Lizzie Page 20

  My father wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Sweat drips from his forehead, where two strands of hair are stuck to his skin. His shirt hangs loosely out of his dress pants, both wrinkled and greased with my blood.

  A guttural roar erupts from my chest.

  My father delivers a backhand that splits open my lip.

  I turn my head in pain, and in my peripheral vision, I see Bridget go into a cupboard. She pulls out a glass vase and raises it high over her head. Tears stream down her cheeks. Her eyes are wide with shock, with anger. In this moment, I have no doubt she will use the vase to smash it over my father’s skull.

  The blow will be fatal.

  Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

  I blink away the image and scream, “Bridget, no!”

  Everyone freezes.

  My father tilts his head to the side, jaw slack. “Who the hell is Bridget?”

  CHAPTER

  36

  Bridget’s palm presses against my cheek, soothing the heat from a bruise that covers half my face. The skin is tender, but it is nothing compared to the sharp pain in my chest. A deep sense of foreboding turns my body numb.

  “He almost killed you this time,” she says. Her fingertips trail down to my neck and circle the marks imprinted on my flesh.

  I can’t focus on what she’s saying. My father’s question hums at the back of my skull. Who the hell is Bridget? I stare into Bridget’s eyes, needing to see myself reflected in her pupils. How could he not know who she is?

  The question brought an abrupt end to our fight, my father storming from the room, shaking his head and muttering about my mental state. I didn’t bother to call after him. The way things were going, it’s conceivable one of us may have truly ended up dead.

  “I was choking him too,” I say softly. My throat is swollen and sore, but it’s the least of my pains. My head hurts, my ribs hurt, everything hurts. Especially my heart. “I don’t understand his question.”

  Bridget averts her gaze and tends to another wound. She presses gauze up against my skull to clean off the blood.

  “Of course he knows who you are,” I push, needing to understand. “He pays you a monthly wage, for goodness’ sake.” My chuckle sounds hollow even to my own ears.

  “I keep to myself,” Bridget says softly. “It’s best to stay out of your father’s way.”

  Sure, but something still doesn’t feel right. My father had to be blinded by his rage, not thinking clearly or something. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

  Bridget tosses the gauze on the mattress next to the first aid kit. “You should be at a hospital,” she says, though we both know why I’m not. She folds her hands on her lap, twisting her thumbs together nervously. “Lizzie, I can’t live like this anymore.”

  The cold chill of rejection seeps under my skin.

  “And neither should you.”

  “We can run away,” I say, grasping to hold on to her. The words ping off her like they’ve hit armor. Her walls are up, and it’s already too late to claw my way back in. I should have acted sooner, figured out some way to crawl out from my father’s control.

  “Can we?” Her eyes search mine. It’s too intense, and I look away. My gaze falls on her backpack, puddled at the door of her bedroom, brimming with her personal belongings. I turn back and take in her attire. She wears the same skirt as when she first came to Fall River, and the scarf I love is wrapped around her throat. She’s leaving—already half-gone—and there’s nothing I can do or say to keep her. “Maybe we can leave this town, your parents, the memories of everything terrible that’s happened in the last few months, but . . .”

  She gathers her breath and exhales.

  I blink, knowing exactly what she’s going to say next.

  “It’s more than just this place,” she says. Her hand slides into mine, already lacking in warmth and comfort. It takes all my willpower not to pull away. “It’s not even the abuse—though I wish with all my being you’d tell someone about that. It still wouldn’t be enough.”

  I am not enough.

  She doesn’t say it aloud, but God’s voice whispers over my shoulder, reminding me of my broken vows, the sins I have committed for which I have yet to repent. I don’t deserve someone like Bridget. I am not worthy.

  I am tainted, damaged goods, just like Father has always said.

  “I’m not equipped to help you,” she adds carefully.

  My voice cracks. “Because you think I’m not well?”

  She blinks away a tear. “I saw you burn the diary, Lizzie. And the pigeons . . .” She swallows. “The hatchet was in your hand. You stole poison from Mr. Bentz.” She’s crying now, and I’m not sure whether to touch her or move away. “I’m not safe.”

  I open my mouth to tell her I’d never hurt her, but even I can’t make that kind of promise. It doesn’t matter if I’m guilty of the things she’s accused me of—Bridget believes it. Right now, that’s the only thing that matters.

  “I don’t think you’re safe either,” she says. Her lips curve into a sweet, sad smile. “And more than anything, I want that. I need that.”

  “Don’t go,” I whisper.

  Swipe.

  “Oh, Lizzie.” She presses her lips to my forehead. “I’m already gone.”

  A single teardrop falls along the bridge of my nose, pooling at the top of my swollen lip. The salt gets into the open wound. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing does.

  I’m numb to the pain.

  Everyone leaves.

  As I watch Bridget walk away, the rainbow backpack slung over her shoulder, I wait for her to turn and wave. To say good-bye just one last time. She doesn’t.

  My heart cracks, splits right in half, swirling the madness up through my chest, waiting to be unleashed. Swipe.

  A guttural roar of anguish is pulled from my chest. I bang against the window, trailing my fingernails against the glass like raindrops. She disappears from view, and my stepmother stands in her place, hands on her hips, staring up at me from the garden.

  Judging.

  Mocking.

  Swipe.

  This is her fault. And my father’s. It’s because of them that Bridget left.

  Everyone leaves.

  A web of pain crackles through my body, spreading like freezing water on a sidewalk. My abdomen cramps. I double over, gasping for breath.

  I press my palm against my pelvis and inhale. Breathe out.

  A wave of nausea hits me hard, and for a second I’m light-headed before—

  —swipe—

  Everything goes dark.

  CHAPTER

  37

  I am dying.

  Pain zigzags across my shoulder blades, along my spine. My abdomen is stretched out and bloated. Cramped.

  I try to lift my head, but it doesn’t move. It’s like I’m pinned down by bricks. The scent of blood is overwhelming. Coppery. Fresh. I’m steeped in it.

  Where am I?

  A steady pulse hammers against my skull. It’s fierce, unrelenting, the most powerful migraine I’ve ever felt. My world is dizziness. I curl my legs farther into myself, cradled in the fetal position, waiting for the light-headedness to pass.

  It doesn’t.

  Swipe.

  I peel open one eye. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, blinding me. I shut and reopen them. White spots form hazy polka dots in my vision. Get up. I push upward on my palms but fall back against the carpet. I’m too weak.

  My arms are like lead.

  Swipe. Swipe.

  I turn my cheek away from the window and scan the room for something, anything that I can prop myself up against. I try to call out, but words don’t come. My mouth is dry, pasty, thick with a metallic taste.

  A shadow in the corner catches my eye.

  At first I think it’s a pile of discarded laundry, Abigail’s dresses back from the dry cleaner. But of course, that doesn’t make sense. What are they doing in the guest suite? Why haven’t they been hung?

  Hea
t flushes my face. I need to get up.

  I prop myself up on my elbows, dizzied by a fresh wave of nausea. I press my lips together to stop from gagging and focus on the discarded clothes to shift my attention. I place my weight on my right elbow and drag myself forward, then to the left. Haul myself closer. My vision blurs around the edges, forms halos and tunnels. I keep dragging my body toward the pile of clothes.

  Abigail will be furious. I need to hang them, or get rid of them before she sees. Before she tells Father and I’m punished.

  Drag.

  Slide.

  Draaaag.

  Sliiiiiide.

  My body is slimy and heavy.

  Something doesn’t look right.

  Swipe.

  The mound is too small, too formed to be random. I squint and focus on it. Two stockinged legs protrude from the dress. I register the shoes, the designer labels on the underside of the heel, and my skin goes cold.

  “Abigail?” I croak.

  I slide closer, using my elbows to inch forward. I raise my knees to help with the effort. At first they don’t hold my weight. My heartbeat picks up speed. I’m on all fours now, crawling toward the bed. Abigail is slumped facedown on the floor and something is horribly wrong. My skin prickles with unease. Did she have a stroke? A heart attack?

  Adrenaline floods my veins and I come to my feet, walking closer when—

  I freeze.

  A red stain blooms around her like bathwater. It inches closer to the tip of my shoes. I take a step back. The scent of her blood hits me. I sway, almost knocked over. I steady myself on a chair. “No, no . . .” I barely recognize the words coming out of me. It’s as though I’m possessed. I creep closer, one hand across my chest, the other at my mouth. I want to close my eyes to block whatever comes next, but it’s too late.

  Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

  I see the bone fragments first, small pieces that pepper the floor where her head once lay. There’s almost nothing left of it now—the back of her skull is almost entirely missing, as though it’s been bashed in. Bits of brain and bone blanket the floral wallpaper, and blood splatter covers the walls in elongated, angry slashes, mixed with patches of matted hair. I step forward and something squishes under my foot. I lift my shoe. A clump of . . . brain.

  My mouth opens to scream, but vomit spews out. I catch it in the curtain of my dress. It runs like drool down my face. I stop it from running onto the floor. Even its rotted stench can’t compete with Abigail’s blood. I have never seen so much—

  Swipeswipeswipe.

  The image of Abigail’s corpse doesn’t disappear.

  I reach for the dresser to steady myself, not trusting my balance to stand. My gut twists into knots. I want to look away, but I’m transfixed by the horror, somehow disbelieving it could be real at all.

  My voice drops to a whisper. “Abigail?”

  She can’t answer. Will never speak again. Somewhere in the back of my mind that fact resonates with the kind of thrill that makes my blood boil with fresh guilt. I drop to my knees and begin to sob. “Abigail . . .” My cries go louder until I’m able to shout. “Abigail!” My voice echoes between the walls.

  I drag my eyes from her bloody body and stand. My fingers and toes have gone numb, my heartbeat barely stutters. There are things I must do. Call the police. Tell my father . . .

  Dear Lord, my father. What will he do?

  Anguish overcomes me, and it’s enough to force me to turn away. I stumble to the hallway, images of Abigail’s battered skull pulsing in my vision. My fingers wrap around the banister as I take tentative steps down the stairs. My legs are weak, my body limp.

  Who is responsible for this?

  There’s no murder weapon in sight. My mind flits through the inventory of the room. Is it possible I missed something? I shake my head. The police will find it. They will sort this out.

  My ankle rolls a little, and I lose balance, almost fall. My hand clings to the banister and I breathe deep. In. Out. In. I tamp back the nausea threatening to cause a blackout.

  I wet my lips, cool to the touch. You can do this. I work through the steps. Turn at the landing. Walk down the hall to the sitting room. Pick up the phone. Everything moves in slow motion, each step, each thought. I’m a dead woman walking.

  No, that isn’t right.

  I’m alive.

  Abigail is dead.

  Murdered.

  The back of her skull literally bashed in.

  Swipe.

  A sob of anguish erupts from somewhere deep inside my chest. I shuffle to the sitting room and almost fall through the door. I hang on to the frame to steady my balance. I lift my chin and he’s there. Father.

  Sleeping on the couch.

  He looks so peaceful I don’t know how to wake him, how to tell him this news. But as I walk toward him, I’m hit by another wave of the same metallic scent. Blood, seeping through the vents, filling the house. Vomit rushes up my esophagus, but this time I push it back down. I must be strong for Father.

  He’ll need me now.

  “Daddy?”

  I move closer, steady and slow.

  His head is tilted to the side, shadowed by the shade of the curtains. In the back of my mind it registers that he shouldn’t be home yet—it’s not even noon—but I keep moving forward, drawing courage for what I must do.

  The smell of blood is overwhelming. I can’t get the image of Abigail’s skull out of my mind. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

  I blink and her corpse disappears, but it’s replaced by a new horror. My heart is like a pump, pounding a scream from my chest. My father, the left side of his head gone. Chopped right in half. I slump to my knees and lift my head to stare at what’s left of his face. Fresh blood still drips from the wound and pools on the expensive Persian rug beneath the sofa.

  Drip. Drip.

  Drip.

  I reach out to touch his skin, still warm.

  My gaze drops to the floor and a scream so animalistic I don’t recognize it erupts from my chest. Amid the blood—so much blood—bone fragments, hair, and pieces of brain, is my father’s eyeball, practically sliced in half.

  In death, he stares at me with accusation.

  CHAPTER

  38

  Reporters and bystanders surge to the crumbling stoop of the courthouse like blood cells coagulating at the site of a wound. I stand between my lawyers, shielding my face from their judgmental stares. Across the street, a group of kids play jump rope, their melodic chant seeping under my skin.

  “Lizzie Borden took an ax,” they sing, “and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.”

  Their song echoes long after we enter the courtroom and I am seated before a jury of twelve men, and a judge whose nameplate reads DEWEY. He peers at me through glasses, expression stern and disgusted, as though guilt radiates from my soul.

  My eyes are drawn to the side of the court, where pictures of my stepmother and father dangle from an evidence board. Their inanimate eyes follow me, just as they have in my dreams, and in the waking hours since their death. Below the board is a small table, where their skulls sit on display, as though at a museum.

  The left eye socket on my father’s is missing. Light shines through the gaping hole in the back of Abigail’s—jagged bone fragments casting shadows on the wooden surface of the table.

  My head goes light and I cup my mouth with trembling fingers.

  Swipe.

  I stand over my stepmother, hands raised, the hatchet heavy in my grip. Swipe. My arms swing downward. Swipe. Swipe. Blood sprays across my face, my skin—

  Swipeswipeswipe.

  An electric current of unease rockets through me.

  I did not kill them.

  How could I have done something so horrible?

  I stand firm in my denial, and still their corpses are all over me, their decay and sadness in the grooves of my thumbprints and gummed up in my mouth. They reek of evil and of loss, creeping out of
memory and back into life. Over and over and over—

  Judge Dewey clears his throat, raps his gavel on the lectern. The room silences, but the children’s voices float through the window, the words of their rhyme adding fertilizer to the seed of doubt pitted at the bottom of my stomach.

  “Counselor,” the judge says, addressing my lawyer. “Does your client wish to enter a plea at this time?”

  He nods toward me, and I fumble with the hem of my dress, and then stand.

  “Miss Borden, you have been charged with murder of your father, Andrew Borden, and your mother, Abigail Borden. Do you have anything to say?”

  My fingers tremble. “Abigail is not my mother.”

  Judge Dewey clears his throat again. “Miss Borden, do you have anything to say about the brutal murders of your father, Andrew, and your stepmother, Abigail?”

  The voice that speaks is hardly my own. “I am innocent,” I say, and a murmur ripples through the crowd. “I leave it to my counsel to speak for me.”

  Mr. Jennings squeezes my hand as I sit, but it’s as though antifreeze bleeds into my veins. I’m as cold as snow. Numb with shock and sadness.

  My lawyer stands. “A young woman who led an honorable life has been accused of a shocking crime,” he says. “You do not have to decide how this brutal deed was done or who did it at all. All you must decide is whether it can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Lizbeth Andrew Borden is guilty. If you cannot do that, you cannot take her life.”

  I turn in my seat and scan the crowd. The room is packed, filled with unfamiliar faces, and of those I’ve known my whole life, too. Mr. Bentz is there, along with Father Buck. Neither of them will look at me.

  Mr. Jennings begins to refute the evidence mounted against me.

  I am too small, too frail, to wield a hatchet. I lack the strength to slice into my stepmother’s head with nineteen whacks—not forty as the schoolchildren sing—and then drag my lithe form down the hall to deliver another eleven—not forty-one—blows to my father’s skull. The blood from that would cover me, and I was not covered in blood, Mr. Jennings says.