Lizzie Page 22

  I slam the scrapbook shut and toss it at the wall. It bounces back and knocks over the end table. A series of photographs scatter across the carpet. I flip through them, heart beating, looking for images of Bridget—there’s me in the field, me with a daisy in my hair, me with a smile on my face, me, me, ME! A dozen or more selfies, taken at just the right angle to hide my imperfections and flaws.

  I’m in Boston, alone on the swan boat. At the diner, eating a burger. My stomach roils with denial. There’s a picture of Le Cordon Bleu, the hotel room, even the café where I met Emma.

  Where are the pictures of Bridget? Of me and Bridget?

  Where are the memories she captured on film?

  My throat feels raw.

  I stand and go to the window to peer out at the barn. The rotting slats of the wood look more decrepit now, as though they’ve metamorphosed over the summer, turned into something haunting and eerie and surreal.

  The echo of pigeons chirping tap, tap, taps against my skull. They peck at my eye sockets, through my flesh until they hit bone. A guttural sob erupts from within me and shakes the windowpane.

  I slap my palm against the glass. Once. Twice. Flattening my hand against my distorted reflection. Pain trails along my wrist, but I hit the window a third time. No matter how hard I hit, it won’t break.

  I am already broken.

  Tears stream down my face. “Bridget!”

  She can’t hear me.

  She’s not here.

  Not anywhere.

  Swipe.

  I spin on my heel, surveying the empty room where we once lay, looking through photographs, dreaming of travel, counting stars through the open blinds. Someone should have told me not to fall for a girl with stars in her eyes—they blinded me, like a deer caught in headlights.

  Could I truly have been so blind that I’m unable to see the truth?

  Vomit spills out my mouth and onto the floor. I dip my finger into it, a hot, sticky mess, and drag it into the carpet, swirling the watery mixture into letters and symbols. Bridget. Hearts. Broken hearts. I stand and grind my toes into the rug. It mixes with blood, feces, wine wedging under my toenails.

  Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

  My heart explodes into tiny shards of glass. I pick at them. Stab my arm with tiny pinholes that draw blood. My blood.

  I lick my wrists, coating my tongue in the copper-scented liquid, until my mouth is full and I can hardly swallow. I drag my arms across the bedspread, imagining Bridget’s body there, but even her imprint on the bedspread is gone. The sheets smell stale, a hint of Isla’s lavender perfume lingering under my nose.

  Scratch. Scratchy, scratch.

  Swipe.

  I spin around, listening for the source of the grating sound. It grows louder, more insistent. I can’t find the source. I open and close the closet door, searching for the insect or rodent scratch, scratch, scratching. Isla’s uniform hangs at the back of the closet, her name tag crooked on the pinafore. I yank it off the hanger and scrunch it into a ball.

  The scratch comes again.

  I slither on my stomach, Isla’s shirt still gathered in my hand, and peer under the bed for the monster that won’t

  Shut

  Up.

  Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  There is nothing but darkness.

  Emptiness.

  Scratch. Scratchy, scratch.

  I cover my ears, but it doesn’t block the sound. It pulses against my temples. Scratch. STOP! Scratch. “STOP! Please, God, stop!” But my words mean nothing to a God that no longer believes in me.

  A God I no longer believe in myself.

  Scratch. Scratchy, scratch.

  Swipe.

  I pull open the dresser drawers, pawing at the emptiness inside. I slam the top drawer shut. Open the second. Nothing but a handful of loose change, a gray Star Wars sweatshirt, and two pairs of black underwear rolled into a ball. The name written on the inside waistband is ISLA.

  Fresh grief hits me like a cold wave. There is no Bridget. She was nothing more than a twisted manifestation of my madness, a hallucination, a mirage.

  Scratch.

  Scratchy, scratch.

  What is that fucking noise?

  Goose bumps rise like the hair on the back of my neck. A tingle runs through to my bones. Clackety, clack, clack. Desperate, I yank open the bottom drawer and suck in a sharp gasp at what I find. My heart leaps into my throat. It isn’t possible, and yet—

  I blink, blink, blink. It’s still there.

  Swipe.

  I pinch my arm, digging my fingernails into my flesh, hard enough to draw blood.

  Swipe.

  A monarch butterfly begins to flutter in my chest, and I drop to my knees. Tears cloud my vision, but through the mist, I still see it.

  The sun, the moon and stars, the whole constellation—Bridget’s scarf—carefully coiled into the shape of a heart.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  “Lizzie Borden took an ax

  and gave her mother forty whacks.

  When she saw what she had done,

  she gave her father forty-one.”

  Shortly before noon on August 4, 1892, the body of Andrew Borden, a prominent businessman, was found in the parlor of his Fall River, Massachusetts, home. Hours later, police discovered the body of his wife, Abigail Borden, in an upstairs bedroom. A week later Andrew’s youngest daughter, Lizzie, was arrested for the double murder.

  In an era where women were considered the weaker sex, and female murderers were far less common, the trial—and Lizzie’s quick acquittal—sparked a media frenzy and a stream of theories and speculations that continue to fester even today, more than 125 years after the horrific crimes were committed.

  As is the case with many historic mysteries, there are more theories than truths, and Lizzie Borden’s story has been the source of much creative inspiration, tracing back to the origins of that haunting nursery rhyme so many of us seem to know by heart.

  The author of the rhyme took some creative liberties, of course—forensic evidence shows that Andrew Borden was killed with ten or eleven blows, not forty-one, and Abigail nineteen, versus the forty sung by schoolchildren skipping rope. The murder weapon was actually a hatchet, but obviously “ax” sounded better in the rhyme.

  I’ve taken some creative liberties with my story as well. So how much of what you read is real? Quite a bit, though I admit, researching this story led me down some interesting and conflicting rabbit holes.

  Do I think Lizzie Borden killed her parents? I can’t answer that, even now.

  But what I have been able to discern is that neither Abigail nor Andrew were well liked in Fall River. Andrew, a successful undertaker and banker, was worth about ten million dollars in today’s money, but he was frugal—perhaps to a fault. The house they lived in didn’t even have proper plumbing, though it did have—for its time—a state-of-the-art security system. Andrew was reportedly a very paranoid man.

  It’s also known that Lizzie did not like her stepmother and in later years took to calling her “Mrs. Borden,” or “ma’am.” Both labels infuriated Abigail.

  The Borden family was quite religious and attended church often. Lizzie served as a Sunday school teacher and was active in many religious organizations. She is described as being shy, kind, and family-oriented.

  It’s true that Lizzie had a medical condition that affected her menstrual cycle, and her mental health was often questioned. But of course, I’ve exaggerated these facts for the purpose of fiction. It’s also been hinted at, though not proven, that her father was physically abusive, and that she was attracted to women. Lizzie never married, but after her acquittal, she was rumored to have been in a relationship with an actress.

  Obviously that was not Bridget.

  Lizzie had a fondness for animals, and it’s true that she harbored pigeons in the barn behind the house. The pigeons were found dead in the barn, though no one ever took credit for the crime—killed because they ate the pears, which ups
et Lizzie’s stepmother because she loved pear pies.

  Several days before the murders, Lizzie tried to buy prussic acid from a local store owner—Eli Bentz—but he refused to sell it to her. That same poison was responsible for a bout of food poisoning Abigail and Andrew suffered after eating Lizzie’s infamous meat loaf, but Mr. Bentz’s testimony was not admissible in court. It’s probably a good thing for Lizzie that he couldn’t testify, since she repeatedly stole from him, a fact her father covered by simply paying off her debt each month.

  Lizzie also loved to cook. Her meat-loaf recipe is on display in Fall River at 92 Second Street, her former house, which has been turned into the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast and Museum. Guests can tour the property, watch an actual dramatization of the events, stay overnight in the bedrooms originally occupied by Lizzie, Emma, and their parents, and even enjoy the same breakfast the family shared on the morning of August 4, 1892.

  And then there’s Bridget.

  Bridget Sullivan was hired to be the Borden maid at the time of the murders, and while I have completely fabricated much of her backstory in Lizzie, it’s well-accepted that Lizzie and her sister shared a fondness for her, even nicknaming her Maggie.

  The remaining details are less clear. As I wrote this book, the story seemed to drive its own narrative, and the lines between fact and fiction became far less clear. It’s possible—probable, even—that I’ve blurred these lines for you, but I hope that regardless, you’ve enjoyed my interpretation of one of America’s oldest unsolved mysteries.

  If there’s anything I didn’t include here that you’re curious about, fact or fiction, please feel free to ask. You can find me at dawnius.com or via Twitter @dawnmius.

  Thank you so much for reading.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Even before I’d finished writing Anne & Henry, my good friend and brilliant illustrator, James Grasdal, sat across from me at Starbucks and while innocently doodling, asked, “So, which kick-ass female from history will you write about next?”

  He suggested Lizzie Borden. And only seconds after agreeing, I got a lump in my throat—how the hell was I supposed to do that?

  As always, James, you challenge and inspire me. Thank you for your unwavering support not only on this book, but in all things—and especially for planting the seed that became Lizzie.

  Obviously, that seed has required some nurturing.

  Massive, gargantuan thanks to Agent Awesome, Mandy Hubbard—who knows damn well I am crying as I write this—for championing not only this idea, but me, the writer, the person, the dreamer. I can’t imagine this journey without you in my corner and I am grateful every day for all that you have taught, and continue to teach me. I love you.

  To my amazing editor, Jennifer Ung. Thank you for “getting” my vision for this book, and for not firing me when I turned in a shaky first, second, and maybe third draft. You forced me to dig deep for this, to work harder than I knew I was capable of, and because of you, Lizzie is the book I wanted to write. Your patience, diligence, and belief is appreciated beyond measure. So much love.

  Thank you also to Sarah Creech, who designed a more creepy and beautiful cover than I could have imagined, and to my production editor, Chelsea Morgan, and my copyeditor, Valerie Shea, whose unbelievable diligence saved me much embarrassment and from a lot (a lot!) of ridiculous throat- and chest-tightening moments. As a young girl, my dream was to be an author for Simon & Schuster (yes, that specifically)—thank you to the entire Pulse team for making that dream come true, for the third time!

  I could not have written this book without my amazing sister, Dr. Jessica Driscoll, whose expertise helped to inform the difficult scenes in which Lizzie struggles with her mental health, and whose steadfast love and support are a beacon of light in even the murkiest waters. You are the best sister and friend anyone could ask for, and I’m so glad you’re mine.

  A huge debt of thanks to my critique partner and friend, Kitty Keswick, who powered through many revisions of this, despite having no “Nick” to crush on. I don’t deserve you.

  Much love and thanks also to Nancy Traynor, Lee Bross, Rocky Hatley, Megan Lally, Jennifer Park, Kyle Kerr, and Kimberley Gabriel for reading this in various stages of completion. I cherish your feedback and friendship.

  To Jamie Provencal for venting, coffee, and pep talks—you’ll always be my IR whether you like it or not. Huge hugs to Sue Worobetz for your steadfast support, and for helping me celebrate the milestones. To Matt and Bernadette Tracy for your amazing friendship—and for always displaying my books face out on your shelf. Kate Cosgrove, your love and support grounds me. Thank you for all you do and continue to do. Simone Demers-Collins, your belief in me is astounding. I look forward to many coffee dates going forward.

  A special thank-you to Karen Dyck, who practiced extraordinary patience as I wrote this book—Lizzie is for you, my dear. (Hope it’s creepy enough. Nah, who am I kidding? Nothing is . . . but I’m trying!)

  As always, I thank my mentors Gary Braver, Steve Berry, James Rollins, and Jacqueline Mitchard for believing in me when I didn’t, and who taught me to write often, write tight, and write well. I am forever in your debt.

  Of course, I could not do this without my extraordinary family (the one I was born with and the one I was lucky enough to be married into)—thank you. I know I can be scatterbrained, anxious, busy, and forgetful, but I love you all very much and appreciate your support.

  Thank you, Mom, for reminding me always that “imagination is more important than knowledge.” Dad, I’m quite certain you will hate this book, but I know you’ll still be proud, and that’s awesome enough.

  To my sweet Nona, whose light on earth burnt out this year. I love you, and I hope you’re up there making sure Nono isn’t still cheating at cards. Give him and Grandma Ruth a huge hug for me, please.

  And of course, to my two beautiful stepdaughters, Aydra and Hailey, who make me laugh (and cry), and inspire me to work hard and be someone they can be proud of.

  Last, but never least, to my husband. I have no fancy metaphors this time, no clever ways of saying how much I love and appreciate you, Jeff. Quite simply, you are my soul mate, my lifeline . . . my everything. I love you. Always.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dawn Ius is the author of Anne & Henry and Overdrive. When she’s not slaying fictional monsters, she can be found geeking out over things like true love and other fairy tales, Jack Bauer, sports cars, Halloween, and all things that go bump in the night. She lives in Alberta, Canada, with her husband, Jeff; their giant English mastiff, Roarke; and their Saint Bernard pup, Charley.

  SIMON PULSE

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  dawnius.com

  Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen

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  ALSO BY DAWN IUS

  Anne & Henry

  Overdrive

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

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  First Simon Pulse hardcover edition April 2018

  Text copyright © 2018 by Dawn Ius

  Front jacket and spine photograph copyright © 2018 by Colleen Farrell/ArcAngel

  Back jacket photograph copyright © 2018 by Shutterstock

  Jacket illustrations of lace copyright © 2018 ajuga/Thinkstock

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  Designed by Sarah Creech

  The text of this book was set in Berling.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ius, Dawn, author.

  Title: Lizzie / by Dawn Ius.

  Description: First Simon Pulse hardcover edition. | New York : Simon Pulse, 2018. | Summary: A modern-day reimagining of the story of Lizzie Borden, casting her as a shy seventeen-year-old whose blackouts become worse after her father and stepmother try to prevent her from studying to be a chef.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017030262 | ISBN 9781481490764 (hardcover)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Family problems—Fiction. | Mental illness—Fiction. |

  Child abuse—Fiction. | Stepmothers—Fiction. | Bed and breakfast accommodations—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | Massachusetts—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.I97 Liz 2018 |

  DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017030262

  9781481490788 (eBook)