Chapter 3

A sliver of light and a blast of warm air save me. One of the newer maids, sent to fetch something, found me hours later, blue-lipped and unconscious on the floor.

I spend the next two days in a feverish haze in my room. No doctor comes. No one checks on me except for the maid who brings my meals, her eyes full of pity.

On the third day, the world comes back into focus with a cruel clarity. I hear unfamiliar sounds from the hallway-laughter, movers. Howard Franklin is moving in.

He doesn't just move in. He takes my room.

"The light is so much better in here," I overhear him telling Charlotte in the hallway. "And the view of the gardens is spectacular. You don't mind, do you, darling?"

"Of course not," she replies, her voice indulgent. "Alex can take the guest room in the west wing. He hardly uses this space anyway."

My room. The room she designed for me after my parents died. The one with the ceiling painted like a night sky, because I was afraid to sleep in the dark.

I don't protest. I don't say a word. I just watch as movers carry my life out in boxes.

The only thing that matters is the warm, living weight curled up at my feet. Buster. A scruffy little terrier mix I found abandoned in a park last year. He' s my shadow, my confidant, the only creature in this house who looks at me without an agenda.

I pack my few belongings into a single suitcase. My new room is smaller, colder, overlooking the garage. Buster seems to sense the change, whining softly and nudging my hand with his wet nose.

Howard begins his reign of the house. He complains that Buster sheds. He "accidentally" trips over him. He tells Charlotte the dog is a "filthy mutt" that doesn't belong in a house like this. Each complaint drives another wedge between me and her.

One afternoon, I am on the phone, making a difficult call. It' s to a no-kill shelter an hour away. I' m arranging to take Buster there, to keep him safe until I can leave for the West Coast.

"I can bring him in tomorrow," I say, my voice thick.

Suddenly, a sharp yelp cuts through the air. It' s Buster. It' s coming from the balcony of my old room.

My blood freezes.

I drop the phone and run. I burst out onto the main landing just in time to see it.

Howard is standing on the balcony, holding Buster by the scruff of his neck, dangling him over the stone patio three stories below.

He sees me, and a slow, cruel smile spreads across his face.

"This little rat is a real nuisance, Alex," he says, his voice casual, as if he's talking about the weather.

"Howard, no!" I scream, lunging for the stairs. "Please!"

He just watches me, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

"He's just like you," he says softly. "A stray that should have never been brought into a place like this."

And then, he lets go.

Time slows down. I see Buster' s small, confused body tumble through the air. I see the flash of his white fur against the grey sky.

The sound when he hits the stone is a sickening, final thud.

My own scream is raw, torn from the deepest part of my soul. I stare at the small, broken form on the patio. Unmoving.

"He was also an orphan, you know," Howard says from the balcony, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "Just like you. Your parents died so tragically, didn't they? A shame they left their mess for Charlotte to clean up."

Something inside me snaps.

The grief, the pain, the injustice of two lifetimes-it all ignites into a single point of white-hot rage.

I don't remember running up the stairs. I only remember the crunch of bone under my fist. I'm on top of him, my hands on his throat, the world gone red.

I am going to kill him.

"Alex! What are you doing?!"

Charlotte's scream pulls me back.

She's standing in the doorway, her face pale with shock. She sees me, a wild animal, on top of Howard, who is bleeding from a broken nose and gasping for air.

She doesn't see the monster who just murdered my dog.

She sees the monster she's always believed me to be.