The Night Sister

There was a piece of Tower Motel stationery rolled into the carriage of the old Royal De Luxe. A message had been neatly typed:

You found the suitcase and typewriter, but there are bigger things to find.

Keep looking.

Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the truth.



“What is this?” Piper asked.

Amy’s eyes were huge. “Don’t you get it? It’s a note from Sylvie. From Sylvie’s ghost!”

“Wait, Sylvie’s dead?” Margot asked.

“I’m sure of it,” Amy said. “It’s got to be her ghost that’s been visiting me. Jason saw it, too, that day in the tower, remember? He saw someone in blue go in and never come out! And if she was still alive, if she really ran away, why would her suitcase be here?” Amy paused dramatically. “I think she planned on leaving that night, but someone stopped her!”

“Like who?” Piper asked.

“I don’t know,” Amy said. Her eyes were glittering with excitement. “But, obviously, she wants us to find out.”





1961





Alfred Hitchcock Universal Studios Hollywood, California September 18, 1961

Dear Mr. Hitchcock, I feel like an actress already. Playing different roles for different people. Sometimes I almost forget who the real me is.

Does that make any sense?

Do any of your big stars ever feel that way when they’re playing a role—that they get so caught up in pretending to be someone else they start to forget who they really are? I can’t imagine Janet Leigh or James Stewart getting lost like that. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe any one of us can get a little lost sometimes.

Sincerely yours,

Miss Sylvia A. Slater The Tower Motel





328 Route 6


London, Vermont





Rose


Rose was awakened by a gunshot. Daddy’s rifle. She knew the sound by heart. Daddy had taught her and Sylvie to shoot, practicing with old tin cans on the fence out behind Fenton’s trailer.

She leapt out of bed, glancing at the clock; she’d overslept again. Sylvie’s bed was already neatly made.

Mama and Sylvie were sitting at the kitchen table, steaming bowls of oatmeal in front of them. Sylvie looked up, saw Rose, then shot Mama a worried glance. Mama pursed her lips.

“I heard a shot,” Rose said.

Mama nodded, eyes down on her oatmeal.

“What happened?” Rose asked, heart sinking into her stomach.

Mama sat up so that her back was as straight as the chair she sat in. “Honey, Lucy got worse. She wasn’t able to stand at all this morning.”

“No!” Rose said. Daddy wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t possibly shoot Lucy. Not without letting Rose say goodbye.

“She was in terrible pain,” Mama said.

“No!” Rose cried again, running out of the kitchen, through the front door, down the steps, across the yard, her robe flying out behind her like a cape. Fenton and Daddy were coming back toward the house. Daddy was carrying his Winchester rifle.

“How could you?” Rose screamed.

“Rose, the animal was suffering,” Daddy said.

“You could have called the vet! You could have woken me up!”

I could have fixed her. I could have gotten her to stand up and eat.

Daddy shook his head. “There was nothing either you or the best veterinarian in the world could have done for that old cow, Rose. Her time had come.”

“It’s not fair. You don’t get to decide!”

“It was the kindest—” Daddy began.

“You’re a murderer,” Rose spat.

Daddy looked at her but didn’t speak. His eyes looked hollow, sad. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, and walked past her, into the house.

“I hate you,” she called after him. “I hate everyone in this whole terrible family.”

Daddy didn’t so much as pause; he just kept right on walking, gun in his hands.

Rose started to head for Lucy’s pen, but Fenton grabbed her. “No,” he said. “It’s best if you don’t see her.” She shook him off and ran across the yard and to the fence.