I fumble open the door to my mother’s room and step inside. It’s stuffy in here, and I realize she has closed the window, knocking the fan onto the floor. I reopen it and turn the fan on. I use her bathroom and look at my face briefly in the halogen light. My kohl eyeliner is nearly gone, except for a messy smudge beneath my eyes, and I clean it off with a damp corner of the white washcloth hanging on the towel rack. Zelda always did that, and Nadine and I would fume at the half-moons of mascara that stained nearly all of our towels; it never totally came out in the wash. I reflect that there must be some sort of clever pun there, about our family and all the things that haven’t come out in the wash, but my mind is sluggish, and I give it up as a wasted exercise. One of my favorite things about alcohol is that it helps to silence the constant narration, the chatter of my brain. I dampen my neck and try to scrunch my messy curls into a more appealing look.
My mind is swirling with everything that’s happened. Zelda has set everything up so neatly. She must have known that I would show up, that I would eventually cotton on—hell, she’s been leaving me clues the whole while, waiting for me to catch up. Does she want me to go to the cops, to spring Jason and tell them that she’s still alive? I’m reluctant to do that, because we haven’t gotten to the end of this game, clearly. I can only guess at what she has scheduled next. I should be angry, furious at her for jerking me, everyone around like this. And I am angry. I am seething with quiet fury at my sister, as I have seethed most of my life. But I realize with a twist of dismay that I’ve been missing this, missing her. Even though this has been emotionally draining and torturous, I’m happy to be playing a game with her. Because it means we haven’t lost each other.
I almost trip on the doorjamb coming out of the bathroom, and I squint at it in the dark. Should fix that. Nadine will fall and break a hip. I’m about to walk out of the room when I turn and look at my sleeping mother. She’s perfectly still, breathing heavily, and I assume she has taken her pills. I’m overcome with an impulse I haven’t felt in years.
With a glance at the door, I walk over to the bed and climb into it. Nadine doesn’t stir. I curl around her, realizing dully that my feet are filthy and might be staining her cream duvet; I scoot in closer anyway. She smells as she has always smelled, of her obscenely expensive La Mer moisturizing cream. I snort at the French homonym; the mother smells of the mother. Underneath the fragrance is a sharp, unfamiliar smell, though, and I wonder if it’s the scent of liver failure. We’ll clean up a little tomorrow, I swear to myself. Nadine’s nightgown is fresh and laundry-scented, and I reflect that Zelda must have done a load just before the barn burning, making sure there were clean nightgowns laid out for our mother. Planning everything carefully. I snuggle in for just another moment, relishing the deliciously foreign feeling of physical proximity with my mom. On an impulse, I kiss her neck before leaving the bed, then tidy the covers where I have rumpled them. I see a stain near the bottom of the comforter, and I realize my foot must be bleeding again. Shit. I have left a trace of my need.
I close the door behind me, then hesitate before locking it. But lock it I do, and return to the deck, where Wyatt has already opened the next bottle of wine. I look at him, wondering if he saw me curled in bed with my mother on his way up the stairs, but he shows no sign of it.
“Any new notes?” I ask. Wyatt shakes his head and hands me a glass. Pinot Noir. I read the label and realize it’s one of Marlon’s wines, from California. I didn’t know we had any of his recent vintages. Once, I had jokingly, obscurely implied that his new Zinfandel was not up to scratch, an insinuation that was met with quick and excessive anger. I take a sip, and it’s not bad; he’s clearly learned a thing or two. It’s certainly better than anything Silenus produces. But of course it is: Marlon upgraded. He snagged a better vineyard, a better location, a better wife. And presumably better daughters. We were the first attempt. Repeat as needed. I look at the wreckage of the barn.
“So what do you think is next?” Wyatt wonders aloud, trying to look away from the burn site.
“Well, N usually comes after M, right?” I giggle.
He smiles. “What do you think it stands for?”
“Nadine? Necrophilia?” I shrug. “Zelda wouldn’t like it if we tried to get ahead of her. It might ruin her momentum.” I don’t mention the email I sent my sister.
“You’re right. She doesn’t want anyone to be smarter than her, ever.”
“She’s always got to be the clever one,” I agree. “She would probably sabotage any attempts to shortcut her little game. And we know where it’s going to end up, in any case.”
“Z is for Zelda?” Wyatt guesses.
“Starts with me, ends with her. I’m sure she’ll lead us on a merry chase. I say we relax and enjoy it.”
“Cheers, Zelda.” Wyatt raises his glass in the barn’s direction, openly acknowledging the blackened structure for the first time. I snort, nearly inhaling my wine. “You having fun yet, Ava?”
“Yeah, a regular vacation from my tedious life in Paris.” I wave him off.
Wyatt thinks for a moment. “You like Paris, right? You’re happy there?”
“Of course! It’s Paris—what’s not to like?”
“I just…I’m glad you’re happy, Ava. After…everything.” He looks at me so earnestly that I almost burst out laughing. Oh, Wyatt.
“I’m sorry Zelda’s dragged you into all this,” I tell him. “But then, she was always trying to push things along with us, even from the very beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remember our first time?” I ask.
“How could I forget.” He raises an eyebrow suggestively.
“Well, Zelda’s the reason. I would have chickened out if not for her. But she sort of…nudged me. Not that I didn’t want it,” I add hastily, seeing his hurt expression. “What I mean is, she took the fall. She pretended to be me and went to the nurse, got sent home sick as me. But she got reported for cutting third period and had to spend a week in after-school detention.” I snort. “She said it was worth it, though. That another day of watching us ‘pant at each other’ would permanently put her off the whole idea of sexual attraction.”
“I never knew that,” Wyatt says. “She never told me.”
“Yeah, well. I guess you were always just caught in the cross fire.”
“I like to think it was more than that,” he says, sounding wounded.
“You know what I mean,” I reassure him, backpedaling.
“You mean that I was just a tool in the mind games you two play with each other. An innocent bystander.” His eyebrow lifts, challenging me.
“Well…” That is sort of what I meant. I never really thought Zelda cared about him for himself; I always imagined that she saw him as a way to hurt me, exact her revenge, get under my skin.
“Ava, that is bullshit. We had something long before Zelda was part of it. Stop pretending that you and I meant nothing!”
“You were always more to me. You were my only ally against…these people,” I say, gesturing toward my house, indicating my entire family. “Just with Zelda, I don’t know.”
“I’m not proud of it, Ava, but she and I did have a relationship.” He sounds strained, uncomfortable. “We got close while you were gone. It was hard for both of us, when you just…left.”