“No. I won’t allow it.”
Beno?t met my gaze. I flipped him a mental bird, and, like he was some kind of circus-freak mind reader, he grinned back at me.
“It’s your choice, Frances,” I said. “Go home with him. Or stay here with me.”
He looked down at his new wife. “I’ll only be a phone call away. But you have to do this.” He looked pointedly at me.
“Beno?t,” Frances sniffed pitifully.
God. My eyelids fluttered closed. What a performance.
“No,” he said. “You’re a strong woman. You can do this.” He leaned in and kissed her, then glowered at me. “Take care of her.”
“She’ll be fine,” I said.
“I’ll call the ferry,” Doro said and the two of them left.
In the salon, the air conditioning clicked on and began to grind away. Somewhere, a clock ticked ponderously. It was finally just the two of us. Frances’s smile had vanished, her face settled into a collection of flat, hard planes. Her cold eyes glittered at me. This was the woman I knew. If she bared her teeth right now, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see they’d transformed into fangs.
She crossed the room, and I flinched, steeling myself for the onslaught. She grabbed me around the shoulders and looked at me, her eyes hard.
“I’m so happy to see you . . . looking so well,” she declared. But her face didn’t match her words. It was taut.
She pulled me in like before, crushing my body against hers. I felt her arms circle around me, desperately, it seemed, her hands grabbing at my shoulder blades. Then the pressure of a kiss on my temple. I held my breath and stayed very still. Something was different. Frances was different.
Crazy thoughts whirled in my head. Was it too late for us? Was it possible to think we could spend a couple of days together and actually change things between us?
Before I could take this line of thought any further, she put her mouth close to my ear.
“Megan, listen to me,” she rasped in a voice so low I could barely hear it. “You’re in danger here. I know you don’t trust me, but you have to listen.” Her voice dropped even lower. “You need to get out of here.”
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 13
Fay woke, her heart thundering. She raised a hand to her throat. It felt as if she’d been screaming while she slept.
It had been three days and nights since Herb had locked himself in the library with his wife. Fay hadn’t left Kitten’s side in all that time. She even slept on the uncomfortable chaise in the girl’s bedroom, although she tossed restlessly, plagued by nightmares.
This night, Kitten’s bedroom wasn’t as dark as it should have been with the plywood storm panels blocking the windows. It was bathed in a silvery moonlight. The center window in the bay had been flung open and its panel pushed out. The room creaked, as the wind whipped around the eaves of the house and into the room where Kitten stood in the center. She was staring out the open window, her nightgown billowing.
“Kitten, darling,” Fay croaked. “What have you done?”
The girl turned to face her. Her eyes were wide with fright. “I saw her. I saw Cappie.”
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Up in my room, I drank one of Doro’s mini whiskeys left over from the hospital and cursed my mother’s name in as many creatively disgusting ways as I could think of. After about twenty minutes of that, I was still seething. I showered. Brushed my teeth and blew out my hair, then wandered back into my room. I did crunches until my abdomen knotted and then about ten woozy, drunken pushups.
My arms still smarted from where Frances had held me.
I’d lain down and fallen into a dizzying sleep when I felt my laptop buzz on my legs. My eyes flew open, and, on autopilot, I checked Facebook. I had a message. I bolted upright, shock jolting through me.
Cat Lady Susan had accepted my friend request.
And Glitter Girl Susan had sent me a message. I clicked on it with trembling fingers. It was short, just two lines, but I read them hungrily.
I know who you are. Don’t contact me again.
My stomach leapt, and I tasted soured whiskey in my mouth. I pulled the computer closer, hovered my fingers over the keyboard for a couple of moments, then typed.
I have your copy of Kitten, Susan, from your Aunt Jo. I mean, I used to have it—it was stolen recently. Do you have any idea why anyone would do that?
I waited, chewing at a jagged piece of cuticle on the side of my thumb. The laptop buzzed.
I can’t talk to you.
But she was talking to me. Which was something. I thought for a minute, then typed.
You’re in the Kitty Cult, right?
Bag of dicks, she sent back.
Okay. A little defensive, considering her copy of Kitten resembled the fabled Velveteen Rabbit, well loved and worn to pieces.
But you used to be? I wrote.
I waited. There was no response, so I tried again.
Susan, please. I have to talk to you. Something’s going on, and it’s really weird.
I CAN’T.
No one has to know we’ve spoken. I know how to keep a secret, and, believe me, I have no interest in getting you in trouble. I just want to know about my mother and Dorothy and William Kitchens. The real story of Kitten. I read some of your notes, but I didn’t get to them all. Can you just tell me—what exactly was your interest in them? It seemed like you were doing some kind of investigation. Can you tell me what you discovered? And how you figured it out?
The computer buzzed. Can’t. Sorry.
I gazed out over the yard and the trees. A breeze stirred the hanging moss, and the early-morning light warmed the tabby walls of the house to a pinkish gray.
I’m writing my own book now.
No reply. Of course. What did Susan Doucette care about my petty, small-minded revenge book? I added to the single line.
I had never read Kitten until just recently. I happened to pick up your copy—your book from your Aunt Jo was on my mother’s shelf. How did it end up in my mother’s apartment in New York? Did you give it to her? I find that hard to believe you would do that. You did a lot of research, back then, maybe hit on something important. All I know is now the book’s gone, and I want to know why. Don’t you?
I held my breath.
They made me give it to them.
Who? I wrote.
Then came her reply. This is illegal, us talking.
I shot back, How is it illegal?
I signed an agreement I wouldn’t talk.
The fuck . . .
About Kitten? How is that possible? Who made you sign that?
There was a long beat, then the answer buzzed back.
Rankin Lewis Literary.
When?
Six years ago.
My mother’s literary agency made a teenage girl sign a gag order?
Nothing.
And confiscated your copy of Kitten? I asked.
Can’t talk about it.
I sat back, staring at the chain of messages. I ran a hand over my mouth, then hunched forward.
We HAVE to talk, Susan, I typed. The book—your book was stolen a couple of days ago from my room in Ambletern on Bonny Island. I think Dorothy Kitchens might have done it.