March 18, 1944

Parsons Manor is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. If it were in downtown Seattle, it’d stick out like a sore thumb.

With the black siding and gargoyles poised on top of the roof, it looks like it came straight out of the Dracula film. Houses like these just don’t exist in this city, yet here I stand.

Tucking my hands in my trench coat pockets, I stroll through the front yard. An array of colorful flowers bloom in front of the blackpainted porch, making the house look like a gloomy storm cloud among a bright rainbow.

It’s an interesting house, and it only strengthens my curiosity about who John Parsons is and why the hell he’s residing in a home like this.

My question is answered a moment later when movement in the large bay window catches my eye. A tall, curvy woman sits down in a chair directly in front of the glass. Instantly, I’m riveted by the sight of her. Red stains her full lips, and her black tresses are curled to perfection. She wears a canary-yellow dress, the sleeves drooping down the sides of her arms, the fabric clinging to her curved waist.

My heart stills, like God himself froze time as I watch her peer down at something in her lap. One side of her mouth curls upward the slightest bit. By the way she angles her head and moves her arm, she appears to be writing.

I’m entirely smitten by her, and though there’s no way for me to know, I’m confident she is the mastermind behind Parsons Manor.

Hypnotized, I drift toward her, my mind vacuumed into a trance that it can’t seem to find its way out of.

I’m not only riveted by her.

I’m possessed by a need to have her.

And she must be mine.

As if she heard my internal proclamation, her head lifts, and her gaze locks onto me. It feels like a bolt of lightning strikes through me where I stand. Her mouth parts, shock rounding her eyes at the corners, and though it appears like fear is sinking its claws into her, she’s no less vexing.

I came here to learn who John Parsons is, and the only thing I know is that he comes home to the most beautiful woman alive.

And he doesn’t deserve it one damn bit.

Her hand drifts over her heart, a chunky gold pen woven through her fingers.

What is she writing? And will she write about me?

I’d love nothing more than to be consumed by her words, no matter how they greet me. Whether it’s through those red-stained lips or from her delicate hands. I want to know every facet of her, every centimeter of her—mind, body, and soul.

Chest tight, my movement mirrors hers, and my hand drifts over my heart where it clenches almost painfully. It takes monumental effort to draw my gaze away from hers. To take a step away, then turn and slowly retreat down her extensive gravel driveway. The trek to my car parked on the street takes several long minutes, yet I don’t remember a single second of it.

She plagues my mind, infecting it like a parasite and overriding any autonomy over myself. My free will is indebted to her, and without her, I am nothing.

I shut the door to my Cadillac and can only sit there and mourn the life of John Parsons’s wife.

She will never be the same, as I am not.

Her husband has unintentionally dragged her into a world where she doesn’t belong. Yet it is I who will never let her leave.

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