08 The Summer House

THE SUMMER HOUSE KERI BEEVIS For Ellie and Lola, Fluffy divas, purr monsters, and the best companions a writer can have. (Yes, I just dedicated this one to my cats) CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Acknowledgments More from Keri Beevis About the Author The Murder List About Boldwood Books 1 2005 We are playing one of our games. Wait for me in the summer house, your note had instructed. Midnight. Wear your red dress. And don’t put on any underwear. G xxx. I know you like how the red dress looks on me, the way it dips between my breasts and skims my hips, but you have never made any specific request for me to wear it. Until tonight. Well, it isn’t exactly a request. I had smiled earlier as I pulled it from the hanger, knowing I will do whatever I am told. It is all part of the thrill, of the excitement, not knowing what will happen next or how far you will push me. The summer house is our special place. This private part of the garden, far away from the main house, is a place of secrets. They are ours alone and no one will ever learn what truly goes on inside this pretty white wooden building with its vaulted roof and panelled door. Here, when the cacophony of daylight sounds have finally quietened under a cloak of darkness, and while everyone sleeps, we creatures of the night come alive. This is when I can truly be myself. My blood had heated in anticipation as I made my way across the lawn, the grass dry between my toes and the fragrant scents of honeysuckle, lavender, and jasmine clinging to the air. My excited heart beating faster as I wondered what tonight’s game would be. The chair that had been positioned in the centre of the floor had drawn my attention as soon as I entered the summer house. The cushion had been removed and from the glow of the paraffin lamp, I could see a red silk scarf draped across the wooden seat. Behind it was a second note, which I opened with trembling fingers, reading your words. Sit on the chair Put the blindfold on Wait Do not move and do not disappoint me I recognised your scrawling handwriting. Could picture your long, nimble fingers holding the pen, and heat pooled inside me, knowing your hands would soon be touching me. The blindfold is a first for our games but I covered my eyes willingly, knotting the scarf behind my head. Eagerness overriding the flicker of apprehension in my gut. It is not uncomfortable, but the silk is thick, and as I sit here waiting for you, I can’t see a thing. It heightens my other senses and I am aware of everything: the ticking of the wall clock, the hoot of a barn owl and the creak of the chair as I shuffle slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. Without the cushion, the seat is hard beneath me, and after a while, I can feel the spindles digging into my back. Although the temperature has dipped slightly, the humidity allows little respite. It is going to be a warm night, too hot for sleeping. I only showered an hour ago, but already the nape of my neck is damp, my legs are sticking to the chair through the thin fabric of my dress, and a trickle of sweat is running down my back. When I finally hear the door open, I flinch. In truth, I have no idea how long I have been waiting, but it has felt like forever, and although I have known you were coming, the sudden noise of your arrival still catches me off guard. The key twists in the lock, then I hear the curtains being drawn, shutting us away from the world. Your footsteps grow closer, then further away again, and it takes me a moment to realise you are moving around me. I resist the urge to fidget, knowing I am being studied. I only realise you are behind me again when your hands touch my shoulders. They are warm, though the texture of them is different. And your touch is light as your fingers trail down my arms. Your familiar fragrance lingers in the air and I breathe it in, steadying myself as I resist the urge to speak. I am desperate to know what tonight’s game will entail, but I also understand that the rules are I must never ask. You are guiding my arms behind me now and for a moment I wonder what you are doing, then I am aware of something wrapping around my wrists. Rope, I think as it grazes over my skin, before you pull it securely, forcing my hands together. The first flutter of fear drops in my stomach. This game is darker than we have played before. I want to speak, to say it hurts, that it’s cutting into my flesh, but I don’t because I’m afraid you will be angry with me. You are anchoring the rope to something now and it forces my shoulders back so they are pressed uncomfortably into the chair. I give my hands an experimental tug, panic lodging in my dry throat as I realise I can’t pull free, and