It was. But Rosalie did not like it.
Rosalie.
I’ve got to talk to her.
But one thing is for sure, I’m not going to end up like my sister. I’m smarter than that. I feel around in my purse until my fingers make contact with their destination: Rob’s pocket knife.
My heart is pounding as I carefully walk the distance from the restaurant to the dilapidated old house, my boots crunching against the hardening snow. Even though the snow has stopped, the wind is brutal, like an ice cold dagger in my face. Every few seconds, I glance up at the second-floor window of the house. The light is still shining. Rosalie has not moved. Not a millimeter. She is still in the window, staring down at me. I squint up at her, trying to make out any features. But I can’t.
My legs feel like rubber as I reach the small house. The door is made of wood, which has splintered over the years and nobody bothered to fix it. The paint surrounding the door is outright peeling off. Like our house, it’s a fixer-upper that nobody bothered to fix.
I swallow a lump in my throat. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should turn around and leave.
I feel the weight of the knife in my hand. It gives me confidence. I’ve never let anyone push me around. I can deal with one small woman.
Right?
I knock on the door with my left hand. There’s no answer. Rosalie isn’t coming down. I suppose I’m not surprised.
I put my hand on the door knob. I let out a gasp as it turns. The door is unlocked.
I push open the door and walk inside.
Chapter 26
ROSALIE
I’m not dead.
Did you think I was? That I’m some corpse my husband propped up in front of the second-floor window to frighten his guests?
I’m not. I’m very much alive.
And I’m afraid my husband is a murderer.
Twelve Years Earlier
I can hear the hum of the engine and my body jolts with every imperfection in the road. My teeth sink into my lower lip as I shift in the passenger seat of the broken down Ford. A blindfold covers my eyes, shrouding me in darkness.
I desperately claw at the blindfold with my right hand. Before I can work it loose, a powerful hand encircles my wrist. My boyfriend Nick’s voice cuts through the silence. “Hey, quit doing that,” he says.
I groan. “Nick…”
“I mean it. I want this to be a surprise. No peeking.”
“Fine. How much longer?”
“Ten minutes—tops.”
“At nine minutes and thirty seconds, I’m ripping this blindfold off. I swear, Nick.”
I have been dating Nick Baxter for six years. We met in high school, if you can believe that. High school sweethearts—I know, I know. I never imagined meeting the love of my life in high school, but the second I kissed him at only sixteen years old, I just knew. This was the guy.
Have you ever just met somebody that you clicked with? That you felt was an extension of yourself? The missing piece. From the first moment we sat down to dinner on our first date, I felt like I could tell him anything. And I did. I told him I didn’t want to be a teacher like my parents kept telling me to be. I wanted to be a chef. I wanted to open my own restaurant. It was my dream. I fell in love with him for being the only one to believe in me.
Also, it doesn’t hurt that he’s pretty hot. Even with my eyes blindfolded, I can picture his dark blond hair, his slim but muscular build, and his infectious smile. Girls always give Nick a second look, but he only has eyes for me. Whether I deserve it or not, he worships the ground I walk on.
I feel the car swerving to the right, which means he is exiting the highway. Thank God. If we don’t get there soon, I swear I’m going to vomit. If that happens, he’s going to have to clean it up all by himself, because this is his own damn fault.
The car jerks to a halt. Nick’s warm, large hand squeezes my knee. I can imagine the eager look on his face. “Okay, Rosie. We’re here.”
“Can I take off the blindfold?”
“Give me one minute.”
He insists on guiding me out of the car. He rests his hand on top of my head to make sure I don’t bump my head on the door frame. He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me about ninety degrees. Then he yanks off the blindfold.
“Ta-da!” he says.
I blink, adjusting to the light. “Ta-da what?”
“It’s your new restaurant.”
My new restaurant? Is he joking with me?
I’ve been working as a line cook at a dingy restaurant since graduating culinary school. The salary is just barely enough that I could give up my waitressing job, since my parents have not given me one penny to subsidize my “ridiculous lifestyle.” Nick recently graduated from college with a degree in business, and he’s been talking about the two of us starting a restaurant. I said sure, figuring it was just a pipe dream.