Upon reaching the sunroom, I held my breath, fearful one small exhalation would expose my presence. I stood outside the door, listening to my father’s groaning and panting, disgusted by his animalistic needs. It didn’t occur to me then that they were the same sounds Ricky made when we were together. Only later did I realize all men were alike. It didn’t matter if they were rich or poor, fat or thin, old or young. Their needs were so basic it was laughable.
Once the passionate moaning had ended, I hurried away to the library, pretending to read a book in case my father looked in as he passed. He didn’t, of course. He simply strode by, sated, on his way to another part of the house.
It wasn’t until I heard his mistress leave the sunroom that I sprang from my chair and ran to the doorway, ready to intercept her.
I expected to see someone like Sally, the voluptuous new maid, or even brittle, bitter Berniece Mayhew. Instead, the woman who emerged from the sunroom smoothing her skirts was the person I least expected to be engaged in an affair with my father.
Frozen in shock, I could only stand in the middle of the hallway and stare at her. She stared back, also surprised.
“You?” I said.
“Yes,” Miss Baker replied with a weary huff. “Me.”
THIRTY-ONE
The typewriter is gone.
Mrs. Baker removed it from my arms once the last loose sheet of paper had taken flight. At first, I stupidly thought she was trying to help me. Or at least get the typewriter out of my hands while she berated me for bringing Lenora outside. Instead, she said nothing as she lugged it across the terrace, the lone page in the carriage flapping in the breeze.
Then, with a grunt and a heave, she hoisted the typewriter over the railing and let it drop.
I gasped when it fell from view. Jessie let out a horrified yelp. Even Lenora reacted, her left hand reaching out as far as she could muster, as if that alone might reverse the typewriter’s fall.
Pleased with herself, Mrs. Baker wiped her hands together and strode to the French doors. All she said as she passed me was, “Take Miss Hope back upstairs where she belongs.”
Carter helped me with that, scooping Lenora in his arms and carrying her up the Grand Stairs as I pulled the wheelchair up step by rattling step. In Lenora’s room, he gently placed her in the wheelchair before turning to me.
“What do you think’s going to happen?”
“I think I’m going to be fired,” I said. It was the only logical outcome. But it wouldn’t be Mrs. Baker doing the firing. She’d leave that to Mr. Gurlain, who I was certain would be all too happy to banish me from the agency.
“Shit,” Carter said. “I’m so sorry, Kit. This is all my fault.”
In truth, it was mine. I knew the rules. I broke them anyway, simply because I wanted answers that I’ll never get now that the typewriter is gone. All I received in exchange for my transgression was a tidbit of information that might help Carter. The only silver lining in this dark cloud of a day.
“Lenora had the baby,” I said after pulling him into my room and closing the adjoining door so Lenora couldn’t hear us from hers. “A boy. She confirmed it.”
“What happened to him?”
“She doesn’t know. All Lenora could tell me is that they took the baby away from her.”
Carter dropped onto my bed, trying to process it all. Not just the suffering Lenora went through or the cruelty behind it, but also how it seemed to support his theory about being her grandson.
“So I might be right,” he said. “Lenora and I might really be related.”
“It’s a definite possibility.”
I joined him on the bed, our shoulders touching. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find out more.”
Carter flashed that crooked smile I’d become slightly enamored of over the past few days. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t have learned any of this without you.”
“But now that you know it, be careful. Whoever killed Mary is still here.”
“Or out there,” Carter said.
Maybe, but I doubted it. I thought more than ever that Mary’s killer was someone at Hope’s End.
Specifically the woman who would be sending me packing at any minute.
But those minutes turned to hours, bleeding from afternoon into evening. In that time, I heard nothing about being let go. Not when Archie brought up dinner for me and Lenora. Not when I mixed her crushed pills into her food or did her circulation exercises or gave her a bath. Now I’m putting Lenora to bed, noticing the way in which her gaze flits to the desk. It seems so big without the typewriter on it, so empty.
The same can be said of the sideboard, on which used to rest her snow globe. Now there’s just the Walkman. Likely the next thing Lenora will lose. And she’s already lost so much.
“I’m sorry, Lenora,” I say as I place the call button in her left hand. “I know how much you liked using it. I wish I could have heard the rest of your story.”
Even though it’s not an official goodbye, it feels like one. Because surely I’ll be gone by morning—if not sooner. I suspect the only reason I’m still here is because Mrs. Baker is trying to cajole Mr. Gurlain into assigning another caregiver to Lenora. One who, unlike me, has the power to decline the job.
Assuming I’ll never see her again after this, I pat Lenora’s hand and say, “It was a pleasure caring for you. I hope whoever takes my place will make you happy.”
I leave her after that, sweeping into my room and closing the adjoining door behind me. Now all I need to do is pack up my things and wait for the axe to inevitably fall. Not that there’s much packing to be done. I never did get around to replacing Mary’s belongings with my own. The books are still in their box. My suitcase full of clothes sits atop the dresser. All that’s left to be done is take the lockbox out from under the bed, collect grooming products from the bathroom, and change out of my uniform and into the clothes I wore when I arrived.
I start with the lockbox. Opening the nightstand, I take out the key. I then drop to my knees and slide the box from beneath the bed. I unlock it and open the lid. Inside are Lenora’s pills—and nothing else.
The pages we’d typed—all of them—are gone.
I hop to my feet, push out the door, and stomp down the hallway. The service stairs shake as I angrily descend to the kitchen, in search of Mrs. Baker.
I find her in the dining room, sitting alone at the massive table, a recently opened bottle of wine in front of her. The room is dim—lit only by a small blaze in the fireplace. Its flickering glow reflects off Mrs. Baker’s glasses, masking her eyes as she lifts a wineglass to her lips and takes a sip.
“Where are they?” I say.
“You’ll have to be more specific than that, dear.”
“The pages Lenora and I typed,” I say, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “I know you have them.”
“Had, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “I had them.”
She gestures to the fireplace, where a few bits of scorched paper surround the single log burning inside. On one of them, I spot a typed word halfway eaten by flame. Seeing it sends me stumbling backward into one of the dining room chairs, which hits the floor with a clatter.
“You had no right to do that,” I say. “Those pages belonged to me.”
“And what was on them belonged to Miss Hope. Which means they fell under my authority.” Mrs. Baker takes another satisfied sip of wine. “Just like the typewriter.”
“You didn’t need to destroy them!” I yell, the words bursting out of me. Since I’m about to be sent packing, I see no need to control my anger.
Mrs. Baker, far calmer than I, nods toward the toppled chair and says, “Sit with me a minute, Kit. I think it’s time for a nice chat.”
I remain standing, disobeying her yet again.
“Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. “I assume you expect to be fired.”
“Yes,” I say. Why lie at this point?
“You’re free to go, if you’re so inclined. No one is forcing you to stay here.”
“But you’re not forcing me to leave?”
“No, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “But I would like to know whose idea it was to take Miss Hope outside.”
“Hers.”
“I thought so. Honestly, it doesn’t surprise me. Miss Hope can be very . . . persuasive. It makes sense she’d convince you to disobey my clear wishes.”
“Your wishes,” I say. “What about Lenora’s?”
“They are one and the same.” Mrs. Baker sets down her glass and runs the pad of her finger around the rim. “Although it’s obvious you don’t approve of my methods.”
“I don’t.”
“Even if it’s for Miss Hope’s own good?”
“Is it?” I say. “You keep her a prisoner in her own house. She has no friends. No visitors. She only sees people who are paid to take care of her. You won’t even let her go outside, for God’s sake. Even inmates—literal prison inmates—are allowed to do that.”
“What if I did? What do you think she’d encounter? Hatred, that’s what. Judgment. Constant suspicion. The world is not a kind place for women accused of violence. You, of all people, should understand that. Don’t people judge you for what happened to your mother?”
Too stunned to stand, I finally sit. Not on the chair, but on the floor beside it. I land next to the fireplace. Heat from the crackling blaze inside it stings my skin. But nothing’s as hot as the shame that burns through me.
“How long have you known?” I say.