All Chapters of The Vision She Hid: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The office next door smelled like copper and cheap aftershave, and maybe a little like fear if you had the right nose for it. It was a large room, freshly cleaned, high ceilings, decent office carpet of charcoal color, the kind of place where men with steady hands make their large bets.I stood at the edge of the door, one hand brushing the polished frame, playing blind. My other hand clenched tight around the cane. I was alone. Marta was addressing the mess on the marble column in the room next door. The chatter was humming low and ugly, men’s voices pretending to be calm but landing very south of it. You could feel the tension rolling off their shoulders like smoke off a hot barrel. Big Elky Jennings was not there. I wasn’t that busy, so I lingered. I heard him walking and watched everyone dispersing closer to the walls for moral support. His steps were fast and clipped down the corridor, his shoes eating up the floor. The kind of walk that makes men straighten their backs and think

The bizarre words of the nurse in my mother’s hideaway hit me like a splash of cold water. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t even blink. I slipped into the corridor like a ghost who’d accidentally walked into the room of its own death. My legs carried me away without asking where to go. The corridor stretched ahead like the throat of an ancient beast, greeting me with fragments of faded damask wallpaper and timeworn carpet. It smelt faintly of cold stone, damp, buried secrets, and an expensive scent candle someone had used to mask the foul notes. I sobbed and slipped back into it like a shadow on silk. Frankly, I was scared. I didn’t dare breathe too loud. My shoes had been left behind the wardrobe in that strange room, and my bare feet were cold and silent, the kind of silent that feels dangerously illegal. The noise of the laundry downstairs buzzed like a lullaby for the unsuspecting. But in the East wing sounds had gloomy meaning. The time here moved slower, denser, in disturbing kind of

The night had one of those perfumes you couldn’t bottle without setting the lab on fire—honeysuckle and gun oil, smoke of fireplace from a distant memory, and that heavy, private scent of men who make decisions no enemy survives.I wandered out onto the terrace like a ghost who forgot what she was haunting, hand trailing along the edge of the doorway, eyes soft and vacant. The kind of blind that made people lean in just a little too close, convinced they were safe from being seen.He was standing by the balustrade, back turned to the world, which was probably lucky for the world. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette. The smoke curled around him like an old dog on a sofa. His silhouette carved into the moonlight—smooth clean lines but with perfectly brutal edges. Elky Jennings had a kind of posture that made one think of executioners and saints, and wonder which side of the aisle he preferred to stand on.“You sleep like a soldier,” I said softly, letting my voice rust

It was one of those mornings where the sun looked guilty—bright, but hiding something. The kind of day where even the birds kept their chirping discreet, like they’d seen the morning headlines and decided to keep their beaks shut.I was sitting in the drawing room, listening to all that silence. The fire cracked like a nervous liar and the scent of pine logs fought an uphill battle against the stench of my fear. My head was preoccupied with implications of me discovering that letter in big guy’s study. I found myself on the wrong side of the wrong guy. That likely meant feeding poor old me to the wolves. Of course, he might have done so anyway. Elky Jennings was in the library next door. I heard the dull thump of expensive shoes pacing across the polished floor.Then the butler walked into the drawing room. He was the color of old parchment and had the emotional range of a parking meter. He carried a small, square box, black velvet and red ribbon, the kind of thing that said “I hate y

The rain hit the windows like it was personal. Heavy, wet, full of old grudges. Outside, the sky had the kind of hangover that made you want to light a cigarette just to feel something. Inside, the foyer was all shivering chill and menace. It smelled a lot like waxed pride and dirty money, and the chandelier overhead looked like something a dismantled tsar would’ve pawned in a hurry.I was perched on the edge of the hallway settee, waiting for rain to stop to go for a walk in a garden. Accompanied by Marta, naturally. My cold bluish hands folded neatly in my lap. I kept my face still, eyes unfocused. It was the same trick I used on stage back when I danced for real applause—stillness, silence, steel in satin wrapping.I heard footsteps on polished stone, too confident for staff, too smooth for Jennings. Voices followed—male, familiar. Voices of men that didn’t tip waiters and smiled too wide at funerals.It was his voice. Rick’s. My ex’s. Rick was kind of guy who’d kiss your neck whi