“Yes,” Hemi says with a languid smile. “It’s me.”
Her head snaps in my direction. “How dare you bring him to this house. Get out! Both of you!”
I stare at her, unmoved. “We have some things to discuss.”
“Out! This instant!”
“The letters, Corinne. What did you do with them?”
Her eyes cloud briefly before sliding away. “I don’t know anything about any letters.”
“You switched them. How did you do it?”
She stares at me, her face a careful blank. She’s as smug and unrepentant as I remember, still convinced she can control everyone and everything. But she’s wrong. She was wrong then and she’s wrong now.
“We came for answers, Corinne, and we’re not leaving until we get them. So unless you’re prepared to throw us out bodily, you might as well tell us what we want to know.”
She runs her eyes over Hemi, slow, appraising. “So it’s we now, is it? You and the paperboy, together at last? Have you come for my blessing?”
“There is no we,” I tell her coldly. “You saw to that. It’s the how we can’t figure out. Tell me how you switched the letters.”
Corinne leans forward in her chair, an attempt to look menacing. Instead, she looks sullen and childish—and the tiniest bit shaken. “You’ve got some nerve waltzing in here and making demands. As if I owe you something. I don’t owe you anything. Now leave, both of you, or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them. Call the papers, too, while you’re at it. I’m sure they’d love to hear all about this. New Yorkers can’t get enough of the Mannings’ dirty laundry. I have all afternoon.”
Corinne eases back in her chair, arms stretched out beside her, an aging queen on her threadbare throne. She closes her eyes and draws a long breath, her lips blanched of color. “Leave me alone.”
Hemi takes a step toward me, shaking his head. “Let it go, Marian. She can’t tell you because there’s nothing to tell. Though I do applaud your attempts to badger a confession out of a dying woman. Not even your sister could have pulled off what you’re alleging.”
Corinne sits back in her chair, silent a long moment, as if sizing up her opponents. “And what, precisely, is she alleging? What is this thing I couldn’t possibly have pulled off?”
“She thinks you got your hands on the letters she wrote before she left New York—one to me and one to Teddy—and that through some clever sleight of hand, you made sure the letter she wrote to Teddy ended up in my hands rather than his. I told her she’d been watching too many movies and that no one was clever enough to pull off what she was talking about.”
Corinne sniffs dismissively. “And does she say why I might have done such a heinous thing to my own sister?”
“Jealousy,” Hemi replies simply.
“Jealousy?” The word seems to astonish Corinne. “Me, jealous of her?”
She laughs then, a shrill, grating peal that suddenly brings all her scornful words flooding back. How she never wanted to be a wife or have a houseful of children. How she was tired of dancing to everyone else’s tune. How it was my turn to do my duty.
“But you were jealous,” I remind her, feeling a strange calm flood through me, an understanding that’s been far too long in coming. “I used to think it was about what Father wanted, about being obedient to him. But it was more than that. You resented the fact that I wouldn’t just roll over and marry Teddy, the way you did with George. You hated me for believing I deserved to make my own choices. You wanted me to be as unhappy as you were. And you knew I would be with Teddy.”
Corinne’s expression has turned brittle, her careful denial suddenly fallen away, replaced with an almost venomous glee. “And what if I did? Why shouldn’t I resent you? When I was never allowed choices and only ever expected to do what other people wanted? You talk about being clever. What do you—either of you—know about being clever?” She glares at us now with overbright eyes. “You go sneaking off to some seedy apartment and think no one will know what you’re up to. I knew! And you, Mr. Garret, you may have managed to bring us down with your disgusting little story, but that wasn’t what you really wanted, was it?” She pauses, jabbing a finger at me. “She was what you were really after. My pretty little sister. Well, I took care of that, didn’t I?” She beams, triumphant at last as she whips her head around to look at Hemi. “Who’s clever now, paperboy?”
Hemi catches my eye with the barest of nods. “I do beg your pardon, Corinne. It seems I underestimated you.”
“You most certainly did.” She aims her sickly-sweet smile at me then. “And you—you silly fool—you certainly helped.” She tips her head back, sending a fresh peal of laughter into the air. “You should never have left me alone with your letters, sister dear. It didn’t take long to figure out you were planning to run off with the Brit. There was a problem earlier that day, though, wasn’t there? A missed appointment of some kind? Hence, your note asking him to wait. What I didn’t know was how you planned to get the note to him. I knew you must have a plan, or why write it at all, so I kept an eye out. And who should I catch slipping down the back stairs with his coat under his arm but my little sneak of a son. How lucky for me that you chose such an inept spy.”
She smiles then, clearly pleased with herself. “I followed him to the kitchen and saw him take a pair of envelopes from beneath his shirt and slip them into his coat pocket. Poor clumsy boy, I nearly scared him to death when I came up behind him. I scolded him for having his good shoes on. It had rained earlier and everything was muddy. I took his coat and ordered him upstairs to change his shoes, then told him to put on a scarf while he was at it. I needed to make sure I’d have enough time to get the envelopes open.”
The last part, delivered so casually—as if she’s discussing how to remove a wine stain from a blouse—is faintly shocking. “How do you happen to know how to open sealed envelopes?”
She looks at me, plainly amused. “What a silly question. But then you’ve never been married, so I suppose you’re to be excused. It’s easily done when the envelope is freshly sealed, which these were. A few seconds over the teakettle, a carefully applied letter opener—or in this case, a butter knife—and it’s done. Initially, I only meant to read them, to learn the extent of your plans, but after reading what you wrote to Teddy, I had a better idea. I knew how it would read to the paperboy. He’d think he’d been given the push. So I swapped them and put the envelopes back into Dickey’s coat. Voilà!”
She’s so proud of her resourcefulness, like a bank robber bragging about pulling off the perfect heist. Hearing it sickens me, but there are still things I need to know. “What happened to the other letter?”