No fucking way.
I just stare.
Finding Gigi’s journal inside a wall in Parsons Manor was unbelievable. Something that only happens in movies.
But finding another journal inside the floor?
Impossible. Fucking impossible.
But the evidence is in my hands. A cheap leather notebook, nowhere near as fancy as Gigi's. The material is cracking and completely missing in some areas, yet it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Eyes wide, I open the journal and almost yip when I find several written entries inside.
I glance around the room, almost like I’m searching out for someone else to confirm that I’m staring at what I think I am.
It’s too dark to see anything now, so I stuff it back in and replace the wood, promising myself to read it later when I can see clearly. Then I stand, too excited to whine over the pain, and slip back into bed.
My heart is racing, partly from the euphoria of finding another journal and partly from disbelief.
She-Devil? If you did this… thank you.
I lie down, feeling slightly comforted that I now have something to cling onto while facing whatever is coming for me.
The storm raging outside lulls me back to sleep, and just as I’m slipping into consciousness, footsteps creak from within the wall, slowly retreating.
Chapter 8
The Diamond
“You have such pretty hair,” a soft, whimsical voice says from behind me.
Inhaling sharply, I whip around, startled from the unexpected intrusion.
It’s her.
The girl Jerry was carrying in over his shoulder when I first arrived. The girl with fire and ice in her gaze, and the same creepy smile tipping up her lips that she’s currently wearing.
Long blonde hair curls around her waist, and deep brown eyes stare at me from the doorway. She’s slightly hunched and terribly skinny.
I’m standing at the full-length mirror, attempting to French braid my hair. Rio rudely awoke me this morning by storming in, throwing a soft pair of joggers and a t-shirt at me, and demanding I get ready before slamming the door behind him on his way out. For what, I’m afraid to ask.
My seven days of purgatory are over, and just the thought of being awake makes me nauseous.
I’ve been waiting around for further directions, so to give myself something to do, I’m trying to fix my hair away from my face.
“Uh, hi,” I say, trying to regain my bearings.
I’m instantly on edge, tense beneath her probing gaze. There’s something entirely unnerving about her presence.
She straightens and walks farther into the room, standing several inches above me.
“Do you want my help?”
My instinct is to say no. I very much want to kick her out so that I can breathe again. But it would be wise to make friends with the creepy girl rather than enemies.
So, I nod my head, keeping a close eye on her as she approaches me. She’s wearing a long white gown that is nearly see-through—the curves of her body and her dark nipples apparent. I keep my eyes averted, trying to give her some semblance of respect that I’m sure she’s missing from the men in this house.
Hesitantly, I turn my back to her and watch her closely through the mirror. She smiles wider, displaying crooked teeth as she reaches for my hair. She presses her entire front into my back, and a sick feeling curdles in my stomach when I feel her nipples brushing against me.
Furrowing my brows, I step away, feeling all kinds of weird. She snickers but doesn’t come any closer.
Instead of gathering my hair together, she pets me. Brushing her fingertips against my cinnamon strands, almost seeming to relish in the feel.
My discomfort worsens, even when she finally gathers all my hair together. She’s gentle with me, though, her eyes glued to her task.
“What’s your name?” she asks, running her hand through my hair to clear out the knots.
“Addie,” I say. “Yours?”
“How did you get your hair so soft?” she asks in place of an answer. I thin my eyes, not liking her avoidance.
“I don’t really do much with it. No heat and no dye.”
She hums, and I arch a brow. “Your name,” I insist. She pauses and holds out a pale hand, and it takes a second to realize she’s asking for the ponytail holder. Blowing out a breath through my nose, I slip the band off my wrist and drop it in her palm.
A few more moments of silence pass, and I don’t soften my gaze, boring holes into her face through the mirror, still waiting for an answer.
“Sydney,” she responds finally, her voice pleasant as she begins to braid.