If he ever came into money again in his life, he made an oath to make a sizable donation to these groups.
Robert gagged as he squeezed another spongeful of bath water over her skin.
Still, he was lying to himself if he said he wouldn’t have traded this task for literally anything else in the world. Which made him wonder what Ruth had done before he and Amy had arrived two weeks ago now.
“What ever happened to Sean?” he asked.
Robert felt the woman’s body tense beneath his sponge.
“Sean?”
“Yeah, you know, the guy that brought the letter?”
The woman relaxed.
“Sean is a loyal servant, has been with me and my family for years. But he’s tired now and he doesn’t come around that often anymore. In fact, I pretty much let him go after he completed that last errand.”
Robert chewed his lip, mulling over the woman’s words. Even though he had been staying in the Harlop Estate for two weeks now, he and Ruth hadn’t shared much. Nothing that resembled a significant conversation, anyway. Usually the only time they spent together was during meals and bath time. The rest of the time Ruth retired to her room, and he had been given strict instructions that under no circumstances was he supposed to enter.
Like the basement, he thought suddenly.
He pushed the thought away.
It was sad, really; the woman was literally just waiting to die. And what was Robert doing, aside from griping about having to wash Ruth’s back? Well, he was waiting for that exact thing to happen. And the guilt that he felt because of this came and went in waves.
Like Ruth Harlop, Amy had also been quiet, electing to spend most of her time with Mr. Gregorius, or out in the expansive property behind the estate.
Another point of guilt for Robert.
He told himself that it was good for Amy, for her grieving process, and that she didn’t mind. It was cathartic to be ensconced in nature, and it taught her the value of being able to entertain oneself.
The truth, however, was that there simply wasn’t anyone for miles around for her to play with. She was stuck with him, Ruth, and Mr. Gregorius, whether she liked it or not. But, unlike Robert, she didn’t complain.
Robert hadn’t even considered what would happen when the summer came to a close in two short months if Aunt Ruth was still alive.
He scolded himself for the thought.
Morbid…so much death lately.
He cleared his throat and spoke, his objective equal parts curiosity and distraction from his own meandering thoughts.
“Ruth, are you sure that we are related? I mean, I didn’t even ask if you were my dad’s or my mother’s sister.”
Nothing happened for nearly a minute, and Robert feared that maybe Ruth had fallen asleep again, as she was prone to do during dinner. He put the sponge in the bathwater and then drained it on the back of her neck again. When she still didn’t react, he feared the worst.
His heartrate quickened.
“Ruth?” he asked softly, moving his chair slowly to sit in front of her.
His breath caught in his throat.
The rail-thin woman was hugging her knees, and her gray hair hung in threads in front of her face. But it was her eyes that caused Robert to initially recoil. They were big and black. Glistening.
“Ruth!” He tentatively reached out for her.
The woman suddenly shivered as if she were freezing, the act so unexpected that Robert pushed back in his chair, nearly toppling it.
“Jesus! You scared me.”
The woman offered him a nearly toothless grin.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said simply.
For a moment, Robert didn’t understand the comment. Then he remembered his query.
How can it not matter who you are related to?
He shook his head, and was about to repeat the question when Ruth blinked and her eyes regained their normal green color.
What the—?
Before he asked the question, she looked down at the stagnant water and started to speak, and Robert felt himself compelled to listen to her raspy voice.
“Like you, I had a daughter once…and a husband, too—James.”
There was something in the old woman’s voice that took him by surprise. Usually gruff to the point of being mean, the sadness that clung to her words was unnerving, to say the least. And her choice of words…
I had a daughter once…
As if reading his thoughts, Ruth continued.
“Her name was Patricia Beatrice Harlop, and she was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. Cute and clever, I used to say. And we were happy—me and my husband and Patty, as I called her. Sean was around more often then, as was his own daughter…Jacqueline. She was older than Patty—by at least eight years, maybe more—but they liked to hang out together. Patty and Jacky.”
The woman sighed, her narrow chest sinking inward until it looked like her upper and lower halves were no longer attached. Robert couldn’t help but glance at her breasts, which were thin, saggy things that reminded him of tube socks. He quickly looked away, and asked the obvious question, the one that begged to be asked.
“What happened to her? To them?”
Ruth sighed again, then cleared her throat. She raised her chin, lips pressed together, indicating to Robert that she needed to spit. He brought the sponge to her lips, and she produced a quarter-sized glob of yellow phlegm.
“There was…there was an accident. But even before that, there were some tough times. My husband lost his job, and for a long while we had very little. Sometimes we went days without food, which made everyone irritable. Patty especially.” Ruth shook her head, as if admonishing herself for the comment. “I think the hunger made us all a little crazy. And then one night during a rainstorm, for some reason Patty decided to go up to the roof. I wasn’t…I wasn’t quick enough, I guess. By the time I got there, my husband was already there. Patty had fallen…” She let the sentence trail off.
Robert didn’t know what to say; the woman’s pain and sadness blanketed them both. The intensity of her emotions reminded him of how, despite everything, he missed Wendy; how he missed her touch, her scent, just talking to her. This last part most of all, maybe; since her death, he hadn’t held much in the form of conversations with anyone outside the bill collection industry.
And Amy, of course, but she was only nine.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered at last. A quick glance at Ruth’s leathery face and he knew that there was more to this story, but her expression also indicated that she wasn’t willing to talk about it anymore.
At least not now.
Ruth looked away.
“I’m done,” she said.
Robert nodded and stood, reaching behind him for the towel.
“Here, let me help you out of the tub.”
Chapter 15
After helping Ruth into her nightgown and quickly checking on Amy, who was sleeping soundly in the bed that they now shared, Robert found himself in the front sitting room, pouring himself a glass of scotch. Although he had brought a bottle with him when he and Amy had returned to the Harlop Estate, he had discovered a liquor cabinet full of peaty Islay scotches, some of which were exceedingly rare. Ruth said he was welcome to help himself.
And so help himself he did, with three fingers of a 25-year-old Lagavulin. As he sipped, he walked around the room, marveling at how it seemed to have been transplanted from another era. Locked in what he thought was the 1600s, the lower halves of the walls were adorned with dark brown wainscoting, which was in stark contrast to the green walls. There were several photographs above the mantle of a large fireplace made of crumbling bricks and in such a state that Robert had a hard time believing that it was ever used.
At first he was only casually glancing around, concentrating more on his scotch and the story that Ruth had told than the decor, but for some reason his eyes kept coming back to the photographs. There were four of them, all in identical, plai
n black frames, all nearly completely obscured by a thick layer of dust. They were so filthy that he could only just make out that they were portraits.
Sure, he was curious, but the thick layer of dust was also triggering his OCD something fierce.
Robert grabbed one of the smaller chairs in the room, a velvet green upholstered number that was nearly as dusty as the photographs, and dragged it to in front of the fireplace. After finding the only area on the mantle flat enough to rest his glass, he put it down, then pulled the sleeve of his shirt over his palm and reached up.
It took three hard scrubs to clear away enough of the dirt to get a good look at the first faded photograph.
No wonder Ruth needs an oxygen tank, he thought, swatting away the flurry of dust motes that he had released into the air.
Robert coughed, then turned his attention back to the frame. In it was a photograph of a stern-faced man with dark eyes and a thick mustache that, despite the image being black and white, he knew with near certainty was either a deep red or a coppery brown. The man had a bulbous nose and was bald on top with closely cropped hair on the sides.
Robert nodded to himself and smirked.
Ruth’s husband. Handsome, friendly-looking fellow. Classic do-gooder.
He took another sip of his scotch, then leaned over and began cleaning the second pane of glass.
Robert sputtered, barely able to keep from spraying the glass with his drink. He gulped down the liquid, wincing at the burn in his throat.
“What the fuck…?” he whispered in disbelief.
It was as if someone had Photoshopped the woman he had just bathed using technology that not only preceded when the photograph was taken, but would also push today’s limitations. In the picture, Ruth Harlop had vibrant eyes that stood out on her round, full face, and a rosiness to her cheeks that came through even in the monochrome image. Her face was framed by meticulously manicured, pin-straight black hair that hung to her shoulders.
She was pretty, if a little traditional for his tastes.
Then Robert remembered the soapy water cascading over sagging breasts and dark, nearly black nipples and he shuddered involuntarily.
After a big gulp of the scotch, he moved to the third frame. His sleeve was so filthy now that he had to wipe it on his jeans before using it to clear the next portrait.
This photograph was also of a woman, but she was younger than Ruth in her headshot and she had blonde hair instead of black. And she was very attractive. Robert felt a stirring in his groin and made a face. It felt silly becoming aroused at the sight of a headshot of a woman with high cheekbones and big, round lips, but he was; it had just been so long. In fact, even when Wendy was still alive…
Stop it, he scolded himself. Fuck, she could be your cousin, for all you know.
But Robert didn’t think so. If he were a betting man, he would put his money on this being Jacky Sommers.
He took another drink and then moved to the last photo. This final pane of glass was the dirtiest of the four, and Robert had to really lean into it to scrape the grime off. Squinting hard, he slowly began to make out the features of a young girl.
Robert suddenly recoiled as if he had been struck in the chest and he toppled off the back of the chair. The glass of scotch flew from his hand and smashed on the hardwood, splashing liquid on his bare feet and peppering his legs with shards of glass. He fell on his ass and winced at the pain that shot up his tailbone.
“Oh my God,” he croaked. Using his hands, he furiously shuffled backward, using the spilled scotch to facilitate sliding. If it weren’t for his back bumping up against another dusty recliner, he wasn’t sure he could have stopped even if he had wanted to. His body ceased responding to his requests.
All of the intervening time between his first visit and now, Robert had tried to put the strange encounter in the basement out of his mind, chalking it up to nothing more than fatigue and his mind playing tricks on him.
And, for the most part, he had done an excellent job of convincing himself.
But now…
The photograph was of a little girl of about Amy’s age, maybe a little younger, with dark hair and thin lips that were straight and humorless. Although she didn’t have black pits for eyes, it was the same girl from the basement.
He was absolutely certain of it.
Robert swallowed hard, his rational, pragmatic mind trying to make sense of all of this.
Maybe I saw this photograph when Ruth gave me the first tour? Somehow glimpsed it through the thick grime, the light reflecting off of it at just the perfect angle? Then I just saw Amy in the dim basement and for some reason I thought it was her?
Robert squinted at the photograph, trying to convince himself that this was the case. And then he glanced at his sleeve, grimacing at the dirt that had stiffened his sleeve.
But what about the rat? the rational part of his mind implored. Did you see one of those too? Is that why she was holding it in the basement?
Robert forced these thoughts away.
“Yeah, I saw her on the tour…” he said out loud, trying to offer the idea more credence.
Still seated, he flexed his legs, trying to squeeze blood into them and get some feeling back.
What else could it be? Her ghost?
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
You are starting to sound like Cal.
The shock wore off after a minute, and Robert finally managed to stand. He quickly made his way to the kitchen, intent on grabbing the broom and cleaning up the mess, which carried with it the added benefit of getting out of the room with Patty’s photo. As he passed the staircase, he paused and listened, trying to determine if him dropping the glass had awoken either Ruth or Amy.
Hearing nothing, he continued to the kitchen, his legs still weak and his tailbone numb.
She fell off the roof? Really?
He had the strange feeling that there was a dark secret hidden in the little girl’s eyes.
Robert reached into the cupboard and grabbed the broom and dustpan.
What was she doing up there in a rain storm?
He was on his way back out into the hall when he heard a sound from somewhere behind him. Any blood that had re-entered his limbs was flushed out again and he froze. Even his heart seemed to stop beating.
The sound was a light scratching, like someone slowly dragging their fingers over a textured fabric.
Eyes wide, Robert slowly craned his neck toward the sound in what seemed like slow motion.
His eyes immediately fell on the wooden door, the one that was different than all the others in the house, and he started to tremble.
It was open again.
For nearly a minute, Robert remained rooted in place, his mind locked up.
Part of him wanted to run—most of him wanted to run—but he was also terrified at the possibility that Amy—Patricia, it’s Patricia with her rat and her black eyes and gaping, toothless mouth—had snuck down there again.
Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and yet he suddenly felt very cold.
Then a scream from somewhere upstairs echoed throughout the Harlop Estate.
Chapter 16
Robert burst through the half-open door to his room, his heart racing.
“Amy!” he cried.
He took three lunging steps toward the bed before he realized that there was a girl sitting in the center staring at the far wall. For a brief moment, Robert thought it was Patricia Harlop and he stopped cold.
But then she spoke, and he realized with a huge sigh of relief that it was just Amy.
“Daddy!”
He rushed to her, immediately wrapping his arms around her, pressing her head tightly against his chest. Her hair was damp and her forehead clammy.
“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay,” he assured her as he rocked her back and forth. “It was just a nightmare.”
It’s natural, after losing her mother, he told himself. It has nothing to do with Patricia or Ruth or this ho
use.
For what felt like an hour, Robert sat on the bed with Amy tucked safely in his arms, their rising and falling chests slowing in unison as their breathing returned to normal. Eventually, Amy eased her small body away from him. Only then did Robert notice the pitter-patter of rain on the window. He wasn’t sure if it was a strange, seasonal weather pattern passing through or if it was just another dark cloud on the Harlop Estate and Hainsey County, but it seemed that it rained nearly every other day. And these rain storms were no summer showers; these were torrential downpours that made home insurance companies cringe.
Lightning suddenly lit up the sky, drawing both their eyes to the window. Then the hallway light flickered as the thunder rolled in.
“I was dreaming of the rain,” Amy said softly, her voice but a whisper. “It was raining and I was in the car…Mommy was driving.”
Her body hitched and Robert hushed her, but she insisted on continuing. Robert tried to pull her in close again, to hold her tight, to assure her that she didn’t need to think about what happened to Wendy, to Mommy, let alone talk about it. But when she placed her small hands on his chest, preventing his embrace, his posture eased.
Maybe I shouldn’t try to stifle her emotions. Maybe letting her talk it out will help her heal.
Robert struggled to remember what the grief websites had suggested, but he couldn’t recall any of the details. The only thing that stuck in his mind was that the advice seemed to be contradictory, depending on the source.
Let them talk, get it in the open.
Don’t let them open old wounds, help them move on.
He shrugged, and just went with the flow. When Amy spoke again, Robert had to concentrate hard to block out the sound of the rain in order to make sure he didn’t miss any of the nuance in her words.
“It was raining,” she repeated, “and there was this buzzing noise, like a phone ringing, you know? And then…and then Mommy was fixing her lipstick making an ‘o’ shape, the one that you said looks like a fish?”
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