“Tom will get your suitcase.” She motions at him and he silently springs into action. “Please follow me.”

I do, and even though it’s my second time here, the place’s majesty doesn’t lessen. If anything, it appears more grandiose in daylight.

“What’s your name?” I ask the woman, who’s walking one step ahead of me.

“Margot,” she says without sparing me a glance.

“I’m Aurora.”

“I know.”

Okay. I suppose Jonathan’s staff are as stand-offish as he is. They’re not talkative either.

Margot leads me to the second floor and Tom follows behind us like a shadow, silent and a bit creepy.

The entire mansion is.

Despite the elegant wallpaper that’s fit for a royal palace and the golden ornaments attached to the ceilings, something is off about this place.

Your sister got depressed and died here.

That’s probably it.

Besides, the King mansion doesn’t have Alicia’s touch. At all.

Her only visible interference here is the angel statues outside. The inside, while it hints at a refined taste, is all Jonathan — rugged edges and authoritative masculinity.

This place isn’t just meant to impress, it’s also meant to intimidate. When you walk these halls, you sign an imaginary pact to do whatever the tyrant of the house demands.

Margot stops in front of a room and motions for Tom to go inside. He places the suitcase at the entrance, nods, and leaves.

The room is so large, it almost takes up an entire floor. An elegant queen-sized bed sits on a high platform in a classic way with a modern touch. The balcony is open, which allows the light-coloured curtains to flap inside.

There’s also a desk and a small sitting area.

“This will be your room. Breakfasts are at seven-thirty. No lunches on workdays and dinners are at eight.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

She throws me a weird glance like I murdered a puppy or something. What’s so hard about not eating breakfast? All I need is coffee and I get that on my way to work.

Seeming to let it go, Margot resumes speaking in her impersonal tone. “You’re not allowed on the third floor.”

“Why not?”

“Mr King’s orders.”

“If he has orders, he needs to tell me himself.”

She pins me with a stare for a long time, as if not believing I’ve just said that. Then she says in the same tone, “If you need anything, you can hit ‘one’ on any phone in the house. Dinner will be served in an hour.” She nods, turning to leave.

“Wait.”

She glimpses at me without saying anything.

“Where was Alicia’s room? Her and Jonathan’s, I mean.” I realise I’m implying that Margot has been here since Alicia’s times. She appears as old as Jonathan, if not older, so I assume she’s been working for him all this time.

“On the third floor. The one you’re forbidden to go to, Miss.” She pauses. “And Mrs King didn’t share a room with Mr King.”

With that, she’s out the door.

Her words float in the air like an invisible halo.

Did she just say Alicia and Jonathan didn’t share a room? But why? They had Aiden, so naturally, they must have had sex. And they weren’t that old to opt for separate bedrooms.

What the hell was going on in your life, Alicia?

The more I learn about her, the more shame I feel for not taking the time to get to know her as much as she knew me.

True, I was too young and focused on something more sinister, but that doesn’t give me the right to believe Alicia was all that she showed to be on the outside.

Ignoring Margot’s warning, I leave the room and head to the staircase we took earlier. There’s another set of marble stairs that lead to the third floor.

At first, I keep glancing behind my back, expecting Margot to show up and drag me down by the hair.

I shake my head at that image. Not everyone is the devil from my past.

No idea why Jonathan didn’t give me a room here, considering the floor is similar to the second one. Why do I feel like he likes to feel superior, even when it comes to the bedroom I’ll be staying in?

I try the first door, but it’s locked. Who the hell locks a door in his own house? Or did he do this because I’ll be here from now on?

The fact that it’s locked bugs me.

When I was young, I loved riddles, puzzles, and figuring out solutions. I used to love staking out, holding my breath, and waiting for prey to come out of their hiding places.

He taught me those things. The devil.

I followed him without knowing what he was capable of. I followed him because I trusted him, and that was the biggest mistake of my existence.

After he disappeared from my life, it took me so long to rid myself of habits associated with him, such as my love for puzzles and riddles. I erased every habit he’d brainwashed into me, I stopped believing in things I’d thought were a given, like love, care, and even puzzles.

Eleven years later, I still feel out of sorts when there’s a puzzle that I can’t solve. Like right now.

The locked door is a puzzle I have to walk away from.

Again.

With a deep breath, I go to the next door. It’s a conference room. Bloody hell. Does the tyrant bring his entire office here?

The next is a reception area with high back chesterfield sofas and a massive golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

The moment I open the following room, it hits me.

Her scent. It’s like summer breeze and marshmallow. Vanilla, lemon, and brightness.

It’s crazy how I remember Alicia’s smell eleven years later, and how I can smell it here, even though she’s been gone for a long time.

Sweat trickles down my back and my hands shake as I release the doorknob and stroll inside. The room is clean, but all the furniture is covered with white sheets.

Like a coffin.

I never got the chance to say goodbye to her at her funeral. I never got to say goodbye at all.

My legs barely carry me as I run my fingers over the angel statues on her console. I open the first drawer, the sound echoing in the silence. Her elegant jewellery and makeup are tucked neatly in there.

I go to her wardrobe and it’s full of her clothes. The fashion is eleven years outdated, but it’s posh and refined, like everything about Alicia. I hug a dress to my face and inhale it. It doesn’t have her scent.

It’s faded away, vanished. Just like her.

A tear slides from my cheek and wets the cloth. I hang it back where I found it and close the wardrobe.

I move to her bed, where a few books sit on her bedside table.

There’s no dust on them. Like the entire room, they’re cleaned and taken care of. The pages have turned yellowish though.

The three books are black with a bold white font for the title.

Six Minutes.

Seven Bodies.

Eight Funerals.

The author is someone named Allen B. Thomas.

I don’t really read thrillers, so I have no idea who that is.

Opening the first book, I’m struck by the dedication page.

To my muse,

May every muse be like you.

It’s circled over and over with a red pen.

Was this Alicia?

The word ‘muse’ causes a premonition to hit me. Someone else used to call me that, and I still can’t figure out the meaning behind it.