Free Secrets in the Shadows by V. C. Andrews

show you the place."
"Maybe your parents wouldn't like it," I said, hesitating. Now that he was really inviting me, I felt nervous and even a bit afraid.
"They're not here. They're in New York seeing a show. I've been left to do chores. C'mon. Don't worry about it."
He started away, expecting me to follow. After another moment, I did. He waited at the entrance to the walk, and then we started for the front door together.
"You sure?" I asked when he opened the door.
"What's the big deal? You're not going to do something evil to me, are you?" he joked.
"I haven't decided yet," I told him, and he laughed.
"You know, I've always wanted to talk to you, but to be honest, I thought you'd insult me or embarrass me," he said.
I smirked skeptically and pulled my head back.
"No, I'm serious," he continued. "I mean it. I came close to starting a conversation with you a few times in the hallway when I thought you looked my way, but I wasn't sure if you were looking at me with interest or disdain."
The way he was still standing in the doorway made me think that my answer would determine whether or not he would let me in.
"I don't know you well enough to dislike you," I said. The answer pleased him He smiled and stepped back. "Come in."
I walked in slowly, pausing in the entryway. The floor had a very pretty cocoa tile, and there were mahogany coat hooks and a hat rack on both sides. There was a rich-looking wood floor down the hallway, and the stairway was carpeted with a thick dark brown to match the balustrade. Everything looked brand new, spotless and immaculate. Right above the entryway hung a chandelier with teardrop crystals.
"The kitchen and dining room are to the left," Craig said. "This is the living room," he said and continued walking down the hallway. I gazed in at the furniture, paintings, beautiful marble fireplace and mantel.
"What kind of furniture is this?" I asked. I hadn't been in many houses other than my own, but I had never seen such elegant sofas, chairs, tables and lamps.
"It's all imported from France," he said. "That took almost a year, too, but it was what my mother wanted. Their bedroom is the same furniture style. Mine's a lot different, but the guest rooms are the same decor, as are the dining room and my father's office, which is really our den. As you can see, there's no television set in the living room. I've got my own set, and so do my parents, but our biggest screen is in the den. That's 'where Dad and I watch all the sports. It's also the only room in the house where my mother permits smoking. I don't smoke, do you?"
"No."
"I mean cigarettes," he said, smiling wryly.
"I don't smoke anything," I emphasized. I knew what he meant. He shrugged.
"Ever try it?" he asked.
"I don't care to."
"You don't know what you're missing if you don't try it."
"I don't care."
He laughed and then turned serious.
"You know my bedroom was supposedly your mother's, don't you?"
"No, how would I know that?"
"I thought you might. You want to see it?"
A part of me wanted to simply turn and run out of the house, but a stronger part of me was drawn to those stairs. I glanced at them.
"C'mon," he said, not waiting for my answer.
Under the rug were the steps upon which my mother had walked many times. It was down these steps that she'd fled. I could almost feel myself falling back through time, watching her rush out of the house and into the darkness that would surround me as well.
He paused on the stairway and leaned toward me.
"I know all about the murder," he said. "I know exactly where they found Harry Pearson's body and exactly how it looked when they found it."
He continued up.
My feet felt frozen to the step. 1 thought there was something terribly morbid about the casual way he talked about it all, but something fascinating as well.
"Hey," he said, stopping again to turn hack to me. "I just realized something. You know what's amazing, incredible about your coming here, in fact?"
I shook my head. Suddenly, because I was here and