The only thing that pulled me away from my mother’s corpse was the knife that killed her. Still on the foyer floor, it caught the light in a way that felt like a taunt.
“Use me,” it seemed to say. “That’s what you need to do now. Here’s your way out.”
I went to it, picked it up, and considered driving it into my heart. I stopped myself before I could do so, worried that once the blade entered my chest, there’d be no heart left for it to pierce.
Instead, I walked out to the terrace, buffeted by the wind and driving rain, and threw the knife into the ocean. Something capable of such violence deserved to be in a place where no one could find it.
Yet I still wanted to end my life. No, that’s not quite it. I felt like I had to end my life. To me, it already seemed over. All those hopes and dreams I’d held close to my heart had gone with everything else. In their place was a dark void from which I never thought I’d escape. My body might have been alive, but my soul was dead.
The quickest and easiest thing to do would have been throwing myself off the terrace. But then I’d be as lost as the knife I’d just tossed into the waves. I wanted to be found, so people would understand the depths of my despair.
I decided to go to the garage, where I knew rope was stored. I grabbed a long loop of it and carried it back inside, to the ballroom. I chose that room because it seemed the most like myself. Lovely, yes, but also empty and neglected.
In the kitchen, I heard Lenora on the phone, frantically calling the police. I should have considered how the night’s events would affect her. They were her parents, too. At least my mother was. And I was her sister. Yet I selfishly never stopped to think if she would mourn them or me. The same went for Archie, who I knew would miss me deeply.
All thoughts were pushed out of my head as I stood on a chair and tossed the rope until it was looped several times around one of the chandelier’s arms. I then knotted it around my neck the best I could.
After a tug to make sure the rope wouldn’t unravel from the chandelier, I closed my eyes, took what I thought would be my last breath, and stepped off the chair.
And that’s the full story, Mary.
Not what you expected, is it? It isn’t for me, as well. Now that you have it, do with it what you’d like. Tell the world. Or tell no one.
It’s in your hands now.
My hope, though, is that you’ll share it with someone, that it will spread far and wide, and that word of it will somehow reach my son, wherever he is, and the two of us may be briefly reunited.
FORTY-TWO
Tears fill my eyes, making it hard to see as I drive back to Hope’s End. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, as if that will make up for my blurry vision. I briefly consider not trying to see at all. That way maybe I’ll veer off the road and go sailing over the cliff into the ocean, thereby having to avoid confronting my father. A tempting prospect, considering everything I now know.
But that would make me just like Virginia.
Attempting to kill myself over something my father has done.
She survived.
I intend to do the same.
I have no plan for what to do when I reach Hope’s End. I’m not even certain that’s where my father went, although in all likelihood it is. On the phone, I gave away that Virginia was alive, accidentally leading him right to her.
I wipe my eyes, grip the steering wheel tighter, and press down harder on the gas pedal, taking my rattling Escort ever higher into the Cliffs. As I drive, I continue to keep an eye out for Carter, just in case he decided to make the long trek back to Hope’s End on foot. Once the initial shock of realizing my father had killed Mary passed, I ran to the front door, hoping to still find him there. But Carter was gone. The fact that I was wrong about him, going so far as to force him out of the car, is one of my more regrettable actions tonight.
Another thing I regret is speed-reading the typed pages I found in Mary’s suitcase. So much more than what Virginia and I had managed to type. This was indeed the full story. One that I couldn’t stop reading even as it made me dizzy with grief.
Now I understand why Virginia had been so reluctant to reveal all of it. She didn’t want to be the one to tell me who my father was.
And what he’d done.
Getting Virginia pregnant. Accepting a payment to go away forever from Winston Hope. Stabbing Evangeline Hope out of a combination of anger and pity. Killing Mary because she knew all of this.
That’s the hardest part to contend with—the fact that he’s still capable of murder. I can’t stop picturing him in the shadow of the mansion, waiting, striking the moment he saw Mary creeping across the terrace. I know she’d been on her way to see Carter, because of the vial of Virginia’s blood I also found in the suitcase.
My father grabbed it, gave Mary a shove, and watched as she flipped over the railing and fell into the abyss beyond it.
I fear Virginia will be his next victim.
Especially after I reach Hope’s End and see my father’s pickup truck parked next to the still-open gate. Why he would choose to make the remainder of the journey on foot isn’t lost on me. All the better to sneak up to the house undetected, which is likely what he did the night he killed Mary.
I, having no reason to arrive quietly, keep driving.
Past the gate.
Down the drive.
To the front door of Hope’s End, where Archie stands caught in the car’s headlights like an actor on a stage. Relief floods his features when he sees me climb out of the car.
“Someone’s here,” he says in an urgent whisper. “I saw him walking up the driveway.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
Archie shakes his head.
“Well, I know where he’s going,” I say.
“Who is it?”
“Ricky.” I pause, wary of giving him the same information overload I’ve experienced multiple times tonight. “Who’s also my father.”
Before Archie can react, I press my car keys into his hand.
“Drive into town. Go to the police and ask for Detective Vick. He’ll know what to do.”
“But what about you?”
I start walking up the steps to the front door. “I’ll be fine.”
I’m not afraid my father will do me harm. I don’t think he’d go to such an extreme. Besides, other than killing me, he can’t hurt me more than he already has. It’s Virginia I’m worried about. She’s utterly helpless—and the only loose end he needs to tie up.
My plan, formed on the spot, is to make sure Virginia’s safe and then distract my father from hurting her long enough for Detective Vick to show up. As Archie drives away in my car, I push inside Hope’s End, where Virginia’s past and my present are about to collide.
Standing in the foyer, I search for signs of my father. He could be anywhere, including still outside. Nevertheless, I can feel his presence. A shadow version of himself, repeating his actions from fifty-four years ago.
Standing right where I’m standing.
Simmering with humiliation and shame and rage.
Plunging the knife into Evangeline Hope.
It’s so vivid I can almost hear it, as if the horrible sound has been echoing through the foyer since 1929.
What I don’t hear are any noises from the present day. No footsteps or floor creaks. That might be a good thing.
It could also mean I’m too late.
That thought propels me down the hall to the kitchen and the service stairs. I can’t bear the thought of taking the Grand Stairs, with their bloodstains that my father caused. Not that the service stairs are any better. They groan under my feet as I ascend, sounding like they could collapse at any moment. A distinct possibility. At the top of the stairs, I instantly feel the extreme pitch of the house. In the short time I’ve been away, it’s only gotten worse.
I creep down the hallway, leaning into the tilt. As I go, I reach into my pocket and pull out the corkscrew. An act that boggles my mind. This is my father. The man who raised me. I can’t imagine needing to protect myself from him. Yet, under the circumstances, it feels necessary.
Rather than head into Virginia’s room, I duck into mine, startled by how different it feels. The floor is noticeably more slanted, forcing me to think twice before each step. On my way to the adjoining door, I notice the mattress bunched at the foot of the bed. A couple of books have fallen from the shelf and the mirror hanging on the wall appears tilted when in reality it’s the rest of the room that’s askew.
The door to Virginia’s room is shut. Whether it’s the work of my father or the ever-shifting house remains to be seen. Gripping the corkscrew tight, I crack open the door and peek inside.
The room is dim, lit only by moonlight coming through windows leaning precariously closer to the sea. In that muted light, I see Virginia in her bed, awake and alert.
I rush to her side and whisper, “My father’s on his way.”
She knows I’m talking about Ricky.
She’s known since our first meeting, when she barely registered my presence until I told her my full name. That’s when she finally snapped to attention.