The full extent of the damage can’t be assessed until morning, when all of us gather on the terrace not long after dawn. If anyone else paid a visit to Lenora’s room during the night, I didn’t hear it. I was too focused on the sound of the waves pounding the base of the cliff, eating away at it inch by inch. Lying in the darkness, listening to that steady churn, I wondered how long we had left until the whole thing fell. To judge from the state of the terrace, not very long at all.
The damage appears even worse in daylight, with the rising sun shedding full light upon the fissure slicing across the terrace. About two inches wide and unfathomably deep, it runs down the steps on the left all the way into the empty swimming pool. Following its path is a line of broken marble tiles, many of which now jut from the terrace at jagged angles.
Mrs. Baker peers at it all through her glasses, her eyes weary and sad. “Is there someone we could call?” she says.
Carter, who’d been on his stomach studying the crevasse, climbs to his feet and brushes dirt from his jeans. “To do what?”
“Fix it. Or support it. Or something.”
“There’s no fixing this,” Carter says. “This cliff is going to go eventually. And when it does, Hope’s End is going to go with it.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Mrs. Baker says, as if she has any say in the matter. “I’ll go make some calls.”
She hurries back into the house, leaving the rest of us to stare anxiously at the cracked terrace.
“She’s delusional,” Carter says.
“Totally,” Jessie echoes.
I turn to Archie, hoping our trust pact is still intact. “Do you think there’s a way to convince her to abandon this place?”
“Leave Hope’s End?” he says. “She’ll never do it.”
“I’m more concerned about Lenora. If something like this happens again—”
“When it happens again,” Jessie says. “Come on, guys, you know it will. And next time it’ll probably be worse.”
I sigh, because I agree with her. “When it happens, the rest of us can escape if we need to. But Lenora can’t.”
Archie promises me he’ll talk to Mrs. Baker about it before going back inside to start breakfast. Jessie quickly follows, saying nothing as she takes a long, disbelieving look at what’s left of the terrace.
Carter and I remain, our backs against the mansion and the brisk sea breeze in our faces.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Carter says with a shyness I haven’t seen from him before. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
The wind picks up, bringing with it a biting chill that warns winter is on its way. I pull my cardigan tight around me and wonder if Hope’s End will still be here when winter does arrive.
“I’m not sure I am. Honestly, how long do you think this place will remain standing?”
“I have no clue. It could be years. Or months.”
“Or hours?” I say.
“Yeah, that, too.”
“I long for the days when I thought the scariest thing about this place was the three murders that happened here.”
“Four murders,” Carter says.
“Right.” I lower my head, ashamed to have momentarily forgotten about Mary and what befell her on this same terrace.
“Anything new about that?” Carter says. “Or about anything?”
I fill him in on both my conversation with Mrs. Baker and my clandestine search of her room. “No suitcase. But I did find something interesting. Do you know anyone who might be staying at Ocean View?”
“That nursing home in town?”
“Yes. I found a bunch of cleared checks, going back years. Mrs. Baker’s been giving them a thousand dollars a month.”
Carter lets out a low whistle. “Charitable donation?”
“I doubt Mrs. Baker would be giving away thousands of dollars a year when Hope’s End looks like this.” I survey the broken terrace and the rubble scattered across it. It resembles a war zone. I’m all for philanthropy, but in the case of Hope’s End, charity really does begin at home. “She wouldn’t be wasting that kind of money unless she had to. She’s paying for someone to stay at Ocean View.”
Carter goes rigid beside me. Clutching my arm, he says, “I think I know who it is. I remember Tony mentioning once or twice when I worked at the bar that a couple people who used to work here are still around. And one of them is at Ocean View.”
“Who?”
“Berniece Mayhew.”
A look passes between us. One borne of surprise and confusion. For some reason—and for many, many years—Mrs. Baker has been paying the living costs of Ricardo Mayhew’s wife.
“Why would she do that?” Carter says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I have a feeling Lenora might.”
Carter scratches the back of his neck, thinking. “Good luck getting her to tell you anything now that the typewriter’s gone.”
I thought the same thing this morning after waking on a mattress slid halfway down the bed frame. I hauled it back into place, showered in an alarmingly uneven tub, and put on another of Mary’s uniforms before checking in on Lenora. The moment I entered her room, I instinctively looked for the typewriter I’d forgotten was no longer there. Staring at the empty desk, I realized communication between the two of us had just gotten a lot harder. Some answers require more than just tapping yes or no.
“Maybe she can write with her left hand,” I say, wishful-thinking aloud. Even if Lenora was left-handed before her series of strokes, I don’t think she has the strength to hold a pen and scrawl something on paper for any extended period of time. The only thing I can think to do is write out the alphabet and have her point to the letters.
Which, truth be told, isn’t a bad idea.
In fact, I don’t even need to go that far.
Someone’s already done it for me.
“I just thought of a way,” I say, moving to the French doors. “It’s not typing, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
I leave Carter on the terrace and hurry through the dining room into the kitchen. I climb the service stairs quickly, passing the second-floor landing and going straight to the third, which feels like walking through a fun house. Staggering like a drunkard, I make my way to Jessie’s room. Her door is open, so I peek inside and try to casually say, “Hi. I was wondering if I could borrow your Ouija board.”
Jessie, standing at the foot of her bed, gestures to the top of her dresser, where the Ouija board and planchette sit. “You can have it. It’ll just be one less thing I need to pack.”
Every drawer in the dresser, I notice, is open, and a suitcase sits on the bed in front of Jessie.
“You’re leaving?” I say.
“Yep.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” For emphasis, Jessie balls up a sweater and stuffs it into the suitcase. “Just as long as it’s anywhere but here. You heard Carter. This whole place is falling apart. Literally. I’m not going to be here when it does. You shouldn’t, either. Honestly, we both should have left right after you found Mary.”
There’s no arguing with that. Watching Jessie toss more clothes into the suitcase, I can’t help but imagine what my life would be like right now if I’d walked away that day and never looked back.
But I stayed as Mary’s death and the Hope family murders filled my waking hours. And I’ll continue to stay, even though the smart thing would be to follow Jessie’s lead.
“I can’t abandon Lenora,” I say, which is both the truth and an excuse.
I’m also staying because I can’t shake the feeling that the full story is right at my fingertips, just out of reach. That same feeling is what draws me to the dresser, where I grab Jessie’s Ouija board and planchette.
“I’m only borrowing it,” I tell her, pretending we’ll see each other again when in all likelihood we won’t. “I plan on giving it back.”
Jessie gives me a surprise hug, which she finishes off with a girlish squeeze. “Take care of yourself, Kit. And take care of Lenora, too. And please promise me you’ll get her away from this place as soon as possible.”
“I will.”
“I’m serious,” Jessie says. “I’m worried about her. And you.”
“I promise,” I say. “I swear.”
I’m about to leave the room when Jessie says, “Wait! I forgot something.” She hurries to the dresser and hands me a cassette tape. “The end of the book I was reading for Lenora. I hope she likes it.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m sure she will.”
I pocket the cassette and let Jessie resume packing, knowing I should be doing the same thing. Instead, I’m carrying a Ouija board down a hallway no one should be allowed to walk through, on my way to get a mute woman to speak not with the dead, but like them.
Five minutes later, the meal tray is attached to Lenora’s wheelchair. On top of it sits the Ouija board, with the planchette placed in the center beneath Lenora’s left hand.
“You ever use one of these things?” I say.
Lenora lifts the planchette to give a single tap against the board.
“It’s easy.” I place my hand over hers and glide the planchette around the board. “Just slide this to whatever letters you need to spell out your answer. Got it?”
Biting her bottom lip in concentration, Lenora pushes the planchette to the yes located in the upper-left corner of the board.
“Perfect,” I say. “You ready to answer a question?”
The planchette stays where it is, which I assume is another yes.
“How well did you know Berniece Mayhew?”
Lenora slides the planchette to the double row of letters arcing over the center of the board. Slowly, she brings it to the L.
Then the I.
Then the T.
Then the T a second time.