It was becoming horribly clear as time ticked by that this secret in the walls of Foster Hill House stretched beyond Gabriella. Maggie must know that secret. Ivy had seen the fear in the girl’s eyes when she’d visited Widow Bairns and she remembered that fear long after she had gone to Joel and Sheriff Dunst to communicate her suspicions.
Ivy’s breaths began to come in shorter gasps, but she forced herself to pause and draw in a long one. She couldn’t afford to panic, even though hundreds of scenarios played through her mind. Her father would notice her missing the moment he made coffee for breakfast and she didn’t appear. Or he would notice her door open and that she was gone. Either way, he would go to Joel, and Joel would know where to come looking, wouldn’t he? Although, Ivy leaned her head against the wall, he likely would not consider the possibility of secret spaces behind closet walls. She could scream and pound on the wall, but eventually her voice would give out, and how would she know when or if Joel had even arrived? It was obvious her abductor would move his horse and wagon since there was never any evidence of one being near Foster Hill House before. He was well practiced, this man, and very, very organized.
Ivy shifted as her leg cramped beneath her. She couldn’t wait for Joel, or her father, or even Sheriff Dunst. Her survival and well-being were in her own hands. The captor would return, and Ivy cringed at the reminder of his hands on her sides. The motives in his hands was evil, with intent to rob Ivy of everything precious.
She flinched when the panel scraped open.
“Haven’t gone anywhere, eh?” The dark eye of her captor winked at her.
Ivy took the opportunity to memorize his face. She would need to be able to describe him to Joel and Sheriff Dunst when she escaped.
“Here.” He shoved a tin plate at her. Ivy took it. A biscuit, beans, a small piece of cheese.
Please, God. Not now. Not that. She tried not to flinch under the man’s leering expression. The longer she could keep him chatting, the more she could see beyond him into the closet and the bedroom to see if he was alone. The next time he opened the door, she wanted to be prepared to escape.
“Do you have any honey for my biscuit?” Ivy couldn’t help baiting him, even though inside she was trembling.
“Cheeky thing.” He snatched the biscuit from her plate and tossed it over his shoulder. “Now eat up. Don’t need you fainting away from starvation.” The man moved to close the door.
“What do you plan to do with me?” Ivy’s question made him stop.
His eyebrows shot upward and disappeared behind a shock of graying hair. His mustache twitched as his mouth twisted into a snarl. “What I do with all the girls.” He reached out, and Ivy regretted her question immediately. His hand pulled at her hair that tumbled down around her shoulders, in disarray from sleep and her struggle. He rolled a lock of it between his first finger and thumb, then plunged his fingers into her hair with force, pulling her face closer to his. “You’ll fetch a pretty penny.”
“You intend to sell me?” The words turned her mouth sour.
“I sell them all. But you? Only when I’m finished with you.”
Disgust gripped her, but Ivy leaned forward. “She almost bested you, didn’t she? Is that what happened?”
“Who?” He squinted, lines stretching from the corners of his eyes into the wrinkles on either side of his nose.
“The girl you killed and disposed of in the hollowed-out oak tree.”
Without pause, he shoved her backward. The panel slammed back into place. Ivy kicked at it, then again for good measure.
Her leg cramped again in the confined space. Ivy longed to stand up and stretch. Had it been an hour or twelve? It was impossible to gauge time in her prison. She flexed her fingers and arms, unbuttoning another pearl button on her nightgown’s collar. The compartment was suffocating, and Ivy’s lungs ached for fresh air.
She shifted, reaching out in the darkness for the thousandth time, as if feeling the wall would reveal a magical doorknob to open and provide an escape. Giving up, Ivy dropped her hands to her lap and leaned her head against the wall.
This place was a grave. Ivy’s throat clenched. In some ways, it wasn’t much different from how she had felt since burying Andrew. Boxed into a dark tomb of routine, living day by day trapped in the memories that stopped collecting the moment Andrew died. Her father had his medical practice and people to pour his life into. He had his faith in God and a quiet, resigned peace that God knew best. God knew best? Ivy always spurned such clichés. God hadn’t righted a broken world yet. He could stop injustice and yet He didn’t. By recording memories, honoring the lives of those who had passed, and refusing to allow legacies to float away on the winds of time, Ivy had chosen to do what God had seen fit not to. In her own way, Ivy kept them alive.
She stiffened, alert and wary, as scuffling sounded on the other side of the secret panel. Ivy scrambled to curl her legs beneath her so she could crouch with her feet firmly planted on the floor. The moment her captor opened the panel, she’d launch herself forward. Foolhardy perhaps, but it was her only option. She had no intention of waiting to see what he did with her. If Gabriella’s untold story was any indication, Ivy had best succeed in her efforts to escape or she would not survive.
A sliver of light peeked through. Ivy caught a glimpse into the closet and the room beyond. Daylight. Thank God, it wasn’t nighttime when she would need to flee into darkness. The panel snagged, then jerked all the way open as the man pushed it aside. Without hesitation, Ivy leaped forward, her hands extended in front of her. She rammed them into her captor’s chest, and he toppled backward. His curse and yell followed Ivy as she hurried to her feet. Her toe caught on the hem of her gown and she tripped, grabbing at the bed frame to right herself.
“What in blazes!” The man had already righted himself. She couldn’t waste time looking back. She sprinted from the bedroom, catching the eye of Myrtle Foster as she fled past the portrait. It seemed the matriarch’s expression had somehow changed. Urgent, concerned, as if she begged Ivy to hurry, to run faster.
Fingers curled around the collar of Ivy’s nightgown, yanking her backward. She slammed into the wall, and the man flipped her around to face him. He slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. Ivy cried out, her head jerking to the side, but she turned it back in time to level a fiery glare at her captor. She would not give up, she would not die. Not like Gabriella had. She clawed at his wrists as his hands closed around her throat and began to squeeze.
“You’re just like the other one. You won’t be reasonable.”