average human’s Reviews > Control My Night > Status Update

Instead of saying, ‘Don’t you think your right-hand man snaking your wife is the real emerging issue?’ I gave him a very restrained, “The sooner we find Isobelle, the sooner I go home.”
Arwood’s lips tilted, a dimple forming within the stubble coating his square jaw. It softened the harsh lines of his face. How could someone like Arwood look so approachable, so trustworthy, rather than the godfather-like overlord he clearly was? “Staying may bring you the answers you’re looking for.”
I frowned.
“My late wife, Michelle, shared your gift. After she passed, I vowed to learn all I could to better support our daughter.”
Wait a second. “Isobelle is a banshee?”
Arwood inclined his head, and this information smacked me hard. I’d wondered at his rationale for abducting me. Yes, a killer banshee was an effective weapon, but so was an avertat like Silas. So was bulletproof Anika. Why me?
Unless he thought the person who’d stolen his daughter might want me, too.
“That’s why you’re so sure she was taken,” I said without thinking. “You think someone’s using her the way you’re using me. You want to lure them out!”
The smile forming at the mention of his daughter vanished. “Sometimes we need to think like our enemies to best them.”
“And sometimes, in the pursuit of vengeance, you become what you’re seeking to destroy.”
Arwood’s hazel eyes narrowed a fraction—which, for him, equated to a full-blown glare. “There are no depths I won’t descend to get my daughter back.”
I knew. I’d seen it.
“Isobelle wouldn’t want you turning into a monster to save her.”
“If your father were presented with the same advantages, do you think he’d behave differently?”
I didn’t bother giving Arwood a response. Even though I didn’t know what actions my father had taken so far to get me back, it wouldn’t be by sinking to this level. I turned and grabbed the wrought-iron railing of the staircase, hoping the conversation was over.
It wasn’t.
“I knew your mother,” Arwood murmured. “Shay O’Carragher. She was powerful and charismatic. Forsook her Irish heritage for what she thought was love. Did your father tell you how she died?”
My skin chilled like I’d stepped on a landmine. I was not talking about this. “Yes,” I replied coldly.
“I’m sure Edson was ever so forthcoming with the truth. I assume he explained why she was alone when she had you?”
I whipped my head over my shoulder, glaring at Arwood, but he shrugged, hands in the pockets of his unblemished business suit. I’d poked him, but he was shaking me, right down to my foundation.
“I see. Have a chat with your father when you see him again. In the meantime, employee privileges extend to the library—for the duration you’re here, at least. Good night, Miss Backhus.”
I seethed on the way to my room. I never walked away from Arwood feeling like I’d won anything, and tonight was no different. If we found Isobelle, I’d find someone else like me. I’d be able to ask how she controlled her beast.
But if we found Isobelle, I was free to leave.
I’d believed Arwood was extending an olive branch. Instead, he’d continued to bait the hook, followed it up with claiming to know my mother, and then attempted to plant doubt about my father.
My mother had been traveling to visit her estranged sister when she’d given birth to me. I’d never asked why so close to her due date; the look my father would get whenever my mother was mentioned wasn’t worth the question. Trust Arwood to find a horrible situation and twist it to play games with me.
Except … what had he meant about forsaking her heritage for what she ‘thought’ was love?
By the time I opened my bedroom door, the muscles of my back were wound tight and sweat pooled under the collar of my jacket. My reflection did not please me. A cowlick had formed, the baby hairs around my part frizzed, and was that blood? On my shoes?
I still had no idea where Silas was. I could knock on every door on this floor to see if he was behind one of them, but I’d be caught by the camera stationed outside of my room. How could I sleep, not knowing if he’d made it back?
Damn Arwood, and the dispensable way he treated us all. Damn Steadman and his stupid cactus socks. Damn this whole entire mansion.
I slammed my door, kicking it with my stupid, blood-soaked boots. A thrill shot through me. It felt … good.
A vase of fresh yellow freesias sat next to the Chesterfield.
My father sent freesias whenever he canceled plans with me. Freesias meant something else had taken priority. Freesias meant a night alone.
I was alone, and freesias with their long shelf-life were a cruel reminder. Had Arwood somehow known this, and was messing with me? After everything I’d experienced tonight?
Asshole.
I sent the antique vase soaring across the room. The ceramic smashed against the vertical wooden paneling beside the recessed window and fell into a heap on the hardwood floor. My beast thrilled at the sight.
For a second I did too—then reality kicked in. I held my breath, waiting for movement outside. I’d bargained for this room; what would happen if they caught me ruining it? When silence remained, I approached the mess of broken stems and musty, waterlogged flowers. Someone would clean it up if I left it like this.
But Arwood and Steadman and everyone else in this estate made messes for other people to clean up, too. I wouldn’t be like them.
With a sigh, I pulled the toilet roll from the adjoining bathroom and began mopping up the water. I separated chunks of ceramic and stem as cool air tickled my flushed cheeks. For a moment I enjoyed the sensation—
Why is there a breeze?
One of the wooden panels had split and caved under the weight of the vase. Leaning over the mess, I peered across a gap of about two feet. Light shone onto a stone wall.
Which seemed … far.
Another cone of light illuminated the wall, coming from my left. I stood, squinting. How was the light getting through?
My stomach lifted in excitement as I spotted a keyhole partially concealed behind a picture frame, camouflaged by rust and the vertical lines of the panels. The tiniest of gaps separated the panels to the right of the keyhole. I shoved at it with my shoulder. The wall shifted further.
Holy hell, it was a door.
Icy air washed across my skin as I held my breath again, preparing for one of Arwood’s cronies to barge in. Still nothing. I shoved again. Light poured into a narrow, dark passage.
Floorboards creaked as I crossed the threshold. I met the dust with a sneeze. The passageway ran parallel between the walls of the rooms and the stone of the mansion’s exterior, interrupted at intervals by what I presumed were the recessed windows arching overhead. It was wide enough to crouch underneath.
Did every room have a door like this? The mansion was centuries old. This could have been a way for servants to get in and out of the rooms without being noticed by house guests.
Arwood’s cameras saw everything inside the house. Anika had mentioned Arwood’s late stepmother had renovated many years ago. Did this passageway show up on any current blueprints? Did anyone living here now know this existed? The undisturbed state of the floor waylaid any fears about being spied on; my boots were leaving visible footprints in the heavy dust.
Anticipation dashed up my spine. Did this passageway lead outside?
Did it run behind Silas’s room?
I shouldn’t go down there. I clearly wasn’t allowed to.
Do it, my beast pushed.
Steadman would assume I was trying to escape again.
Do it.
I sneezed. Arwood would …
Would what? Keep me here as prisoner? Shock my collar? Nothing he hadn’t already done or wasn’t currently doing.
Needing to learn if Silas was okay decided things for me. I’d started pulling the passage door closed to conceal my departure when three sharp raps sounded from my bedroom door opposite. I had no time to react before the door swung open.
“Damn, banshee. You’re a bad girl.”