyperaware that only a few steps away, the floor gives away to a six-foot drop to the ground. The door to his office is long gone. Standing in the doorway, I peer inside with my flashlight. Like the rest of the house, his office is in terrible shape. The ceiling is sagging, close to caving in. The walls are charred black from the fire.
I should probably leave. I could search the rest of the house until sunrise, but I’m only going to come upon more and more destroyed rooms. The thought is depressing.
But I can’t seem to make myself move. Closing my eyes, I pretend the room is how I once remembered it. That Étienne’s behind his desk, going through paperwork. Depending on the season, the fireplace might have wood crackling and flames burning bright. Or maybe it’s warm, and the windows are open, letting in a breeze.
He’ll barely notice because his attention is focused on work. Everything is in its correct place. The ceiling isn’t falling through. Broken pieces of plaster don’t litter the floor.
When I open my eyes, the image is gone.
A small part of me had hoped coming here would… I don’t know, open up a portal to the past, like a lock sliding into place. Click, I’d be back in Étienne’s arms. I know it’s a ridiculous idea. But my thoughts and hopes are all I have left.
My flashlight flickers, as if it’s fighting to stay on. I step back; there’s no way I can search this house without a flashlight. The wind blows in through the broken windows, making the leaves littering the floor skip down the hall. The sound is eerie. I know I’m alone, but my fear goes up a notch. I don’t care how brave you are, that’s enough to send any person straight to the exit. Including me.
I hurry down the hall, and the flashlight wobbles in my grasp. When I reach the foyer, some of my fear has faded; the front door is a few steps away. I sweep the flashlight across the open space one more time.
The energy behind the walls? I swear it’s stronger, practically pulsating. And I swear something’s reaching out to me. It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to Étienne and his world.
Maybe it’s all in my head though.
Maybe my mind is trying to appease me and my obsessive desire to go back.
Before I leave, I look over my shoulder at the ravaged foyer. “I’m trying, Étienne,” I whisper. “I really am.”
And then I open the front door. Slamming it shut behind me, I run down the front steps, back toward the safety of my car.
THE SOUND OF the door slamming makes me sit up straight in my chair.
It’s only eight at night, but it’s relatively quiet in the house. Nat is out with a fr
iend, Livingston is somewhere around here, and very soon, the person who betrayed me is coming over so we can talk.
Slowly, I make my way to the office door and turn the knob. When I look into the hallway, there’s no one there.
“Hello?” I ask.
No one answers. The house is completely silent, yet I’m sure I heard a door slamming, and I swear it came from the direction of the front door. As I make my way toward the foyer, the scent of wild honeysuckle drifts toward me, stopping me in my tracks. It’s a punch to my gut and instantly draws up the image of Serene’s face.
She hasn’t returned. However, that doesn’t mean I’ve given up hope. It’s fool’s hope, but I’ll never let go of my faith.
She will come back to me. I know it.
My steps increase until I’m nearly jogging. When I reach the front door, it’s ajar, as though the person who left was in too much of a rush to shut it. I jerk it wide open and walk onto the porch. All is silent except for a chorus of frogs and the slender limbs of the trees blowing gently in the wind.
Of course, there’s no one outside, but for a second—for the smallest of seconds—I’d thought Serene would be there.
“Étienne?”
Livingston’s voice jerks me out of my thoughts. Pivoting, I see him standing in the doorway, wearing an expression of concern.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks.
“I heard a door slam.”
“And that led you outside?”
I walk down the front steps. “Yes. The noise was loud.”
Livingston shrugs. “Perhaps you heard me. I was in the kitchen.”
I stare toward the driveway. “No. It didn’t come from the direction of the kitchen, and when I entered the foyer, the front door was open.”
Pushing away from the doorjamb, Livingston sighs and tucks his hands into his pockets then leans against one of the pillars. “And let me guess—you thought it was her?”
“No,” I lie, and Livingston knows it.