“I’m sure I don’t look like the kind of girl who knows her way around an oven,” she said. “But I’ve got baking in my blood. There have been plenty of cooks in my family. A few of them even worked here at the manor.” Maisie’s eyes roamed the room. “You know, back in the day, a girl like me would spend her whole day slaving away in an underground kitchen. Only rich girls like you got to see the sun.”
Rich girls like you. It wasn’t exactly something I’d expected to hear from someone wearing what I would have bet was a two-thousand-dollar jumpsuit. I was pissed she’d assigned a stereotype to me, and I wondered how she would feel if I did the same to her. Had the girl in front of me been anyone else, I might have asked. Instead I chose to ignore the insult.
“So, you really grew up here in Louth?”
“Yep. My mom grew up here, too,” she said as she rooted through the fridge in search of jam. She seemed perfectly at home in the manor’s kitchen.
I found it hard to believe Maisie was related to anyone from Louth. “And your dad?”
She pulled her head out of the fridge. “I don’t have a dad,” she told me.
“Me either,” I said.
Maisie stood there with her hand on the fridge handle, and another long look passed between us. We both knew just how much was being left unsaid. I let it go for the moment. There were a few other subjects I was eager to get to right away.
“What did you come here to talk about, Maisie?” I asked her. “How much you hate Nolan?”
I saw her smirk before she stuck her head back into the fridge. “ ‘Hate’ is such a strong word, don’t you think?”
“Despise? Loathe? Fantasize about chopping into itty-bitty pieces?”
She was laughing when she turned around and set a jar of jam down on the table. I think she enjoyed the picture I’d drawn. “Okay, fine. I hate him.”
“Why?” I smeared jam onto a piece of croissant and popped it into my mouth. It was a hundred times better than the one I’d bought at the bakery. “He seems relatively inoffensive for a guy our age.”
“You don’t know the Turners like I do,” Maisie said. “They’re womanizing assholes. Gavin’s been married three times, and the last wife left him after she caught him messing with an intern. They think being rich gives them the right to treat women any way they want.”
“Nolan, too?” I knew the type, but still, it didn’t seem fair to judge the son by his father. I’d been ready to dislike him, but I’d seen no evidence at all that Nolan might be a douchebag. “Did he do something to you?”
“God no.” I saw Maisie shudder, and her disgust seemed sincere. “Nolan would never go for a girl like me, anyway. He prefers easier prey. Next time you see him, ask him about his last girlfriend.”
I couldn’t have cared less about Nolan’s love life. I was far more interested in why Maisie was so eager to keep me away from him. “Then you’re here to tell me I shouldn’t get involved with Nolan.”
“That’s part of it.”
I held her eye. “I don’t think you should worry about that. I’m not interested in Nolan. What’s the other part?”
“I’m concerned about your safety here in Louth.”
“Why do I keep getting the feeling you’re trying to scare me away?”
“I am,” she said. “Bad things happen to girls in this house.”
“I think I’m safe enough here at the moment,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it. After the previous night, I wasn’t sure about anything.
“They probably all thought that.” Maisie’s face bore no trace of the smirk it had worn when our conversation had begun. Her croissant sat untouched on her plate.
“They?”
“The three women who’ve died here.”
I’d been so focused on Grace Louth that I’d forgotten about the mysterious third woman that Maisie had mentioned my first day in Louth. “I know about Dahlia and Grace. Who else died here?” I asked.
“A girl named April Hughes. She passed away in the 1980s. She was our age at the time. They say she bolted out of the manor in the middle of the night and froze to death in the woods. No one knows what she was running from. I heard the story a hundred times growing up. Here in Louth, it’s one of the Dead Girl stories—”
I had to stop her. “One of the Dead Girl stories?” I felt like I’d heard the name somewhere before, but I had no idea what it meant. “What the hell are those?”
Maisie’s smirk reappeared when she saw she’d managed to shock me. “You know—ghost stories. Kids tell them at sleepovers and on camping trips. There’s Grace Louth, April Hughes, and a bunch of other girls who supposedly fell victim to the manor’s curse. There’s also a ghost girl named Matilda who hitchhikes from Hudson to her grave here in Louth—”
I stopped her again. “I get it, but why do you call them ‘Dead Girl stories’?”
“I guess because around here all our best ghosts are girls. Aren’t yours?”
I took a moment to consider the question. I’d heard plenty of tales about men with hooks and maniacs hiding under the bed. But I couldn’t recall a single story about a male ghost. Maisie was right. All the best ghosts were girls.
Maisie leaned across the table toward me. Her breath smelled like toothpaste and coffee. “I think you just experienced what they call an epiphany,” she said. “Ghosts and girls go hand in hand. Why do you suppose that is?”
I could have offered a few theories. Instead I shrugged.
“It’s because we’re more likely to die in horrible ways. Take poor April Hughes, for example.” Maisie sat back. “I always thought April’s story was the scariest. A man out hunting in the woods catches sight of a teenage girl who appears to be lost in a snowstorm. He follows after her and stumbles across her frozen corpse, its mouth stretched wide in an eternal scream.” Maisie paused to offer a hideous imitation. Her blood-red lipstick made it all the more gruesome. “That’s not what really happened, of course. But April was a real person. Lark found out she was staying here at the manor when she died.”
“Lark was researching April Hughes as well as Grace Louth?” I asked, and Maisie nodded.
“She was fascinated by the manor and the girls who died here. The last time I saw her, she told me that this house knew things.”
My excitement was growing, but I tried not to show it. “Like what?”
Maisie shook her head. “She didn’t elaborate.”
“Did she ever mention a ghost here? In the manor?”
“No,” Maisie said. “But she did tell me she heard strange things at night. That’s why she started looking into the Dead Girls in the first place.”
Lark had heard noises, too. What had she seen?
“And you’re convinced Lark was perfectly sane?”
“Is anyone perfectly sane? All I know is that Lark didn’t set the fire.” Maisie leaned across the table as though she had a dangerous secret to share. “By the way, don’t you think the crazy girl burned down the house excuse is getting a bit old? They’ve been recycling that shit since Jane Eyre. Ever noticed that the crazy ladies all die horrible deaths before we get to hear their side of the story? Pretty convenient, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t agree more. “Yes,” I said. “And for the record, I don’t think Lark set the fire.”
That took her by surprise. “You don’t?”
I took a leisurely bite of croissant while I savored her expression. “No. That’s why I came here. To find out what really happened. And that’s why I’m not going away.”
It was the first time I’d ever said it out loud.
“What about the curse?” Maisie asked. She wasn’t toying with me. She was serious. “Aren’t you worried?”
“What if there’s no curse?” I said. “What if there’s a perfectly logical explanation for everything?”
“So, if you know anything that can help me, I’m happy to listen. But you’re not going to scare me away with Dead Girl stories.”
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs pulled Maisie’s attention away before she could answer. Someone was coming down to the kitchen, and it wasn’t Miriam. Maisie and I both kept our eyes trained on the entrance, and a hulking figure soon appeared in the doorway. Muddy jeans and a serious case of hat head didn’t stop him from looking like Captain America.
“Sam,” Maisie said as though she’d been expecting him.
“Maisie,” he greeted her casually. “Bram.”
Suddenly I was outnumbered. “What’s going on?” I asked cautiously, wondering if they were about to gang up on me.
“I asked Sam to come,” Maisie explained. “He knows I’m right. You may not be safe here. Curse or no curse, the manor is dangerous.”
“It’s true,” Sam said.
My gaze moved back and forth between them. They weren’t joking around. “I appreciate the warning,” I told them. “But I think I’ve made it clear that I’m staying.”
“Bram refuses to leave until she finds out what really happened to Lark,” Maisie told him. “So maybe you should go ahead and show her where everything’s at.”
My heart began pounding so hard, I was sure they could hear it. “What do you mean, where everything’s at?” I asked.
“Two women used to live here,” Maisie said. “Haven’t you wondered where all their stuff went?”
I’m ashamed to admit that it hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d been in every unlocked room in the manor, and I’d seen no sign of Dahlia Bellinger or her daughter. It was as though they’d both vanished without a trace. “Wait, is it all still here?”
“I helped your uncle move their belongings to a storage room in the basement,” Sam said. “He said he couldn’t bear to look at his wife’s things. But he wasn’t allowed to get rid of anything, either.”
“Why not?”
“None of it belongs to him. Dahlia left everything to Lark. Lark’s father got a judge to order that it all be kept in storage until his daughter is well enough to claim it.”
“You’re saying Lark’s belongings are still here in my house?”
Sam nodded. “All the things she left behind when she went to stay with her dad.”
Maisie lifted two perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Be careful, Bram Howland. This isn’t your house. You belong to it now.”
I’d explored every unlocked room in the rest of the manor, but, aside from the kitchen, I’d avoided whatever was belowground. Basements were where monsters lived and bodies were buried. Where furnaces leaked noxious fumes and murderous clowns lured their victims. But basements were also where secrets were hidden. I knew I couldn’t stay away forever. I would have to see what the manor held.
The basement was a maze, and with every turn Sam and I took, I kept expecting to meet its monster. We passed the laundry, the furnace room, and a workshop that looked like Miss Havisham’s parlor. Everything inside was buried beneath a layer of dust. Someone must have been in the middle of restoring a chaise longue when they’d abandoned the project. It was almost pathetic to see the poor thing sitting there with its stuffing exposed, like a Victorian lady caught with her skirts pulled up.
I twisted the knob of each door we passed. At least half a dozen didn’t turn. The farther we went, the more jittery I felt. The hallway seemed to grow darker. The spiderwebs appeared larger and the creatures inside them more eager to bite. As I followed behind Sam, I kept a few feet between us and stayed alert for sudden movements.
“So, you’re friends with Maisie,” I said when I could no longer bear the silence.
“I’ve known her my entire life. I like her well enough, but I don’t know if I’d call us friends.” Sam didn’t mince words. “I’m not sure Maisie wants friends. She’s always been a bit of a loner.”
“I heard that her home life isn’t so great.” That’s what Nolan had told me. I was hoping Sam would elaborate, but despite what Nolan had told me, Sam wasn’t the type to gossip.
He looked back at me and paused for a moment until I caught up. “Where’d you hear that?” His face gave nothing away.
“The coffee shop in town.” Technically it was true.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t believe everything you hear around here. Maisie’s had more to deal with than most, that’s for sure,” he said. “She hasn’t let it drag her down. I admire her for that.”
Sam came to a stop in front of an old wooden door. The others we’d passed looked as though they hadn’t been altered since the house had been built. But this one had been updated with three modern locks.
“You can’t tell anyone I let you into the storeroom,” Sam warned me.
“I don’t like to lie.”
“I’m not asking you to lie,” he said. “Just don’t say anything if you can help it. James doesn’t know that I copied his keys. I’m going to give them to Lark if I see her again. But for now, even my mother doesn’t know that I have them. So, please—can we keep it between the two of us?”
“Fine,” I reluctantly agreed.
“You’ll need to be quiet while you’re in there. Once you’re inside, you’ll see a rolled-up rug just to your right. Lay it down against the door so light won’t seep out under the crack at the bottom.”
“Am I hiding from James?” I asked. “Will he be mad if he finds me?” The locks had been installed for a reason. James obviously didn’t want anyone rifling through his wife’s and stepdaughter’s belongings.
“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “But there’s no point in finding out, wouldn’t you say?”
I couldn’t have said it any better. Before he inserted the first key, Sam paused for a moment and seemed to listen. Then he unlocked all three locks and handed the keys to me.
“They’re yours now,” he said. “Keep the door locked while you’re in there.”
I turned the knob and stepped into the room. It was filled with brown boxes of every size. Half the boxes bore no markings at all, while the other half had the letter L neatly written in the top right corner, along with a label indicating the contents’ origin—bureau, closet, bathroom, nightstand. A narrow path separated the marked boxes from the unmarked.
“I packed all of Lark’s things myself,” Sam said. “They’re stacked on the right. I tried to label them the best I could so she’d know what was in them when she got home from the hospital. What do you want to look at first? Books and papers and stuff?”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I nodded.
He squeezed down the path and began pulling out boxes labeled L: Bookcase.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as he brought the first two boxes to the front of the room for me.
I couldn’t answer. In my mind’s eye I was watching moving men carrying my father’s belongings out of my family home. I remembered sitting on my window seat and counting the boxes as they went down the stairs. Seventy-two boxes, none of them labeled. When boxes aren’t labeled, you know someone won’t be unpacking.
Sam took a step toward me. “Bram, are you okay?”
“After my dad died, they put all his stuff into boxes like these. They piled them into a truck and drove them away. I was young when it happened. I was afraid to ask where the truck was going. I still don’t know where it went.”
Once the movers had gone and the truck had disappeared, I’d searched the house. Even the basement. It was like he’d never been there at all. Like maybe I’d imagined him, too.
“How old were you when your dad passed away?” Sam asked gently.
“Twelve,” I said.
“How did he die?”
“Carbon monoxide poisoning.” I’d bee
n asked what that meant so many times that I’d prepared an answer I could recite by heart. “Carbon monoxide is a colorless, odorless gas produced when any kind of carbon-based fuel is burned. If the gas isn’t properly vented, it can fill a building and kill everyone inside. More than two thousand people die from carbon monoxide poisoning every year.”
I watched surprise take over Sam’s face as he put two and two together. “I know what carbon monoxide poisoning is. Isn’t that how—” He stopped.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Isn’t that how your uncle’s first wife died, too?”
“Yes,” I told him. “It is.” I forced a smile. That was all I was going to say. “Thank you for bringing me here. If you see James, tell him I’ve gone out for the day. If I’m not at breakfast tomorrow morning, you can assume I’ve been eaten by spiders.”
“I’ll be sure to check in on you before that,” Sam assured me. “I know Louth hasn’t felt like the most welcoming place, but none of us want you to get eaten by spiders.”
“What a relief,” I told him.
Once he was gone, I locked the door and got down to work. I opened the first box of books, setting aside my own history as I dug into Lark’s. I’d been fascinated by her for months, but I don’t think she’d been real to me until that moment. The books shared secrets about her that the town gossips had never known. Several novels appeared to have been dunked in water, which puzzled me for a moment, until I realized Lark must have liked to read in the bathtub. She loved the Brontës and Wharton and du Maurier. Her copy of Rebecca was falling apart, and the tattered cover had been carefully taped together. The first page of every book bore an embossed stamp. From the Library of Lark Bellinger, it read in a fancy-script font. I ran my finger over the raised letters the way she would have. The embosser must have been a present from someone she loved. The style hardly fit the girl I’d seen in the photos. And yet Lark had used it religiously. She was sentimental.
When I’d finished with the two boxes that Sam had brought out, I went to grab more. I discovered four more boxes of books, two labeled Stuff, and a box marked only with the letter X. I pulled off the strip of tape that sealed it and found a stack of seven framed photographs inside. They had all been taken at the manor at various points in history. There were women in flapper dresses playing croquet on the lawn. A man in a tuxedo with ridiculously wide lapels was hosting a lavish party. Dahlia descending the renovated grand staircase in an evening dress. At the bottom of the box was a little leather book with a clasp. I thumbed through enough of the brittle, yellow pages filled with phone numbers and addresses to conclude that it couldn’t have belonged to Lark—or anyone else from the twenty-first century.
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