Chapter 9 · Spoiled Cream

My stitches ripped hot with every step down the back stairs.

Helen Crowe was already standing over the nursery table. Silver spoon clenched in her fist.

Twenty-two hours.

That was all Owen Hale had left me with when he clicked that deadbolt back. Twenty-four to prove I was worth keeping, minus the two I'd spent bleeding onto his master bath floor while he dragged black thread through my side.

The third floor reeked of old money. Wool runner, velvet wrapped around every sharp molding, and a iron gate locked from the outside. Soundproofed.

That was the part that turned my stomach. Somebody built this room so a kid could scream bloody murder and not a single soul downstairs would ever hear it.

"Eat," Helen said.

Not to me. Willa.

The kid sat curled on her chair, knees tucked tight under her chin, socks dragged down to her heels. Six years old, and she already knew the best move in this house was turning invisible.

She stared at the silver bowl. Then at me.

"I said eat, Wilhelmina."

Helen's voice came out soft and sticky.