Lizzie Read online

  Father tosses his pen on the desk and lifts his gaze. “Because you think I killed them?”

  My voice chokes up a little. “You had motive.” It’s a weak argument, I know, but I need my father to confirm somehow that it was me, give me irrefutable proof that I could do something so terrible, so cruel.

  Annoyance flickers in my father’s dark eyes. The wrinkles on his forehead are more pronounced, his cheeks appear sunken, his complexion pale. When did his hair begin to turn so gray?

  “I don’t have time for this today, Lizbeth.”

  My stomach clenches. “Time for me,” I say. “Isn’t that what you meant to say? I suppose I should be used to that.” A spark of irrational fury rushes up my esophagus, burning at the tip of my tongue. “You killed them, didn’t you? Just like you promised.” Please, God, let this be true.

  But their tiny helpless faces peer up at me, pleading for me to save them, protect them. And seconds later, their tiny eyes bulge out with fear—of me. The truth is right in front of me, but I won’t, can’t, believe it. “It didn’t matter that I gave them a sanctuary, a place to be—”

  Free.

  My father stands, pushing his desk so hard the front lifts off the ground. A picture of my mother topples off the edge and hits the floor with a crack. The frame splits, the glass spiderwebs across my mother’s face. A sob catches in my throat.

  I hate this picture, the sad look in her eyes, the way her brother’s arm drapes across her shoulder with a kindness that he no longer possesses. I haven’t seen my uncle since Mom’s funeral. Not so much as a birthday card, a phone call, an obligatory check-in—just gone, erased, as though he never existed at all.

  Everyone leaves.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” my father says, his tone choked with emotion.

  See what I have done.

  He comes around to the front of the desk and we stoop in unison to pick up the frame. His head knocks against my cheek, and I cry out in pain. My father’s eyes go wide with alarm. He puts his finger to my face. “Jesus, Lizbeth. You’re such a damn klutz.”

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I yank away from his touch. “Get away from me, murderer.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lizbeth.” My father sets the broken picture on the desk and calmly, methodically, picks up his phone.

  Panic swells in my chest. “Who are you calling?”

  “Dr. Driscoll,” he says. I lunge for the receiver and knock it out of his hand. His cheeks flush crimson. “This is out of control, Lizbeth. You are out of control.” Hands on his hips, he begins to pace. “I’m at my wit’s end here.”

  My voice drops to a whisper. “I’m not crazy.” I take a breath. Exhale.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking the sheen of blood that clouds my pupils. Blood from the pigeons, the birds I was supposed to protect. Someone else had to have done it—because the alternative is terrifying and surreal.

  My voice cracks. “Why are you always punishing me?”

  Father’s eyes go glassy and he tilts his head to the side. Behind his insincerity, I catch a glimpse of the truth—the subtle way he shifts the conversation to make this my fault, to try and convince me I’m unstable, fragile. A psychopath.

  Is it possible they’re right?

  I’m so mad I could spit. “You don’t believe me. In me. You never have.”

  He hangs his head. “Grow up, Lizbeth. You’re acting like a little girl.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “Is it possible . . . ?” He struggles a little to finish the sentence, but I know what’s on his mind. “Your episodes have become worse.”

  Not a question. I shake my head. “No, I—” But the protest dies on the tip of my tongue.

  My father licks his lips. “I spoke to Eli Bentz, Lizbeth,” he says, and a chill skips along my spine. “His security cameras caught you stealing the poison—”

  I hold very still.

  “—and that damn kitchen gadget or whatever it was.”

  I cock my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s no point denying it,” he says. “I paid Eli so he wouldn’t charge you, but you’re going to pay me back. I hope that citrus peeler was worth it. Probably paid extra for that godforsaken color,” he scoffs.

  Confusion shakes through me. I’ve been stealing from Eli Bentz since the summer after Mom died. A pack of gum, a chocolate bar, a small toy that could fit in my pocket. Ever since he found out I have been stealing, my father deals with it all under the table, paying for my indiscretions without making a fuss. Maybe it started out as a way to get Father’s attention. I’m not even sure anymore. But obviously Mr. Bentz is confused—or lying. Because I didn’t steal a citrus peeler—that was a gift from Bridget.

  For my birthday.

  She bought it when we were in Boston.

  My father runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t protect you if you don’t talk to me.”

  My heart pounds and my mouth turns dry. “Protect me?” I laugh without humor. “All you’ve ever wanted is to keep me here, trapped in this house.”

  His eyes darken. “Where else would you go? You should be grateful you have a job, a roof over your head. It’s more than a woman—”

  My pulse ratchets up. “Don’t you dare make this about gender,” I say through gritted teeth. Mom used to say my father believed men and women had different roles because he was a traditionalist, but I know better—he’s a misogynist, and there’s a very big difference. “You think I won’t leave, but I will. Just watch.”

  My father reaches out to put his hand on my wrist. I yank away as if burned. “Don’t touch me.” His eyes widen in shock, and for a split second, I feel shame.

  A flash of anger crosses his face and I know I should stop, quit while I’m ahead, but I can’t. I’m prodding, poking, forcing some kind of reaction, to be punished for the acts I commit when the madness takes over and spirals out of control.

  My father doesn’t disappoint. “Are you out of your mind?” His temples pulse, pupils cloud over. I take a step back. “I’ve had enough of your disrespect.” He lifts his hand, and I stare it—him—down. “Do you understand me, young lady? Enough!”

  Red flashes in front of my eyes and they’re there again. The birds, their severed heads and beady eyes, staring, accusing. I wanted them to be free, to show that they could escape their fate. But maybe I’m just like them, destined to die in my childhood home, the ghost of my mother forever disappointed at what I can never become.

  I choke back a sob.

  My father moves toward me and I turn away, slamming my hip into the side of his desk. I cry out in pain. He grabs my wrist and twists. My elbow smacks the lamp. It crashes to the floor and breaks into pieces of wood and glass. I pull my arm back and take a wild swing at the air. My father tries to block the hit. His hand slips above me and slaps awkwardly against my cheek.

  “Lizbeth, stop!”

  I raise my fist again, and this time his block is successful. He grabs both of my hands and squeezes hard enough to make me flinch. My skin goes all tingly and numb. Bits of memory flash like strobe lights through my vision, bright, dull, bright, dull—

  Swipe.

  I grab the letter opener off his desk and raise it over my head. Swipe. I jab it into the side of his temple. Swipe. Swipe. Blood spurts, spurts, spurts from the hole. He turns toward me, eyes wide, mouth open—

  Swipeswipeswipe.

  “I think you should leave,” my father says, voice eerily calm. I search his face for blood, for some kind of injury, but there’s nothing more than the shell of the man he’s become since my mother’s death. It’s worse now that Emma’s gone. Maybe we’re all just empty shells.

  His eyes cloud with sadness and he shakes his head. Slowly he returns to his desk and slides into his chair. I can feel the weight of his frustration, his confusion, but I shrug it off. He sighs. “I wish . . .”

  I know what he wants—because they’re the same impossible dreams we both share. For Mom to come back. Fo
r Emma to be home. To turn back the clock to when things were different, simpler, to a time when Father loved us almost as much as he loved our mother, to when I was good enough. All the hateful things he has ever said come flooding back, and my knees buckle under the pressure.

  “Lizbeth, you killed the pigeons.”

  I can feel the color drain from my face.

  My father reaches into his desk drawer, grabs a handful of pictures, and tosses them across the surface. They skid to a stop in front of me. The images are grainy, printed off a computer rather than professionally processed. I pull one close, squinting.

  My head goes light. The picture is of me, standing in the barn loft, with a hatchet raised in the air. It’s probably just the way the camera light catches in my eyes, but I could swear they’re glowing red.

  “I took that off video footage,” he says, his voice cool as steel. A sickness curls in my stomach as I realize he’s put security cameras in the barn too. What else has he seen?

  “You can look at it if you want,” he says. “But it’s very graphic.”

  Hazy polka dots cloud my eyes. I blink, blink, blink, but they’re still there. Growing bigger and fatter, spreading across my vision like poison, a creeping, ominous gray that eventually . . .

  Fades to black.

  CHAPTER

  30

  I peer out the kitchen window, through the dust and grime, searching for the kind of light that only Bridget can bring.

  There’s no sign of her, and I worry she’s slipping through my fingers like fine grains of sand, distancing herself from me, my episodes, the ever-present sense of foreboding that cloaks this house in darkness.

  I nudge the blinds closed to avoid distraction and turn on the sink, rinsing my hands under hot water before I grate the lemons lined up neatly on the cutting board. Lemon loaf will lure Bridget back.

  Chef Emeril murmurs through the iPad tucked into the cupboard.

  From the cabinet on the opposite side I pull down the canister of flour, the baking powder, and salt. My throat hums out a familiar tune, and before I even find the measuring cups, my feet feel lighter. I grab the wooden spoon, twirl in a circle, and freeze.

  My distorted reflection shimmers through the microwave. I step closer, peering at myself in the glass. Even in the shadowy image, I can see the outline of a fresh bruise on my cheek. I’m sure that’s why Bridget left for the day. Why she needed a break.

  I shrug off my negative thoughts—they won’t bring Bridget back—and return to making Bridget’s lemon loaf.

  I’ve wanted to believe for so long that there is something inside of me so wretched that no one could love—it’s so much easier than accepting the truth—but then Bridget’s attention, her passionate affection, would be fake.

  I refuse to believe that.

  The grater scrapes against my knuckles and I pull back, shocked. My skin is torn, raw, flecked with blood. “Damn it,” I whisper. As soon as the curse even leaves my mouth, guilt punches me in the gut. It’s been weeks since I’ve gone to church. I’ve skipped Sunday school, the annual bake sale. I’ve even started to swear.

  I reach for the gold cross at my neck, but the chain is bare. How long has it been since I’ve worn it?

  Unexpected tears spring to my eyes and I shake them away. My strength in our Lord has always guided and soothed me, paved a path that is both devout and true. These past months have been difficult, each a test to strengthen my faith, not destroy it. Doubt is common, even natural, I would advise my students. There have just been so many distractions. . . .

  I imagine their eyes staring up at me with expectation. How many would notice the lie?

  Our Lord Jesus Christ has sacrificed for us, Father Buck would preach. What sacrifices are you willing to make?

  Bridget?

  No. I am not willing to sacrifice her.

  As I sift together the dry ingredients, my mind tiptoes through the coveted crevices of my memory, re-creating every tender moment we’ve shared. Her hand in mine as we walked the winding path through the Public Garden, her laughter, her tears, every subtle wink behind my stepmother’s back, hours spent in my bedroom playing the same games over and over. Twenty Questions, tic-tac-toe, Italian Rummy. A subtle touch as we pass each other in the hallway, a whispered joke in the dining room after Abigail has left the table. Bridget’s soft lips pressed against mine.

  My heart flutters. No, I am certainly not willing to sacrifice Bridget. She’s already shown me so much, taught me so much, already means—

  So much.

  If not Bridget, then perhaps it is my calling I’m willing to give up? For how can I serve a God who will not tolerate my love for Bridget?

  BAM! Emeril shouts at the screen, drawing my attention to another of his specialty meals. It’s roast beef, drizzled in dark chocolate and blue cheese, the picture on the screen so vivid I can almost smell the cocoa. Defeat settles on my shoulders. How will I ever be able to cook like this?

  I add in two eggs, a quarter cup of canola oil, and measure out the sugar. The scent of lemon tickles my nose, and I wriggle it while I stir, stir, stir, blending the ingredients until the mixture is smooth and pale.

  The sound of a vehicle outside makes my ears perk up. I creep over to the window and peer through the slats in the blinds. It’s too early for Abigail and my father to have returned from the city—another opportunity for Abigail to shop, for my father to complain. He’s been doing more of that lately, but last night, as I lay in bed listening to the hushed whispers of another argument, I heard my father mutter, “I should just sell this shit hole.”

  I hate this place, and I understand how a house can both absorb and exude pain, how memories can step through the floorboards and hang from the rafters as if in wait. But this is all I’ve ever known. A shudder slithers down my back.

  The red truck parked in front of the B and B is not familiar. Perhaps it belongs to the new handyman Father has hired? I crane my neck for a better view, but the doorbell buzzes, making me jump. My pulse skips.

  I wipe my hands on my apron and then, realizing it’s still stained with cow’s blood from the meat loaf, I untie it, and drape it over the counter, revealing an apron-shaped silhouette on my dress. I am covered in flour.

  The bell buzzes again, followed by a sharp rap.

  “I’m coming,” I call out, though there’s no way the person on the other side of the door can hear me. Quickly I walk down the hall, trying desperately to ignore the eyes that follow me from the pictures in the wall. Family I haven’t seen in years, some already dead, others just simply . . . gone.

  Everyone leaves.

  Abigail wants to rip these pictures down, and for once we’re in agreement.

  Three buzzes come in rapid succession and my patience snaps. I swing open the door.

  The man standing on the front step stares at me. Unblinking. At first I don’t recognize him—the crew cut, the loose-fitting coat. His stomach is fuller, and his close-cropped mustache is peppered with gray. Whatever resemblance this man shared with my mother no longer exists. “Uncle . . . John?”

  “Lizbeth,” he says with about as much warmth as a stranger.

  A bubble of anxiety bounces around in my gut. “What are . . . what are you doing here?”

  His gaze drops to the worn suitcase at his feet. The leather is faded, torn, and stained.

  “Oh,” I say, still confused.

  Upon closer inspection, I note that his slacks are faded too, and the collared shirt that hangs off his shoulders is soiled. There is even mud on his shoes.

  Our eyes meet, and in his, I find disdain. There may have been a time when Uncle John looked at me with kindness, but my mother’s death extinguished the light in his eyes, along with any affection he had for me. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him that I’m tempted to pinch myself.

  “I have business with Andrew,” he says.

  I am instantly on alert. The long-standing feud between Father and my uncle is a Borden legend. Mom
’s brother never understood why she’d married a man more attached to his wallet than his family, a man who believed women could never rise to any significant social status—but Uncle John never saw the good times, those authentic moments that bound us together then and make me desperately cling to hope that things will someday return to normal.

  That’s the trouble with people sometimes: they only hear what they want.

  “My father isn’t home,” I say, voice hardening.

  “He’s expecting me,” Uncle John says with another nod toward his suitcase. I consider calling my father to verify, but something holds me back.

  “You’ll be staying with us, then?” I lean up against the door frame, steadying myself, my hand pressed so tight against the wood that it’s gone translucent. I am a ghost.

  “Yes.”

  “Right.” I draw in a breath and bend to grab his suitcase, but he beats me to it, as if to remind me that I am not welcome to touch his things, like I’m somehow personally responsible for his misery, my mother’s death, the war that rages between our families. He’s always been angry at my father, but with the peacemaker gone, that hatred now extends to me.

  Much as I hate to admit it, the fact of that stings.

  I’d hoped things could be different. That maybe his sudden appearance after all these years was a symbol of positive change, rather than a harbinger of doom that hovers over his head like a storm cloud.

  Gathering myself, I stand taller, exuding a confidence I don’t feel. “Follow me to your room.”

  As he does, I sense his eyes on my back, burning through my dress. I imagine him cataloging my appearance, judging and criticizing. Once upon a time he would have complimented me, but it’s clear now I’m no different from a casual acquaintance. Regret tugs on my heartstrings. Why did our family fall apart?

  I take him to the smallest suite, where the pink duvet is faded like watered-down blood, the wallpaper peels like lemon rinds to reveal the dirty drywall beneath, and the carpet writhes with distant memories.

  “I see some things haven’t changed,” Uncle John says, his face pinched with disgust. “Your father is still the same old cheap son of a bitch.” Every cell in my body begs me to say something, but I’ve got no credible defense. Uncle John tsks. “When is he expected home?”