When Lily Kline takes possession of a Gothic estate with Ian Hawke, her co-heir and a stranger, she soon realizes there is more than meets the eye within the many corridors of the sequestered mansion.
Ian is aloof and even hostile at times, and thou...
Mike watched in paralyzed silence as his body tore the covers from Lily's bed. He took a pocketknife from his tool belt and sliced open the mattress, yanking out the stuffing clump by clump. He then shredded the pillows; sending a spray of down-feathers fluttering to the floor like snow.
What on earth was he doing?
Apparently not finding whatever he was looking for, his body stormed over to Lily's dresser and pulled the clothes out in a crazed frenzy. He heard a thunk behind him and his body spun around, digging into the pile of scattered shirts to seek the source of the sound.
There, amidst the articles, was the same leather-bound journal he'd seen before when he took the key.
Hunkering down, his body snatched it up and rifled through it. All he saw was a blur of words.
The puppeteer seemed satisfied, however, and tucking the book under his arm, Mike left the bedroom and went downstairs, walking past the dining room toward either the TV room or Auguste's study.
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Using her hands to feel the walls surrounding her, Lily rushed down the narrow passageway without sight, deathly afraid she might fall through a hole in the floor straight down to a lower level, breaking a leg or worse. But she didn't dare slow down. If Ian was in the tunnel with her, he might just grab her at any second.
Without warning, she crashed full-force into a wall, hands folding inward against her chest.
She grappled the walls about her frantically—scraping her hands over splintered wood.
There were no walls on either side of her and she realized the tunnel had divided into two different directions. Without hesitation, she took off to the left just as a hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her backward against a firm chest. In the same instant, another hand clamped down over her mouth, stifling her scream.
She inhaled a familiar cologne.
Ian.
Scratching at his face with her hand, she sought his eyes and dug a thumb into one of them. Those ink-black eyes without the whites: she couldn't get the hellish image out of her head. What was wrong with him?
Stifling another cry, he yanked her hand away from his face and held it down at her side. "Don't fight me, Lily—please." His whisper was hoarse in her ear. "I'm not trying to hurt you."
She would have spat curses at him but his left hand was pressing her mouth.
"You've got to be quiet," he said in an undertone, "we're being hunted. The killer is here. That was him trying to burst through the study doors—I'm sure of it. I thought he would wait till midnight, but I was wrong."
He was insane, completely out of his mind.
She tried not to tremble, standing very still within his clutch. What kind of sick game was he playing? Was he the one who had attacked her in the pool room and then slipped back to his room while she was unconscious? And what about in the forest? Had she really tripped after stealing the key or had someone knocked her out?
