“Nonsense,” Jane scoffs, but her voice lacks its normal conviction. “Why would Peter hurt Jack?”
“He still wants Eden. He’s figured out she’s our child. But now he’s using Jack as bait. We should have seen this coming—I should have seen it,” Holly corrects. “Because I knew what he was all along.”
“There must be some mistake,” Jane repeats. Her hand holding the photo trembles.
“The only mistake was not telling you the truth from the beginning.” The whiskey is burning through Holly, making her light-headed. The anger that fueled her is deserting her, taking her strength with it. She’s exhausted and weak and suddenly unable to stand. She sinks onto the couch, almost dropping the whiskey glass, and closes her eyes. She can’t bear to look at her mother. But after all these years, after being this close to Peter again, she can’t hold what’s inside of her a moment longer.
“He raped me, that last night. He held me down and . . .” She can’t finish. “He threatened to kill Jack if I wouldn’t go with him.”
She waits, curled into herself. The clock on the mantel ticks, the only sound. Seconds pass, minutes, an eternity. When Holly can’t endure it anymore, she opens her eyes. She still can’t bring herself to look at Jane, so she trains her gaze on the floor, on her mother’s feet, encased in rose silk slippers and still as stones.
Finally Holly risks a glance upward. Jane is staring at her. But her face isn’t angry or challenging. It’s stricken.
“All those years . . . Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?” Holly asks, a flicker of anger still alight. “You spent years waiting for him, years building a monument to him in the backyard. My word against that, against a century of family legend? It didn’t seem like the best bet. I did tell you he was dangerous.”
“Dangerous is one thing,” Jane says. “Dangerous can be appealing. What you describe—what he did to you—is a completely different matter.”
“Would you have? Believed me?” The words spill out before she can bite them back. She doesn’t ask if Jane believes her now.
But she doesn’t have to. Her mother is already at her side, tucking a finger under Holly’s chin and raising it up so their eyes meet.
“Listen to me,” Jane says, and her look is unflinching. “You’re my daughter. Of course I would have believed you then. It goes without saying I believe you now.”
Something very hard and sharp shatters in Holly, puncturing the soft places it once protected. Tears prickle behind her lashes. She wants to curl up in her mother’s arms, wants to place her head in Jane’s lap and cry. But she can’t. If she starts crying, she may never stop. And time is a luxury they do not have.
Instead she lets Jane wrap an arm around her shoulder, and they sit together in front of the fireplace. Above the mantel, Wendy’s portrait gazes down at them, as mysterious, as secretive as ever.
Jane gazes back. “One thing I don’t understand,” she says slowly. “I believe you, of course, but why wouldn’t my mother have warned us? Perhaps she didn’t see that side of him? Perhaps he wasn’t always evil.”
Holly shakes her head. “I think she blamed herself.” At Jane’s questioning look, she realizes all that her mother still doesn’t know. “Peter told me that he caused Great-Uncle Michael’s fall.”
“Surely not,” Jane protests.
“It’s true,” Holly says. “Grandma Wendy was going away with him and Michael didn’t want her to leave. He was clinging to her skirts and Peter cut him loose. That’s why he fell.”
Jane’s face is white. “But why would she lie to me—to everyone—for so many years? Why not tell the truth?”
“You told me yourself how Barrie’s story changed her life. The money and the fame, they made her independent. Maybe, in her own way, she was trying to protect you. Give you the same things,” Holly offers.
Jane gives a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps. But that wasn’t Mother’s style. More likely she was afraid the true story would get out and she’d be blamed, despised by all her wealthy friends. Either way, it explains quite a bit regarding her terror of the press.”
For the first time, Holly sees Jane not as her own glamorous, sophisticated mother, but as she must have been years ago. A lonely, neglected child, jealous of the uncle who required so much attention, needy for the notice of the beautiful, always preoccupied Wendy. No wonder she’d been so hungry for the romantic stories Wendy spun.
“She probably did the best she could,” Holly says, and she means it. After all, according to Peter, Wendy had had her problems too. Problems large enough that Peter and his home seemed like paradise in comparison.
“Perhaps,” Jane murmurs again. And then her posture becomes even more ramrod straight. She withdraws her arm from Holly’s shoulder and turns to face her. It’s as if, at last, she’s let the stories go. As if she’s seeing the real world for the first time.
“I’ve been foolish,” she says. “So very, very foolish. That’s not an excuse. It’s an apology. What can I do to make it right?”
Holly wants her mother’s arm back around her shoulder, wants to lean into her warmth. Instead she shakes her head. “I don’t know how anyone can help.”
“I still want to hear everything. Every last detail about Peter,” Jane says. She smiles grimly at Holly’s surprised expression. “No, darling, not for the old reasons. There’s nothing Peter could do or say now that would entice me to spend a second in his company.”
She gets up from the couch and pours herself a small drink. Then she turns back to Holly. “But of all the people in the world, I may still be the one who knows the most about him. I’ve certainly studied him enough. I want every detail of what you saw so I can help you take the bastard down, as they say. Which reminds me.” She glances at the window. “That man—Christopher—was on his motorbike in front of the house all afternoon. He’s called as well. I didn’t answer. I assume you gave him the slip out the back garden for a reason?”
At Holly’s expression Jane arches an eyebrow. “You underestimate me. I learned long ago that if you wish to keep your loved ones close, you need to let them leave.”
Holly doesn’t know what to say to this. Instead she pulls out her phone. Six missed calls from Jane and three from Christopher. She crosses to the window and peers around the heavy curtain.
“Wherever he is, he’s not there now,” Jane says, joining her. “Why not enlist his aid?”
Holly tells her about the message on Jack’s phone. How Peter has moved him somewhere else, and what will happen if Holly tells Christopher or the police. She tries to keep her voice from trembling, but fails.
“Could Peter be reasoned with? Bribed somehow?” Jane asks, leading Holly back to the couch.
“Maybe once. Not anymore. Something’s happened to him. He looks like a man, but . . .” Holly hesitates, trying to find the right words. “It’s as if he’s a three-year-old, a giant toddler bashing about. And his memory is going, even worse than the stories. He may be more ancient than we can guess. He’s terrified and angry and desperate enough, I think, to do anything.”
“And what he really wants is Eden?”
“What he really wants is Eden’s blood. I don’t think he cares much how he gets it.”
“Did you offer him . . .” Jane hesitates.
“I only have the one vial. It would transform him for a time, certainly, but it’s not enough to last,” Holly says. “Still, I thought of it. But if Jack is hurt or sick, it could mean the difference between life and death.”
“What about the cream?”