I opened the door to the next room, was hit with the smell of violet and washed skin; a white bookshelf filled with leather-bound and hardcover books; a wooden dressing table, hairbrush, comb, lace gloves; a free-standing mirror; rumple of clothes on the ground; Lizzie sleeping. I watched her chest rise and fall; an ocean tide. I should ask her some questions.
I moved towards her. The axe head pressed against my leg. There was the sound of a bed creaking in another room. Lizzie rolled onto her side and I bent down close. John had been so worried that she’d see me, see what I was going to do in the house. But I’d seen how she was with Abby. Lizzie was no whimper. She’d found her dead father. I wondered if she’d seen who did it.
‘Tell me,’ I whispered. ‘Did you get a good look?’
‘Yes.’ Lizzie whispered dream-talk.
‘What did they do?’
‘Father.’
I wanted what was mine, I was going to tell Lizzie some home truths. Starting with John. ‘I saw you today. Your uncle sent me.’
Lizzie breathed, a dragon.
‘He asked me to talk to your father.’
‘Father.’
‘Yes.’ I leaned closer. ‘John said there were problems.’
Lizzie smacked her lips together.
‘But I never got a chance. Now I’m concerned he won’t pay me my money. Do you know how important money is?’
‘Money,’ she whispered.
‘Get it for me.’
I got so close to her face, could feel my breath bounce off her skin. ‘Tell me who you saw, Lizzie. Was it John?’
Lizzie. ‘Saw Abby.’
‘I saw her too.’
A bed creaked. Lizzie let out a sore-dog yelp and she opened her eyes, ballooned them wide and turned her face, stared at me. The scream that was made was made again. I stood in a flash, heard someone turn a key in a lock and I ran out of the room. I got to the stairs, saw John standing in the doorway of his room, saw him retreat back inside, and I ran through the house, out through the side door and towards the street.
Somewhere a dog barked. I took off down Second Street, past a police officer, heard footsteps behind me. I quickened, the footsteps quickened.
The axe head thunked against my thigh, made me bleed.
I found myself walking train tracks towards a freight train. My shoes slipped in between the sleepers and track, made it difficult for me to move quickly. A train whistle. I lugged my feet, walked across the thick lines of hard track metal and climbed inside a carriage. The train moved. Everything ached. I wanted to sleep. The train gained momentum. Fall River had been a bust. I put my hand in my pocket, felt the goodies. So many things left unfinished. The train went on and I noticed blood on my hands. I licked my fingers, licked them clean. Someone in that house had lied to me, I thought. One day I’d come back, get what was owed.
THIRTEEN
LIZZIE
4 August 1892
BY THE TIME night fell, Emma and I had offered a reward for the capture of Father’s murderer. Emma had complained that the amount was too much, too showy.
‘You sound just like him,’ I said.
Emma shook her head, upturned a lip. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘I think it shows how much we care.’
‘Money doesn’t prove anything.’ She was loud.
‘Of course it does! The Borden name means something in Fall River. We should do this right.’
Emma threw her hands out in front of her. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘I just want them to find the person who did this and be done with it.’ Emma’s hideous desire for answers made my heart beat faster. She made my teeth want to sink into her flesh and eat her out of my life, made me want to swarm her mind and sort through all the thoughts she had of me, that I was being too stubborn, I was being too secretive, I was being bad, I was, I was. I felt her nastiness crawl over my skin, tiny deaths that made me want to become nothing. Emma sat boulder strong, eyed me like a parent seeing their child misbehave for the first time and not liking any of it. The same look Mrs Borden gave me from time to time.
Emma tilted her head, mouthed a small-breath whisper then shook her head. ‘I can’t believe no one saw or heard anything.’
‘What are you saying?’
Emma shrugged, was defeated. ‘I don’t know. Nothing.’
A weight dropped through my stomach, perforated holes along muscle. Were other people watching me like this? Thinking like this? My palms ached, became small deserts. I rubbed them together, newly formed calluses bonding. Why was my truth so hard to believe? The police had asked question, question, question, had written my words down like gospel. When Emma came home, the police threw information at her, I bet that’s why she’s like this with me, made her think things. Sitting there, Emma looked exactly the way Mrs Borden had in the morning, stalking me around the house, shadow of shadow.
I felt like sinking. All day I had made sure I was the daughter Father raised, had answered questions. There had been a moment after lunch when I overheard two officers ask, ‘How much time would you want to spend alone in a house where you found your murdered father?’
‘Maybe Miss Borden didn’t run out of the house because she knew someone would eventually come and be with her.’
‘Or she felt she was in no danger.’
‘What type of madman would stick around waiting to kill someone else? Miss Borden probably didn’t even consider herself a potential victim.’
My blood jumped. It wasn’t right to make a grieving child feel that way, that somehow they were responsible for death, does this mean they will come for me?
Emma rubbed her face. None of this would’ve happened if she hadn’t left me in the house.
‘Do you think they’re close to finding a suspect?’ I said.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this works.’ Emma unfolded and folded her hands in front of her, begging.
‘What will they do to the killer when they catch them?’
‘I guess they’ll have a trial.’
‘And if they’re guilty?’
She leaned towards me, let her mouth gorge wide before saying, ‘They will be hanged.’
‘Does that always happen?’ Heat swamped over my body, made my mind spiral then collapse.
‘Do we have to talk about this now?’
‘I’m worried, that’s all.’
‘How about you worry about the fact Father died.’ Her voice a scream.
There was a pop in the middle of my ear. It crawled out and lunged at the walls of the house. A window shook. Emma pulsed in her chair, threw a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be angry with you.’
‘Why are you?’ I heard my voice sound out like small pebbles across floorboards. I didn’t like the way Emma watched me.
‘Why don’t I get you some tea?’ Emma stood.
‘Get Bridget to do it.’
Emma tied her fingers together, said, ‘Bridget left us.’
‘Why? What did you do to make her leave?’ I thought Bridget would like it more now things had changed.