Chapter 18

The days that followed had a strange, suspended quality.

After the photograph incident, Holden had stayed away from the bedroom. He didn't push, didn't come in without a reason. The chains were still there, but a maid came each morning to release Quinn for a walk in the garden.

The maid was young — a round-faced girl who kept stealing shy looks at Quinn and not quite committing to a question.

Those wide, curious eyes made Quinn think of Abby. The thought settled like a bruise.

"You can just ask," Quinn said, on the third morning.

The girl went pink immediately. "I — I was just wondering why you don't... like Mr. Blackwood. He's so..." She searched for the word. "He seems like he cares about you so much. But you don't seem to want to be near him. Do you... have someone else?"

Quinn looked out at the rose garden. "You've seen the photograph hanging in the main hall. The little girl."

"She's beautiful."

"She was. She died in an explosion on the East River bridge." Quinn's voice didn't waver. "Three years ago. She was kidnapped because of Holden. He was given a choice between rescuing her and rescuing someone else, and he chose someone else."

The maid's face went through several expressions in quick succession. She'd stopped breathing.

"He killed my daughter," Quinn finished simply. "That's why."

A sound from the doorway. Low. Roughly controlled.

Quinn didn't turn around.

"I knew you'd never stop blaming me for Abby," Holden said. His voice had the specific rawness of someone trying very hard to sound composed.

Quinn spoke to the garden. "Of course I blame you. I blame myself too. But you — you made the choice. You still live in this house. You still sleep and eat and wake up every morning. Abby doesn't. I curse you for that every single day."

A long exhale. "You're not well. I'm not going to fight with you."

He sounded like he needed to leave before he didn't.

The sound of his footsteps faded.

The maid stared at Quinn, something shifting in her expression — from curiosity to grief to something harder and more resolute.

She bent close. Her voice went very low.

"Ms. Ashford. If there's anything you need from me. Anything at all."

Quinn glanced at her sideways. The look in the girl's eyes was steady.

Quinn tilted her head toward her and, in barely a murmur, told her exactly what she needed.

The afternoon light came gold through the roses.

Holden stood in the garden some time later, not looking at them. He was too full of Quinn to look at anything that wasn't her. Every hour she was in this house without him felt like a negotiation he was losing.

Just wait, he told himself. She'll soften. She used to love you.

The sound of running feet.

His assistant appeared at the gate, out of breath, with a look on his face that Holden had learned to dread.

"Sir. Someone's here — they brought the police—"