Watching him move around the room is both unsettling and fascinating. That this is the same Milton I knew less than a year ago. Pulling out the chair, he takes a seat, as if this were some normal situation. Folding one leg over the other, he rests the folder on his lap, eyeing me with a meticulously trained stare.
I don’t know what to say or do. Run or stay. Both seem like they would have the same outcome. Both sound foolish.
The name he called himself comes to mind then. It was always just Milton. Milton Xavier Hood sounds like an entirely different person altogether. Someone important. Feared.
And I do fear him. I always have.
Milton moved up the club’s ranks quicker than any Prospect ever had, as he often did everything Blake wanted efficiently. Cleanly. He became one of the best, better than Blake’s own son, Nicolas. I should’ve known Blake would keep him alive. After all, why kill someone that useful?
“Your file was quite the read. Very…interesting.” Flicking open the folder, his thumb brushes over the mugshot of me secured to the page with a paperclip.
Am I hallucinating that he’s here? Has being trapped within the walls of Stonehill for only a few months affected me so soon? “What are you doing?”
His eyes watch as I move further back until my back bumps into the wall, furthest away from him. “Excuse me?”
“Why are you pretending you don’t know me?” I run my hand over my face. “I-I mean, you’re really here?”
He slaps the folder closed and turns to the journal on the desk. Reaching over, he scans through the pages, the corners of his mouth lifting when he sees it’s empty as if he knew they would be. “Dr. Rogue, unfortunately, had to take emergency leave, and I’ve taken over during her absence.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what, Miss Adams?”
“Calling me that!” I shout, shuddering from the boom of my own voice. “You’re dead. I saw you leave with Nicolas. He had blood on his clothes. Your blood.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m very much here, aren’t I?” He stands then. “Tomorrow, we will have a proper meeting. Six o’clock, evening time.”
I glare at him heatedly, something inside of me snapping. “Screw you. I don’t know how you’re here, but you’re not taking me back to Blake. Not this time.”
“Be ready at eight.” With one last prolonged stare, he moves past me and walks out, leaving the door wide open for the fall chill to come inside from the hallway and wrap around my body. My mind reels. Oh, how the tables turn, and keep on turning.
Who knew it was the dead I should have been looking out for. Not the living.
Gabriella’s face crumbles with disgust as she takes a tiny, reluctant sip from a white foam cup. It’s filled with cheap, soul-black coffee. And she forgets she used to be as cheap—probably why she pulled the face.
She loathes it here. Detests sitting at the greasy, plastic tables on the uncomfortable chairs. Nothing but judgment plasters her face whenever there’s a scream from a recovering addict begging for a hit like she’s never once screamed for it. Probably still does.
I’m not sure why she’s here and wish she would go away. Milton was here yesterday when he’s supposed to be dead. I need to try and pull together some semblance of understanding as to how that’s possible. When I saw him last, he was being led away by Nick on Blake’s orders. Forced to take the long, condemned road to the Hill. As anyone who goes up there never comes back down.
Having not slept, I’m too tired to deal with Gabriella, assuming she needs to discuss something that requires orderlies at the ready and a table separating us. Not that I care what she is about to break to me now. Her flair for the dramatics is irritating, given the more important things going on.
“Poor Ashley had to go home. Her father has taken ill.” Putting the cup down, she flips open her purse and ruffles inside. Pulling out a compact mirror and a tube of lipstick, she takes the lid off and smears it over her lips. An expensive shade of bitch. “It’s such a shame. I thought she was finally making progress with you.” After she’s done, she finally makes eye contact with me. “Lawrence thinks you shouldn’t come to the wedding.”
Finally. The actual reason why she’s come.
I’m not surprised. I expected it after Lawrence’s reaction at the house. Still, that doesn’t stop the pang of misery that spreads through my chest and stabs me deep inside. It’s closely followed by a wave of hatred at myself for caring. For feeling. “Oh.”
She plays with her necklace—a nervous habit. Or not. I know she’s enjoying this deep down in her dead heart. “Yes, and not to the house anymore either. At least, not for a while.” Her left eye unmistakably twitches, revealing the lie. She doesn’t want me there, probably because Lawrence is one step away from learning her secrets. “It’s too stressful and putting an awful strain on our marriage. Not that you care.” Sniffling, despite her eyes being dry, she leans forward. “Nothing was there when I checked the surveillance. No one broke into the house. You say it was Blake, but he doesn’t know about the baby. It’s impossible.”
I shift restlessly at the mention of his name out loud. “It was him.”
“It wasn’t,” she snaps. “Lawrence believes you brought the coffin into the house yourself after Elise announced her engagement, and I’m inclined to agree.”
“When do you suppose I had time to do that? And wouldn’t the driver remember if I asked him to take a detour to the graveyard so I could dig up my dead baby? God forbid you to believe the truth for once.”
“Do not talk to me
