“Why?” Archer spins and nearly screams the word. His eyes are wild, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “Why would anyone do something like that? To her, and to us?”
“Well.” Milly’s voice is low and calm, like she’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “Money is a big motivator, isn’t it? It would motivate Donald Camden, I’ll bet. And maybe…” She turns toward Hazel, who looks utterly shell-shocked. “Sorry, but there’s no polite way to say this. Did your grandfather come into a bunch of money twenty-four years ago?”
“Milly, stop it,” Archer says harshly. “You’re taking this too far.”
Hazel wets her lips. “He did, though.”
Archer mumbles something incoherent and starts rooting through the cabinets with new fervor. Milly’s eyes get wide. “Really?” she asks.
“I mean, I wasn’t around, obviously, but my mom told me Granddad had a huge gambling problem when she was in college. It was so bad that they were going to lose the house, and she wouldn’t be able to pay for school, and my grandmother was threatening to divorce him. But then he started winning.” Hazel swallows hard. “She says he won all the time, after that.”
“Huh,” Milly says thoughtfully. “And Theresa would get money too, of course, but maybe there’s more to it with her. Maybe you’re right, Jonah, and she was never the same after her son died. Or maybe it’s like Aubrey said…oh my God.” For the first time in this entire bizarre conversation, panic hits her voice. “Oh no. Aubrey. Aubrey is there.”
“At least she’s not here,” Archer says with a strangled laugh. He finally locates a bottle of vodka and untwists the cap, filling a red Solo cup nearly to the brim. “Here is the bad place.”
“Uncle Archer, no! You don’t get it.” Before Archer can lift his drink, Milly grabs his arm and spins him with all her strength. “Aubrey has a keycard to the gates of Catmint House. She found one when she was there yesterday, and she grabbed it.” My pulse starts racing as fast as Milly’s must be, because I know what she’s thinking. “Aubrey went there, I’m sure of it,” Milly continues, her voice turning desperate as she takes hold of Archer by the shoulders. “She’s at Catmint House right now. Her father’s been telling her all summer that she needs to be more proactive. She wants to confirm what she saw.”
Archer is silent. Milly shakes him by his shoulders once, hard. “Even if you don’t believe anything else I’ve said this morning, please believe this is a bad situation,” she says tightly.
“Jesus.” Archer’s face goes slack. He twists in Milly’s grip to look longingly at his drink, and I half expect him to shoot out an arm and grab it. Instead, he sucks in a breath and turns to Hazel, who’s still frozen in place. “Did you drive here?”
Hazel blinks like a sleepwalker trying to wake up. “Car’s parked next to the curb. It’s a Range Rover.” She digs into her pocket and tosses Archer the keys. He catches them in one hand, then lunges into the living room and out the door.
Archer’s friend Jess had gotten a new dog, and Archer was in love. “I would kill for you, Sammy,” he said in a singsong voice, crouching beside the small terrier on the coarse sand of Cutty Beach. Sammy, ecstatic at the attention, tried to lick his face. “Yes, I would.”
“That seems extreme,” Allison said.
“Well, not, like, a person,” Archer amended, scratching behind Sammy’s ears. “Or another dog, obviously. Or a cat. I would kill a rodent, though. One that was already sick and going to die anyway.”
“Take note, Sammy.” Allison sat beside Archer as the dog crawled into his lap. “If you’re ever tormented by a diseased rat, your champion is here.”
She gazed at the crowds milling along Cutty Beach and clustered around two small bonfires. For the past few years, Archer’s friend Jess Callahan, who lived in the house closest to the beach’s crescent-shaped center, had held her birthday party here. Jess’s older brother was on the Gull Cove Island police department, and he was their insurance that as long as they didn’t let the party get out of hand, they’d be left alone. Chris Callahan even dropped off a couple of kegs before leaving for his shift at the station.
“Three cheers for Gull Cove’s finest,” Archer had said at the time. Now, he observed, “I think we’re the only ones here who aren’t drunk.”
“Probably.” Allison knew why she wasn’t drinking—and why she was behind a rock with her brother and a dog instead of joining the festivities—but she wasn’t sure about Archer. “Why do you suppose that is?”
“Well. You weren’t entirely wrong, before the Summer Gala, when you reminded me that I have a habit of turning into a drunk asshole.”
“I didn’t say exactly that,” Allison said. “And I apologized, remember? I was just nervous before such a big night. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s true, though. I’ve been overdoing it,” Archer said. “Every party is the same. I think I’m only going to have a couple of drinks and the next thing I know, I’m out of my mind.” Sammy flopped onto his back, legs in the air, and Archer obliged by rubbing his belly. “Maybe I just want to see if I can have a good time without it.”
“And are you?”
“Not really, no.” Archer grinned crookedly. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Allison wasn’t, either. She hadn’t wanted to come tonight, but she also hadn’t wanted to not come. She knew Matt would be here, and she didn’t want to stay away because of him. Part of her thought that maybe she’d even talk to him, finally, and tell him about the baby. But as soon as she arrived at the party she realized it was a lost cause. Matt was stumbling around and asking everyone if they’d seen Kayla, too drunk to remember that she worked the late shift at Donald Camden’s office on weekends.
“The waves are out of control,” Archer said.
“It’s the cold weather,” Allison said, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands as a particularly strong gust of wind whipped around them. “Makes the tidal patterns wild.”
Archer was only in a long-sleeved T-shirt, and he shivered. “I left my sweatshirt in the car. I’m gonna grab it.” He got to his feet, Sammy dancing around him. “Are you coming, buddy?” he crooned to the little dog. “Yes, you are. You’re such a good boy.”
“You’re a sap,” Allison said, laughing.
“You need anything?”
I need to go home, Alison thought, but she said, “No, I’m going to look for Adam.” Maybe he’d be willing to leave the party for fifteen minutes and take her back to Catmint House. She’d managed to make an appearance for close to an hour, and that felt like a minor victory.
She scanned the crowd as she walked, keeping a cautious eye out for Matt, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither were her older brothers. Allison circled the crowd around the bonfires twice, but she couldn’t find them. Archer had returned at this point, his sweatshirt draped across his shoulders and a cup in one hand as he talked to Rob Valentine. Only Adam, Anders, and Matt were missing. She would have thought they’d left for the night if Adam’s BMW and Matt’s bright green moped weren’t still in the beach parking lot.
Unease pricked at Allison as she walked farther down the beach, the surf crashing loudly against the shore. She hoped her brothers weren’t going to pick a fight. She was still angry with Matt about how he’d acted in Arabella’s Coffee, but two on one wasn’t fair.
She reached the edge of the party area, a cluster of rental cabanas that created a dividing line between another, rockier stretch of beach. People often used them as a hookup spot, but they were deserted. She passed them, wincing as the wind whipped sand into her face.
Past the cabanas, a pier jutted into the ocean, small rowboats bobbing against its side. And here, finally, Allison caught sight of two figures standing at the pier’s edge. She recognized Adam’s height towering over Anders’s smaller frame, and quickened her pace.
They were staring
at the churning waves, oblivious to her approach. “You see anything?” she heard Adam call over the howling wind.
“No. And we won’t. Not with this undertow,” Anders said.
“Jesus Christ, Anders.” Adam’s laugh sounded harsh and on edge. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
The brief exchange, coupled with her brothers’ laser-like focus on the raging water, made the hairs on the back of Allison’s neck stand on end. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Adam and Anders were talking about, and nearly turned to go back to the party. But something made her pause, and reach out a hand.
“Hey!” Allison shook Adam’s shoulder as she yelled in his ear, and he jumped a mile. “What are you guys doing?”
Anders turned, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Taking care of a problem.”
Once I’m through the gate, I park my bike behind a thick tangle of honeysuckle shrubs and approach the driveway leading to Catmint House, considering my next steps. I can’t exactly waltz up to the front door all Hey, hi, could you spit into a cup for me? Just need a little DNA and I’ll be on my way.
Even thinking the words makes me feel like I’m losing my mind. Sane people don’t break into mansions looking for evidence that their grandmother is an imposter. I kept asking myself, as I pedaled here, if there might be an explanation for the lack of a birthmark on my grandmother’s hand.
Maybe she had it lasered off?
I’d asked about laser removal when I got teased mercilessly as a preteen. “You should be proud,” my father said. “Your grandmother was. She wouldn’t remove part of herself to please other people.” Which was actually good advice, for once, but my mother agreed to let me consult with a few plastic surgeons. They all said the same thing: the color was too dense and too deep. It might fade a little, but it would never go away completely.
Maybe she was wearing makeup?
But then why the gloves? Why the gloves, always, even on a hot summer day?
Maybe you just missed it.
I hadn’t, though. I know that birthmark like the back of my hand, and that’s exactly where it should have been on her. It’s the only characteristic my grandmother and I share, and it wasn’t there. I’m sure of that.
The lush landscaping of the grounds lets me skirt behind bushes all the way up the driveway and then around to the back of the house. Then I pause, looking at the sun-drenched yard. It’s surprisingly big, given how close to the cliff Catmint House looks from a distance, and not as well maintained as the front. The grass is too long, the bushes too wild, and the flowers are unkempt and overgrown. I can hear the roar of the sea crashing against rocks behind the house, and the faint cries of seagulls circling above.
What am I doing?
I start to back up, suddenly horrified with myself. I’m trespassing, is what I’m doing, with the intent to break into a house whose owner explicitly told me to stay away. I could get arrested for this, and for what? I should just tell somebody my suspicions and leave it to the police, or whoever, to sort everything out.
And then I see it: a first-floor window barely five feet off the ground, half open. It almost looks like an invitation.
I creep forward until I’m beneath the sill, then raise myself on tiptoes to peer inside. It’s a beautiful room, with crown molding and an elaborate chandelier, but it looks as though it’s being used for storage space. It’s empty except for piles of boxes, rolled-up rugs, and chairs stacked neatly one on top of the other. The hallway behind the open inner door is silent and dim.
Am I really going to do this? Can I do this? I curl my palms around the sill, debating. I haven’t worked out here like I did while I was swimming competitively, and it doesn’t take long to lose muscle strength. But I’ve always been good at pull-ups.
I take a deep breath and hoist myself up, surprised at how easily I rise. My feet scramble for purchase on the side of the house and I almost lose my grip, but I manage to get one arm up and over the windowsill, which gives me enough leverage to pull myself halfway through. I stay there for a few seconds, panting, then crawl the rest of the way inside.
I land in a crouch, flexing my sore palms. Take that, Dad, I think as I rise. Arm strength comes in handy sometimes.
I have no idea what part of the house I’m in. I slip off my sneakers and leave them beside the window, then pad across the hardwood floor until I get to the doorway. I move silently down the hall, pausing after every step, until I come to a staircase. I stand there a long time, straining my ears for any signal that someone’s near the top, but there’s nothing.
I navigate the stairs carefully, stepping lightly until I’m on the upstairs landing. I don’t know what part of the house I’m in, but it’s so quiet that I become a little bolder and move more quickly. Maybe I got lucky, and nobody’s home.
I climb a second set of stairs, steeper and narrower, and pause at the door at the top. I place my hand on the knob and turn slowly, as far as I can. Then I push. It swings open with only the tiniest creaking noise, and I peer into a wide hallway. There are doors on either side, and my heart starts pounding when I realize that I might’ve found a back stairway to the bedroom area. Which is where I need to be, because the only way I can be sure that I’m grabbing something of Gran’s is to take it from her room.
I approach the first door noiselessly and open it quickly, stepping inside. Right away, I know this isn’t anyone’s current bedroom; it has a deserted, musty feeling to it. Not to mention outdated curtains and bed linens that look like they haven’t been changed in years. There’s a red blanket at the foot of the bed that reads MARTINDALE PREP in bold white letters, and two lacrosse sticks propped in one corner.
Wait. Could this be my dad’s old room? I creep in a little farther and spy a framed photo on the wall beside the window. It’s the same picture of my father and Gran that I saw in Sweetfern: the two of them holding that ugly painting and beaming for the camera. I zero in on my grandmother’s hand, dominated by that prominent birthmark.
“Lovely picture, isn’t it?”
I spin to see Gran—or whoever she is—standing in the doorway. At first, all I take in is that for once she’s not dressed to the nines or wearing gloves. Then I noticed the small, pearl-handled pistol in one of her hands. It’s so pretty, it almost doesn’t look—
“Oh, it’s real. And it’s loaded,” she says, stepping into the room. “Two elderly women living alone can’t be too careful.” The look she gives me is almost sympathetic. “Did you honestly think we’re not alerted when the gate opens?”
I lick my lips, which have gone suddenly dry. “So…what? You let me come in?”
“I opened the window for you.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I berate myself. “Well, you caught me,” I say, affecting a guilty laugh. It comes out like more of a wheeze. “I wanted to see this place one more time. Try to find my father’s room. And I did, so…I’ll just leave now.”
“No, you won’t.” My heart sinks as she takes another step forward. “I wondered yesterday, if you got a good look at my hand. I take it you did?” I’m too frozen to even nod. “And now here you are. Adam’s daughter. It would be quite a poetic tragedy if I mistook you for a burglar and shot you in his old room, wouldn’t it?”
“I told people.” I blurt out the lie as convincingly as I can. “I told everyone what I saw. Uncle Archer and Milly and Jonah and…everyone.”
Gran, or Mildred, or—I don’t even know what to call her anymore—tilts her head to one side. “And yet, you’re here all alone.”
My blood runs cold. I got one text off to Uncle Archer, and there’s not much chance that he’ll know what I meant. “What did you do to my grandmother?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“Nothing,” she says, with such quick certainty that I actually believe her. “Your grandmother died of natural causes twenty-four years ago. I found her here.
She liked to spend time in Adam’s room while he was gone.” Her eyes flash. “He was always her favorite, even though he was the least attentive child.”
“You’re Theresa,” I say. She doesn’t deny it. “And…and the other Theresa…” I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
She doesn’t satisfy my curiosity. “It’s odd,” she says musingly. “I took everything I could from Adam, and for all these years, it’s never felt like enough. Maybe taking his only child would be.” My heart drops into my feet and I almost blurt, I’m not his only child, before she adds, “After all, he took mine.”
The world tilts on its axis. “My father…killed your son?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
A loud, crashing noise startles us both. I move instinctively toward the window, reaching its edge before Theresa’s commanding “Stop!” makes me pause. But I can see enough to make out a large black SUV barreling across the lawn. It’s such a bizarre, out-of-context, yet blessedly welcome sight that I almost laugh out loud.
“Tess!” A woman’s voice, loud and agitated, calls from downstairs. “Tess, someone is driving up to the house. Tess!”
“I see,” Theresa calls back. She looks remarkably calm for someone whose house might be plowed into any second. But the car stops a few feet from the front door, and, with a mix of relief and apprehension, I watch Uncle Archer get out of the driver’s seat.
“So you weren’t lying,” Theresa says. “Well. We had a good run, I suppose.” The hand holding the gun drops slightly, and I feel a surge of hope until her face hardens. “May as well see things to their inevitable conclusion. Come along.” She steps into the hallway, gesturing for me to follow, and crosses to the balcony staircase overlooking the second floor of the house. “Show our guest into the sunroom,” she calls downstairs. “Tell him Aubrey will be right there.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask anxiously. “Please don’t hurt him.” The thought of anything happening to Uncle Archer because he came after me makes me sick to my stomach.
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