Page 8 of Petrify

No, it’s too soon for nightmares. I haven’t gotten my hands in her yet.

Maybe it’s her heady scent that drives me to rummage through her things, something floral and cloying like honeysuckle. Maybe it’s the mewling sounds falling from her lips.

I watched her. And she stared right back, undressing herself like a paid-for whore. Taunting me, teasing me.

Brought to this house, solely so I could have my way with her.

Who is this girl they’ve hired? What is it aboutherthat caught their attention?

My finger curls around the delicate fabric. I have the thought to flatten her tongue and shove the lace between her lips, silencing her before she can even scream, before she’s awake enough to understand what is happening to her.

But not tonight.

I’ve only just started.

Chapter 5

The Pianist

“My brother is dead.”

Said so matter-of-fact, while Henri runs through his B-flat scale. He doesn’t even look up at me, continuing through the two octaves.

“Oh. Your—brother?”

In that way that kids are bluntly honest, I’m not sure if he’s making this up or telling the truth.

It’s our second day of lessons. A few hours in, and he’s opened up, as if we’ve done this together for years. At some point between last night and this morning, he decided he’s not afraid of me.

He nods. “I never met him. Mother says he died before I was born.”

Surely, I would have seen this online when I searched the family. But wracking my brain, I don’t remember any mention of a dead brother—a deadson. Henri clearly isn’t heartbroken over it, but for some reason he felt the need to tell me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “What was his name?”

“Arnie.” Henri finishes the scale and immediately moves to F major, his movements almost robotic. “He’s buried outside.”

Arnie? I frown. “Outside?”

“Yeah, we have a cemetery?—”

“Henri.”

Ms. Wilder’s stern voice interrupts the young boy. She enters at the same time as one of the male staff members—I can’t remember his name—who goes straight for the radiator in the corner.

The older woman is quick to usher Henri onto his feet. “Don’t disturb Miss Mallary with your stories.”

Henri’s eyes widen as she grabs his hand. “But it’s not a story.”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

She gives me a strange look. “You shouldn’t speak of it, Henri. You know better.” Then she sighs as she leads him away. “We can’t cut into your lunch time, or else you’ll be late for your lessons this afternoon.”

Henri whines at the prospect of mathematics, and then they’re gone.

A dead son. Arnie.

Kept a secret? Certainly not on the first page of search results during the little bit of online searching I did before hopping on the bus. I could read all about Mariane’s family before she married into the Beauchenes. I found articles about Leo’s exploits in college, over three decades ago. A passing mention of Henri, here and there. But nothing about their first son.