Lizzie Read online

  Anything.

  Even if it means facing my father.

  I breathe in, my hand hovering on the handle. Exhale. I decide to knock, out of respect, to maybe start him off in a good mood. He doesn’t answer at first, so I knock again, this time a little harder. “Dad?”

  He doesn’t respond. I open the door wide enough to peer inside his study. The desk light above his rolltop shines over his head, making the gray in his hair silvery and metallic. He seems older every day.

  It should make me sad, but this sign of weakness gives me strength.

  “Do you think we could talk?”

  He looks up from his papers, and there’s a beat of confusion, like he doesn’t know who I am. Whatever work he’s engrossed in has him kind of zoned out. I might be able to use that to my advantage too.

  “Dad?”

  He blinks, and his annoyance is instant. His brow creases over, and his lip turns down into a scowl. “What is it, Lizbeth? I’m very busy.”

  I step tentatively into the room. My father’s study is the most eccentric room in the house, filled with trinkets and antiques, gifts from clients and his peers. He may not be the most well-liked man in Fall River, but he commands respect. Even if it’s by intimidation. As the owner of one of the most prominent banks in the state as well as the local undertaker, he holds the financial fate of thousands of people in his hand.

  I can’t imagine what it might be like to be that powerful—or feared.

  “Can we talk?” My voice is soft, a little reminiscent of my mother’s. Whether that’s to my advantage or not is a fifty-fifty chance. “There’s something I need to tell you. Ask you.”

  My admittance to Le Cordon Bleu comes with a full scholarship, but I can’t go without his blessing. I’ll get a job in Boston, and Bridget will help out when she can, I think. If I can just convince my father that I’m able to make it on my own . . .

  I chew on my lip.

  “If this is about money, don’t bother. We’re about to be officially broke.”

  It’s not quite an invitation, but I take the seat in front of his desk anyway. Paperwork covers the surface. Bank notes. Legal jargon. I’m too far away to read the fine print, and asking about it is pointless. Father doesn’t talk business with me.

  On the wall behind him, my father’s awards, commendations, and framed certificates form two parallel lines. They’re hung exactly two inches apart, centered on the wall with painful precision. The last remnants of my mother’s desire for perfection. Abigail has destroyed that in every other room of the house.

  My father scratches his signature on a piece of paper and sets it aside. I catch the name of our Realtor on the top. It’s not uncommon for my father to deal with mortgages, rentals, and foreclosures, but he doesn’t normally work so late into the night.

  My pulse thrums.

  I shift in my seat, trying for a better view, but the overhead lamp casts all kinds of weird shadows that make the letters impossible to read. My father folds his thick hands on his desk and stares at me. I’m obviously intruding.

  “What is it, Lizbeth?”

  I gather my courage. “Is everything okay? You seem . . . distracted.”

  He blows out a huff. “We’re being sued, Lizbeth, for a ridiculous amount of money.”

  I blink. “Sued? By who?”

  He gestures toward the stack of paperwork. “About a dozen of these town pricks.”

  My father hates losing money. He’s frugal, calculating, a shrewd businessman at his core. The result is a growing list of enemies. I’ve heard the whispers at church, the way some of the locals stare at him with contempt.

  “Never mind,” he says. “You obviously came in here for something.” His lips turn into a sneer. “Spit it out, then. I haven’t got all day.”

  Carefully, I withdraw the crumpled envelope from my pocket and set it on his desk. I use my palms to flatten it, tracing my fingertips over the return address, still not convinced I’ve really, truly been accepted. I haven’t even told Bridget yet—I’m going to surprise her with dinner, and if things go well with Father, I’ll go to her with a plan.

  A way to take us both away from here.

  A chance to be totally free.

  My lips form a smile, and my chest inflates, filling with pride.

  My father takes the envelope and holds it up to the light. “What’s this?” He reads the lettering on the envelope. “Culinary school?”

  I nod, grinning wildly.

  He snorts. “Don’t even bother applying,” he says. “You’ll never get in.”

  The words set my confidence back a step, but I hold my chin high. Still smiling, I say, “I’ve already been accepted. That’s the letter, right there. Read it.”

  He blinks, as though disbelieving, and then unfolds the paper, manhandling it with such force I’m sure he’ll tear it in half. I hold my breath and watch his eyes skim back and forth. His expression is unreadable, but the tips of his ears have started to turn red.

  I can feel the dread begin to uncoil from my chest.

  My father crumples the letter into a ball and tosses it into the garbage at the foot of his desk. I cup my hand against my mouth to trap the scream of protest. My heart is on fire, burning me from the inside out.

  “You’re not leaving the B and B, Lizbeth,” my father says firmly, stiffly. “We need you here. This is your home.”

  Prison.

  “We could hire a new cook,” I say hopefully. His eyes darken. “Even for just a little while. I could go to school and work here in the summers. . . .”

  My father shakes his head. “This isn’t a gourmet restaurant, Lizbeth. The food you prepare is fine.”

  “I don’t want it to be fine.” My voice is strained. “I want it to be good. Great.” Brilliant. “This place, this life, isn’t enough for me anymore.” I want to be someone—the kind of person who follows her dreams and chases new adventures. Someone more like Bridget.

  My father’s eyes darken. “Some girls would be grateful for what they have.”

  I swallow hard. “I want more.”

  He shuffles the paperwork on his desk. “Get used to disappointment. I can’t afford the tuition.”

  “My tuition is paid by the scholarship,” I say. “I’ll get a job to pay for expenses.”

  “You have a job, and I can’t afford to replace you. Not now.”

  “But—”

  My father slaps his hand on the desk with a resounding thwack. “That’s enough, Lizbeth,” he says, his voice rising to a yell. “You’re staying at the B and B and that’s final.”

  My lip quivers. “And if I leave anyway?”

  “I wouldn’t advise that, Lizbeth.” He regards me with cool, hard eyes. “You won’t make it out in the world alone, not with your sickness.” He blows out a deep, cold breath. “And you’ll leave me with no choice but the alternative.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  Abigail slams the carton of milk on the countertop. Frothy liquid sloshes out the side and onto the polished granite. What the—? I turn so she can’t see me scowl, and head to the sink for a dishrag and run some hot water.

  I should be used to this routine.

  Abigail’s moods have become increasingly darker over the past few days. Maybe it’s because I’m not letting her push my buttons. Despite what my father says, I’m not giving up—I’m getting out of this place. With Bridget at my side, I can do anything.

  I spin around, a smile plastered on my face, dishrag raised high with enthusiasm. But my expression falters under Abigail’s smug grin. Something is up. Something beyond her usual brand of awful, and a shiver of fear trickles down between my shoulder blades.

  “What is it, Abigail?”

  “You’ve been lying again, Lizbeth.” She is in full show mode now, taunting me. Parading her evil like a runway model. “And this time I have proof.”

  I snag the milk carton and shove it in the fridge behind a two-liter of cherry Coke. Soda isn’t allowed in th
e B and B—another of Abigail’s ridiculous rules—and for an instant, I wonder if that’s what she’s going on about.

  But her face is too smug, her expression too devilish for this to be about whatever contraband she’s found hidden in the kitchen, and I worry that she’s chosen now to reveal what she knows about me and Bridget. I steel myself for confrontation.

  “I know about the poison under the cabinet,” she says, tracing her fingernail against the granite countertop, tap, tap, tapping it in slow succession. My back goes rigid, but I don’t give in. Father knows I bought the cyanide too. What’s her angle?

  Ripping my apron off the hook behind the door, I put it around my waist and tie it behind my neck. “We had rats.”

  “In the barn?” Abigail says, her eyes flashing with amusement.

  “Yes, the barn,” I say, voice clipped.

  “Where you slaughtered the pigeons?”

  I grip the edge of the sink with both palms while my stomach twists and churns.

  Abigail throws her head back and cackles. “I saw the video footage.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re quite the little demon child, aren’t you?”

  Cold dread washes over me. I expected Father would tell Abigail about what I have done, but the consequences of those actions are starting to become crystal clear. With this footage, Abigail has exactly what she needs to convince the authorities that I’m not well.

  Rage thunders through me, a weak attempt to deflect my fear. “Just say it.” Heat flushes across my cheeks. “Get whatever it is off your chest and leave, Abigail. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do,” she says.

  I hate the sound of her voice, laced with innuendo. My eyes flit to the sink, where a bread knife teeters on the edge of a cutting board, the points of its serrated edge glistening like fangs. I could grab it, run its jagged blade across my stepmother’s throat, and stop her from talking right this second. Lord knows I’m tempted.

  Bile rises up from my esophagus and I blink away the horrible thought.

  What the hell is going on with me?

  “I know you were in my bedroom,” Abigail says now. Her voice scratches across my temples, creating grooves in my skin that pulse with pain. “You may have convinced your father otherwise, but I know you took the antique watch.” She leans across the counter, inching closer to me. Her breath reeks like rotting flesh. “Didn’t you?”

  A shiver of revulsion traipses down my spine. “You stole my mother’s things.”

  The watch is still stuffed in my cardigan pocket, hanging from a hanger in my closet. Hidden in plain sight, almost taunting Abigail with its presence. I’ll give it back if she returns my mother’s necklace and crocheted doily, but not one second sooner. No matter how many times my father tries to beat it out of me.

  “That watch belonged to my grandfather,” she says.

  I chew on my lip. I haven’t admitted anything, though I haven’t denied it either. This is the kind of lie Father Buck might preach about in a sermon. A fib by omission is still a sin. I add it to the mental list of things that I someday may have to confess—if I were ever planning to go back to church.

  Catholic guilt hangs over me like a heavy cloud, probably always will. But I just keep thinking of Bridget as my silver lining and it lessens some of the weight. I have to believe she’ll be enough.

  “You’ve been a bad girl, Lizbeth.”

  I wish I could spit in her smug face.

  My heart thumps too fast, making my breath catch. Abigail mistakes it for fear, and her laugh grates under my skin. “Get out of my kitchen,” I say, mustering as much force as I can manage.

  She stands. “I know all your secrets, Lizbeth. Every last one.” She creeps closer and lowers her voice. “Even the one you think you’ve told no one else about. . . .”

  My pulse thrums with dread. I don’t know for sure what she knows about Bridget, what she’s seen or what she’s heard. But even a little is too much. Because if—when—she tells my father, it’s over. The actual end. He’ll send her away, lock me in this prison forever—or have me committed.

  I am not okay with any of those options.

  “What do you think you know, Abigail?”

  My hand slides to the knife. Her eyes flick to the sink. She takes a step back, holding her hand up to her chest. “Oh my,” she says. “You really are losing it, aren’t you?”

  I grip the knife in my fist.

  “Put it down, Lizbeth,” she says. The slight tremor in her voice betrays her fear. For a brief moment, I am empowered. In control. “Put the knife away before your father gets home,” she says, holding up a hand.

  But there’s no time for that, because at that instant, I hear him storm through the front door, and he’s mad as hell.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Lizbeth!”

  My father’s voice booms down the hallway and into the kitchen. The force of it is so intense, my knees knock together. Whatever strength I had going into this day is obliterated. Gone.

  “Uh-oh,” Abigail says, regathering her confidence with my father’s impending presence. Her heroic knight, swooping in to save the day. “I guess I’m not the only one who knows you’ve lied.”

  “Stop saying that.” My voice is panicked, paranoid. I have so much to hide that I’m thinking the worst. Does my father know about Bridget somehow? Or is his anger rooted in something much more ominous? Has he spoken to Father Buck? Good Lord, does he know that I ran off to Boston with my girlfriend? The lump in my throat swells to the size of a grapefruit.

  My father’s shadow looms at the threshold of the kitchen. I clutch the dishrag and squeeze. Water drips down my wrist and hits the floor. I want to go with it, to slide under the tiles and avoid whatever wrath Father has planned.

  “Lizbeth!”

  “I’m in here!” I shout, though it’s little more than a squeak, because fear has my voice in a stranglehold. “Here,” I say again, somehow louder, with more authority. I can do this. Face the consequences of my actions. I have to.

  It’s the only way Bridget and I can ever be free.

  My father fills the doorway, his face menacing, posture rigid with anger.

  “I have had enough of your lies,” he thunders. “I just spoke with Father Buck.”

  My stomach bottoms out. I hold my breath, afraid to talk, to move even one single inch.

  He doesn’t need to continue—I already anticipate what he’s about to say. The priest has told him that I did not attend the church retreat as promised. That I was not on that bus, didn’t sing “Kumbaya” around a campfire, or practice scripture until my brain hurt. I did not “get over” my unsanctioned feelings, did not resist temptation.

  I succumbed to sin.

  Forgive me, Father.

  In this moment, I’m not sure from which “father” I beg forgiveness. I hold my chin high, anticipating the backhand that always comes when I’ve disobeyed him.

  “Where were you? When you should have been at church—” His mouth twists into an evil smirk. “Where. Were. You?”

  I want to tell—to confess all of it to him, to Father Buck, to whoever will listen. But damn it, I’m too much a coward, even now. I wrap my arms around my chest to ward off the chill that creeps into my bones, knowing somehow that this is the end.

  There is no going back from this.

  “I asked you a question, Lizbeth.”

  I open my mouth, but the voice that comes out is not my own.

  “She was with me . . . ,” it says.

  Swipe.

  Bridget cowers behind my father, her eyes wide with fear. It happens so fast I don’t know what to think, feel. I brace myself by holding on to the counter, sure I’m about to have an episode. . . . I struggle to contain it. Stuff it deep inside my stomach, hidden from . . .

  Swipe. Swipe.

  Vomit rushes into my mouth, bringing with it a rush of anxiety. The madness seeps through my lips, spilling out with heart-pounding speed.


  My father doesn’t turn to Bridget’s voice. He’s too angry. Focused. He stares at me with anger and my knees knock together with fear. He’s cartoon-character mad—steam spitting from his ears, skin red as an overripe tomato. His forehead is beaded with sweat.

  “You lied,” he says again, and I can almost see the spittle fly from his mouth when he says it.

  Behind him, Bridget lifts her chin, stands taller. I’d be proud if I wasn’t scared. Holy shit am I scared, because my father is not a nice man. I’m no match for him in this state, and neither is Bridget.

  Save her.

  I charge toward my father, who turns to avoid a crash. I fling myself onto his back. My feet dig into his rib cage and I hang on to his neck as he whirls around in an attempt to shake me. My back hits the kitchen cupboard. Dishes rattle. A sharp pain races up my spine.

  In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Abigail, one hand at her throat. The other is dangerously close to a knife by the sink.

  I squeeze my father’s neck tighter, terrified I might choke him to death, terrified I can’t—won’t—let go. He jerks to the left and my head knocks against the ceiling fan. A strand of my hair tangles in the whirling blade and is ripped from my scalp. I yelp but keep hanging on, desperate not to let him win. There is shouting around me. Bridget. Abigail. Their voices blur into white noise.

  “For God’s sake, Lizbeth,” my father says through gritted teeth. “You’re going to bloody well kill me.”

  Shocked, my grip loosens. My limbs slacken, if only for a split second.

  He takes advantage of the moment to fling me off his back. I land on the floor with a thud, already feeling the bruise that will spread from the bottom of my thigh to the top of my hip. Blood fills my mouth from where my teeth have punctured my lip.

  I scramble toward him, crawling on all fours, and dive at his ankle. He sidesteps out of the way, and my fist punches into the table leg. A bolt of electric pain zigzags up my arm. I don’t stop. I keep crawling forward, yanking my leg free of Abigail’s fingers curled around my ankle. She grunts. I don’t look back.