Chapter 2

Death is not an end. It' s a tether.

Now I float, a powerless observer, bound to the woman who murdered me. I watch her walk calmly back to the main house, leaving me to be torn apart in the dark.

Two hours pass. She' s in the drawing-room, sipping a martini. She' s on the phone with her bank, arranging the wire transfer for Julian.

She finally looks at the butler, an old man named Arthur who has been with her family for fifty years.

"Arthur, you can let my husband out now," she says, not a trace of concern in her voice. "I imagine he's learned his lesson."

"Yes, Mrs. Davenport."

I follow Arthur to the root cellar. He slides the heavy bolt. He opens the door and peers into the darkness. He gags, stumbling back.

He turns on the light.

The stone floor is a sea of red. Chunks of my flesh and torn pieces of my shirt are scattered everywhere. The two pit bulls are in the corner, panting, their muzzles caked in my blood.

Arthur turns pale and retches into the bushes.

He runs back to the house. "Mrs. Davenport! He's... oh, God, he's..."

Tori looks at him, annoyed. "He's what, Arthur? Spit it out."

"He's gone! There's only... blood."

Tori sets her glass down with a sharp click. She doesn't believe him. She can't. To believe him would be to admit what she did.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, her voice sharp. "It's a trick. A manipulative, pathetic trick."

She stands up and walks to the window, looking out into the night.

"He used his folksy animal skills to calm the dogs and slip out. He's hiding somewhere on the grounds to embarrass me. To make me look like the monster."

She turns back to Arthur, her eyes cold and hard.

"He wants to ruin Julian's treatment. That's what this is about. He's always been jealous."

I scream, but no sound comes out. I am a ghost, a silent witness to her madness. She truly believes it. Her narcissism is a fortress, impenetrable to truth.

She picks up her phone, not to call the police, but to call her private investigator.

"Find my husband," she commands. "He's run off. And get this mess in the cellar cleaned up. The smell is atrocious."

She hangs up and turns her attention back to her laptop, confirming the details for the multi-million dollar transfer to Julian's fake Swiss clinic.

My life, my brutal death, is an inconvenience. A mess to be cleaned.

I drift back to the stable. To the stall where Patches died. I see his small, broken body. I remember getting him as a foal, a reminder of the open plains of Montana. A piece of my soul in this gilded cage.

Tori had always hated him. She said he was "common." One time, I found her in the stable late at night, holding a riding crop, just staring at him.

"I was just thinking how easy it would be to hurt something so small," she had said with a little smile.

I had dismissed it then. A cruel thought, nothing more. I was a fool.

Now, I watch as Julian, fully recovered from his "seizure," joins Tori in the drawing-room. He limps theatrically.

"I'm so sorry, Tori," he says, his voice weak. "This is all my fault."

"Nonsense," she says, pulling him close. "It's Liam's fault. He's cruel."

Julian looks towards the stables. "That poor pony. What a waste." He pauses, a sick, sly look in his eyes. "You know, in some cultures, they believe eating the heart of a strong animal gives you its strength."

Tori looks at him, horrified at first, then a strange curiosity dawns on her face. The idea takes root in her twisted mind. Anything for Julian.

I can only watch.