Page 7 of Five Stolen Rings
However. Despiteknowingthat the wind makes doors rattle, despiteknowingthat’s a thing—I start walking again, to the kitchen, heading not for the list on the fridge I need to double check but instead to the large stretch of cupboards. I offer up an apologetic look at whatever cameras may be watching. Then I do what any woman alone in a creepy house would do: I find the biggest frying pan I can and practice wielding it like a weapon.
Because what—am I supposed to call the police because the door rattled? No. Obviously not. This is not a horror movie. This is aStella-has-an-overactive-imaginationmovie. But me and my overactive imagination will feel a lot better if we have something heavy and metal by our sides.
Just in case.
I blame this on India.I hope no intruders try to break in while you’re there—did she really have to say that?
I set the frying pan on the counter with a heavy metallic clank and then tuck a few blonde strands behind my ear so they won’t be in my face. Then I tighten my ponytail and pick the pan back up—only to drop it once more when, from the next room, a clatter reaches me.
I whirl around, listening intently; my pulse picks up as another sound finds its way to my ears, something muffled this time.
Breathe,I remind myself when I realize my vision is starting to swim.The windows are open, so you’re probably hearing something from outside.
Definitely. I’m definitely hearing something from outside, but I have no desire to check that theory. I wouldlove to head straight for the front door, as a matter of fact, and put this place in my rearview mirror.
But I am strong and brave and smart—and sure, maybe I’ve regressed a bit in my life circumstances, but I am currently in charge of keeping this home secure. So I grab the pan and inch across the kitchen, ever so slowly, emerging past the shiny appliances and into the stuffy, dark living room where Maude Ellery’s portrait reigns.
My hand is sweaty where it grips the frying pan, and my heart thuds uncomfortably in my throat—but even though I stand completely still at the threshold of the room, everything is silent in here now, save for the whistling of the wind coming through the open windows. I exhale shakily as some of the tension leaks out of my body.
I’m hearing things, imagining things. I fed the animals and watered the plants and aired out the rooms. It’s time to get out of here.
So I hurry forward and begin closing windows one-handed, pushing aside the heavy drapes as I go, maintaining my grip on my makeshift weapon. One window, two, three…
It’s only when I reach the last window that I realize the screen is missing.
It was there before. I’m sure it was.
Ice cubes slip down my throat and into my stomach as I hear, from behind me, a voice—aman’svoice—out of the darkness, low and velvet and faintly sardonic.
“Waiting for me in the dark? A little creepy.”
I don’t think, and I don’t hesitate. I just act. With a scream I whirl around, raising the frying pan high in the air—and then I bring it down, hard.
STELLA
Except…it doesn’t make contact.
The man in front of me—he might be in the shadows, but I can definitely tell he’s male—reaches up to stop the frying pan’s descent, faster than I can even register.
Really? REALLY? Can I not catch a break?
But it seems I cannot. His hand wraps around the handle right above mine, his grip almost painful where our fingers overlap.
I gasp at his sudden movement, stumbling backward as he steps closer, the frying pan still suspended precariously over our heads.
“Want to explain?” the man says in that same voice, soft but dark.
A shiver runs down my spine. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’d rather talk to the seductive portraits. I shuffle further away, but he moves right along with me, until…
“You,” I breathe as the light finally reaches him, throwing his features into sharp relief—features I would recognize anywhere. Dark, taunting eyes; even darker hair; straight nose; full lips. “It’s you.”
“Seems that way,” Jack Piorra says with a humorless smile. Then he speaks again. “Trying to kill me, Princess?”
Heat creeps into my face. “Don’t call me that.”
But he won’t listen. He never does.
“Why are you here?” he says instead, giving the frying pan a hard tug and yanking it out of my grasp. He tosses it carelessly on the couch without even looking.
