Page 77 of She Haunts Me Still

“Well, well.” Victor shuts the door. The room seems to darken to a thick, ashy gray. “Of all the things to see in my office, I didn’t expectyou.” He peers at her with amusement. “The bathroom, you say? Tell me, did you learn those flimsy lying skills from my foolish son? Or is it a natural gift?”

Mallory presses her back teeth together. “I just want to leave.”

“There’s no need to rush.” Victor quietly locks the door, and her heart pounds faster. “I’ve been looking forward to our official meeting.”

“Why?” Mallory asks. “I’m nobody.”

Victor takes a few steps closer. His smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t think so poorly of yourself, Lily Flower.”

She bristles. “What did you call me?”

“You’re right.” He waves his hand, letting out a small chuckle. “You have your own name, of course. But you look so much like her; it’s just sosatisfying. The full circle of it all—it makes me giddy.” He takes another step, causing her to back up, thighs connecting with his desk. “The others will be equally enthralled with you.”

“The others,” Mallory echoes. “Members of your historical preservation society, you mean? Like the man at the front desk?”

“That’s correct,” Victor says, far too close now. Toweringover her. “You’ll be attending the society’s gala soon, won’t you?”

“Yes. Ezra is bringing me. I-I’m looking forward to it,” she lies.

He smiles again, as if he doesn’t quite believe her.

“Can I ask you a question?” Mallory reaches back as she talks, grasping at his desk. Pens. A stapler.Scissors. She carefully closes her fingers around the handle. “The woman your group has been researching. Lily Hubbard. Why did someone dig her up?”

Victor’s dark eyebrows lift. “Mrs. Hubbard died of tuberculosis,” he says. “They called it consumption back then. History tells us certain communities believed consumption was a supernatural illness. The townsfolk were fearful she would rise from her grave and drink the blood of her living family members, dooming them to a similar death. That is, unless her heart was inspected for signs of vampirism and subsequently destroyed.”

“That wasn’t the real reason, though,” Mallory says. “Isn’t that what you’ve been studying? Therealreason?”

The serene smile never leaves his face. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Her heart…” Mallory swallows. “It was used for something else, wasn’t it?”

A small silence slips between them. “Perhapsyoushould join the historical society.”

She fights for a steady tone. “I just want to know about my family.”

“Yes,” Victor says, tipping his head patronizingly. “I suppose you do.”

“The man who led the exhumations,” Mallory continues. “His name was Jacob, right?”

“I can see why my son tired of you.” Victor’s gaze rakes over her in a way that turns her stomach even more. “Beautiful girls shouldn’t ask so many questions. Far better to be seen and not heard.”

Mallory’s face flames. She drops her gaze to the floor, suddenly feeling like every inch of her is on display. Her fist tightens around the scissors.

“I’d like to go now,” she says.

“You’re welcome to leave,” Victor replies, “but you won’t make it far.”

Mallory lifts her head just as he brings a large hand to the choker at her throat. A strange expression crosses his face as he tugs at the fabric, exposing the puncture wounds.

Her breath stutters, fingers slipping along the scissors. For one terrible moment she thinks Victor is going to bite her just like Ezra did, but he only inspects the marks on her sweat-laced skin, thumbing them with a gloved finger. Pain shoots through her with every stroke, white-hot and swift, and she whimpers.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Yes. You’re as good as done for, I’d say.”

“What?” she manages. The room spins, little white lights clinging to her lashes. Her mouth is suddenly dry. That confusing, sharp hunger stirs in her belly again.

Victor makes atsksound like she’s a child. “I know it hurts,” he says, replacing the choker. “But isn’t it a little comforting to know you’re right where you belong?”

His words circle in her brain like dots refusing to connect.Something about the obituaries in her bag, the name Jacob, the bite marks on her neck. Lily. Saskia. Her mother. Pieces that don’t fit, yet must cinch together. But she can’t begin to arrange them now, not when Victor’s leathery fingers are pressed to the place where his son drank from her.