• • •
Linda chewed her lip as she started back toward the den, but she was stopped in her tracks by the echoes of confrontation. She headed toward the sounds at the other end of the manor until she reached the kitchen. In the dark, shadows crept through the single window, spilling across the floor as the rain pounded the glass. She paused outside a closet and pressed an ear as close to the wall as she dared. She didn’t want to encounter any residue the walls might make.
The voices were clear and easy to identify.
“You left me on this show like a captain abandoning a sinking ship. If you’ve got such big ideas about how things should be done around here, why’d you disappear to run your own show?” Deja said. “You fucked me over, knowing I could have your head on a platter for all the harassment complaints I field about you.”
“Don’t you threaten me,” Brandon’s voice wavered. “I know that you grew up in this house.”
Silence stretched out before Deja spoke again. “What?”
“You thought you could keep it a secret?” Brandon cackled. “They did their research, you know. They told me to use it.”
“Use it how?” Deja asked, an edge to her voice that frightened Linda more than the haunted house.
“They want me to fire you, Deja. On camera. The haunted manor thing is played out. It hardly works for ghost-hunting shows. You thought you’d make it work on a romance? They knew the season would suck, so they want to go meta. Next time I come up here, I’m supposed to reveal that you grew up here. I’m supposed to play some of those tapes you tried to hide away. And then, I’m supposed to fire you for lying.”
“They want to go meta?” Deja stuttered. “That’s a desperate move. That’s some late-stage franchise bullshit.”
“They’re desperate. That’s why they promoted you. You’re supposed to take the fall for the show losing money.”
“I was promoted, Brandon, because I get the best out of these girls. I’m good at my job.”
“That may be, but you and I both know that means nothing. Say the wrong word, do the wrong thing, and you’re out, whether you’re good at your job or not.”
Linda’s forehead scrunched up. She had read about the show doing poorly: numbers down, profits down, lawsuits up. Tristan wasn’t their most exciting Groom, likely pulled from some trash heap somewhere. And the dates this season had been strange, lower budget. Butchering pigs and going to curio shops weren’t break-the-bank excursions. Still, she’d trusted Deja to follow through on her promise to erase Linda’s record when the show was through, even if she now doubted the producer’s intentions. She thought the woman had power. Was that another lie?
When next Deja spoke, her voice was further inflamed. “So, they know that I grew up here? What difference does that make? That just means that I had the inside scoop for how fucked-up this place is.”
“A couple of gooey walls and an earthquake? Deja, this place is falling apart, not haunted. You know how it looks? Like you convinced some network to buy a family home no one else wanted. It looks like embezzlement.”
Linda’s stomach twisted. Weren’t the walls a trick of production?
“I have no ties to my family anymore.”
“Be that as it may, you fucked up. And now I’m stuck here.” Brandon hacked what sounded like a hairball. Linda tried to hold back an involuntary noise of disgust.
“The mudslide is my fault, too?”
“If it is, then I’m not going easy on you, no matter which room you put me in,” Brandon said.
“Fine. You want the room closer to the ladies? It’s yours. Now get the hell out of my sight before I fuck you up.” Deja’s words were tinged with venom. Linda shivered as she tried to parse what she’d heard.
All at once, a theory moved through her, making her hair stand on end. Deja was the producer. She knew everyone’s secrets, their inner lives, their weaknesses, their sore spots. If the show was failing, if she needed ratings, she might do everything in her power to make her contestants implode. Linda understood that desperation called for darkness. And she felt Deja’s target burning its mark into her forehead. How far was Deja willing to push her?
She remembered the dead thing in the curio shop and shivered.
“Hey, listen, you’re my friend,” Brandon said, softening his speech. “Aren’t we friends?”
“Don’t you touch me.” Something hit the wall, and Linda jumped. She’d heard enough. She turned and ran as quietly as she could back to the den where the other two remaining women waited for her and Tristan’s return from the bathroom.
“What happened?” Sabrina asked, while Marion crossed her arms at the appearance of Linda alone. “Where’s Tristan?”
“Went to bed. Said he hasn’t been sleeping.” Linda shrugged. “Says one of us has been crying.” As they shared accusatory, confused glances, an ache spread from her foot up her body. She yawned as she felt the floor pulling her toward it, her eyelids dragging. “I’m afraid I’m in the same boat.” After saying her goodnights, she made her long way up the stairs, followed by no cameras, no operators.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sabrina
That night, Sabrina lay beneath her blankets and waited. During the elimination, she’d whispered to Tristan that Linda wasn’t there for the right reasons. He’d chosen her anyway, but his hand was likely forced. Producers did that, Sabrina had heard: forced The Groom’s hand when it made for better drama. Sabrina had piqued Tristan’s curiosity. All night in the den, she had caught him glancing her way. She was ready to tell him everything she knew, or didn’t know, about Linda. All she had to do was wait for him to climb into her bed.
Some time later, she rolled over and out of the bed, frustrated to still be alone in the chilly dark. When she opened the door and peered out into the hallway, it was empty. Tristan’s door seemed closed, but Sabrina figured he’d left it unlocked. If he wasn’t ready to come to her, she would go to him, play demure, claim that her reason for sliding into his private space was to make sure he’d caught her warning. She tiptoed down the hall.
He answered the door before she knocked, and his mouth opened in an “O” of shock. “Sabrina,” he said.
She shifted her weight to one foot and crossed her arms. “Now, how the hell did you know I was outside your door?”
He laughed as he checked for onlookers, then yanked her inside. “Got a sense for you, I guess.” He killed her grin with a hard kiss to her mouth, and they fell together to the floor, where their limbs twisted together in a confusion of garments and skin. The floor smelled like old, unwashed carpet, and Tristan’s body smelled like sweat and sex. Had he failed to shower after their prior encounter, or after Marion, or after—? Sabrina tried to push the thought out of her head as Tristan’s fingers delved into her, but she squirmed at the discomfort.
“You’re dry,” he said as he pulled his hand away and sat up, his dick going limp.
“It’s nothing,” she said. Men need to do the things men do. She imagined her sister’s voice telling her that, though she was unsure if that was ever the subject of a lesson. Maybe Sabrina now attributed all life’s lessons to her sister. Surely, she had learned something, anything, on her own.
Tristan folded his hands over his groin. “Something on your mind?” He frowned. “Is this more about Linda?”
More about Linda. It was a safer subject, the one she’d come here to discuss. “Yeah, about Linda.” Sabrina trembled as the manor’s cold air washed over her. Her bared nipples throbbed. She wrinkled her nose. “Something’s weird with her. She’s not here for the right reasons.”
“Right reasons, sure. You mentioned.”
