“Downstairs,” she orders. The look in her eye is so deadly that I do what she says. She directs me—left at the foot of the stairs, right into the hallway, another right—until I’m in the doorway of a room that’s floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. At its center, Uncle Archer stands beside the woman I thought was Theresa Ryan.
“Aubrey!” he cries. He strides forward, mouth open to say more, until the real Theresa appears beside me, gun in hand. Archer stops short, his eyes boring into hers. “Oh my God,” he says hoarsely, one hand curling into his chest. “It’s true. It really is true. I thought there had to be some mistake, but…you’re not my mother.” The muscle in his jaw jumps. “If I’d ever gotten within ten feet of you before now, I would have known in an instant.”
“Possibly not,” Theresa says. “We see what we expect to see. But you understand now, I suppose, why I had to cut off contact.” Her voice doesn’t soften exactly, but it’s less steely when she adds, “Even with you, who’s relatively innocent in all this.”
“All what?” Archer asks. “Why would you do this? What did we ever do to you?” His gaze flits between Theresa, the gun, and me. “Is this about what happened to Kayla? Or to Matt?”
“Paula,” Theresa says. I have no idea who she’s referring to until the second woman steps forward. “There’s a chill in the air. Why don’t you light a fire in the south parlor, and then leave us to talk about—” She pauses, eyes glinting. “What happened to Matt.”
“Tess, are you sure?” the other woman says nervously.
“Positive,” Theresa says. Paula brushes past us into the hallway.
Uncle Archer takes a deep breath. “Matt drowned, and that’s awful, but—”
“Matt didn’t drown,” Theresa says sharply. “He was killed. That night at Cutty Beach? Matt would never have gone into the water on his own. He might have been drinking, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew what the undertow could do on a night like that. Your snake of a brother, Anders, told him that Kayla had been swept away by the tide and needed help.”
“Kayla?” Uncle Archer looks bewildered. “She wasn’t even there.”
Theresa’s lip curls. “No. And Anders was perfectly aware of that. He lied to get Matt in the water. He knew he’d probably never come out. And Adam—Adam was standing right next to them, and he let Matt go.” She’s shaking now, her eyes wide and shiny. “Adam just let him go.”
Adam just let him go. The words ring so loud in my ears that I almost miss Uncle Archer’s next question. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Kayla,” Theresa says. “Anders got drunk one night and spilled everything to her. I don’t think he even remembered doing it. But she told me. Said he’d always been jealous of Matt, and resented him even more when Matt got Allison pregnant the summer he died.” She laughs bitterly at Uncle Archer’s shocked expression. “You didn’t know? Me either. My grandchild, imagine that. And your mother’s. But Allison miscarried.”
“She did?” Uncle Archer asks blankly.
“Yes.” Theresa’s mouth presses into a thin line. “And she knew what happened to Matt. Anders told her that night, and I’ll say this for her: at least she sounded the alarm that he was missing. But then she protected her brothers. She let everyone think it was an accident.”
“Kayla told you all this,” Uncle Archer says slowly. “And then—what? You killed her? Drugged her and put her in her car?” Theresa startles, and Uncle Archer presses. “Fred Baxter gave me the original autopsy report. There was a sedative in her system the night she died.”
“So that’s why she asked about Kayla,” Theresa says, looking at me. I’ve become she all of a sudden; a prop in the conversation.
“You killed an innocent girl and you have the nerve to play victim?” Uncle Archer asks, his voice rising.
“That wasn’t me,” Theresa insists. “It’s just—everything happened at once. I found out about Matt. I was devastated and furious. The only thing I wanted in the world was to make your brothers and sister pay, somehow. And then your mother died.” Her eyes get a faraway look. “She and I had been alone in the house. I called Donald Camden, because, well—we called Donald for everything back then. He said something about how you children would burn through Abraham and Mildred’s fortune in no time flat. And I got an idea.”
The edges of her mouth curve into a smile, and it’s a gruesome sight. “It seemed ridiculous at first. But Donald loved it. He’d always wanted to get his hands on your parents’ money. We looped in Fred Baxter, who was drowning in debt, and promised to make all that go away if he’d keep acting as my physician. We buried Mildred here, on the grounds of Catmint House, and I brought my sister, Paula, here to take my place. Then Donald wrote to all of you.”
Theresa’s face tightens. “But Kayla kept trying to see me. She wanted to know if Mrs. Story had disinherited the children because of what I’d told her. I talked to her on the phone a few times, trying to placate her, but she just became more agitated. I stopped taking her calls, and she went to Fred Baxter. He urged her not to worry about it, to keep quiet. But then she asked Donald. And Donald—well, he thought it would become a problem if she kept talking. If people knew I had a reason to hate the Story children. So he took matters into his own hands.” A defensive note creeps into her voice at Uncle Archer’s horrified expression. “Fred and I wouldn’t have condoned that, but by the time we realized what had happened, it was too late.”
“Well, aren’t you and Fred just a pair of ever-loving saints,” Uncle Archer says icily. Then he draws in a sharp, shocked breath. “Holy shit. Is that what happened to Fred, too? He started talking this summer, trying to piece together a confession in that addled brain of his, so Donald took matters into his own hands? Drowned the man in his own backyard?”
He takes a step forward, and something cold and hard presses into the side of my neck. I whimper involuntarily, and Uncle Archer freezes.
“Let’s not forget who’s in charge here,” Theresa says.
Uncle Archer raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not coming any closer, okay? But it’s over. You have to know that. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle this time.”
“Probably not,” Theresa says. “But I beg to disagree with you that it’s over. Because here’s the thing.” Her voice turns musing. “Adam is the worst of them, I think. Anders never had a redeeming quality to speak of, and Allison is weak. But Adam—I adored Adam. I always stood up for him when the pressure from his parents got to be too much. I would have done anything for that boy. And then, when he had the chance to keep my son safe, he didn’t take it. All Adam would have had to do is say stop. Either to Anders or to Matt. They would have listened to him, and Matt would still be alive.”
Foolish boy. Could’ve changed it all with a word. Finally, I understand what Dr. Baxter meant when he said that about my father, and I feel a sudden rush of sympathy for the woman standing next to me. Then, an ominous click beside my ear drains away every emotion except fear. “The problem with Adam is that he hasn’t suffered enough,” Theresa says tightly. “He doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a child.”
Uncle Archer’s eyes grow round and alarmed. “Theresa, no.”
“What else am I supposed to do with Adam’s daughter?” she asks. “Just let her walk away? Like Adam let Matt walk away?” My breath starts coming shallow and fast. Somewhere in the back of my panicked mind, I register the smell of gasoline. Or is it smoke?
“You’re angry with my family, I understand that. You have every right to be,” Uncle Archer says urgently. “But if you think there’s still a score to be settled—settle it with me. Not Aubrey.” His hands, which have been up all this time, fold over his heart like he’s offering her a target. “Take it out on me. I was there. I could have done something to help, and I didn’t. That’s the story of my entire goddamn life.”
�
�Don’t,” I say. My heart is threatening to crawl into my throat.
“Kayla said you didn’t know,” Theresa says sharply. The smell of smoke is getting stronger. “Are you telling me that you did?”
Uncle Archer’s gaze darts between Theresa, me, and the gun before finally settling on me. The tense lines of his jaw soften. My heart constricts and then swells, painfully, when I recognize the look on his face. It’s one I’ve never seen on anyone before. It’s fatherly.
Then he says, very simply, “Yes.”
Everything happens in a lightning-quick blur after that. The gun leaves my neck. Theresa’s arm shifts, and I react instinctively. I crash my shoulder into hers, knocking her off-balance and to the floor. A deafening blast fills the room, followed by a high-pitched scream of anguish. Sharp pain shoots through my elbow when I hit the ground, half on top of Theresa, and someone screams again. Red pools on the floor beside me as I twist my neck left and right, my eyes scanning wildly for Uncle Archer.
“Aubrey!” He’s above me, Theresa’s gun dangling from one hand, and I almost pass out in relief. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” I lift myself from Theresa, and she groans. Her left leg is covered in blood, and so is the floor beneath her. Her face is buried in the crook of her arm, and she’s not moving other than breathing heavily. “I think I shot her.”
“She shot herself,” he says grimly. “We’d better call for help. Do you have your phone? I forgot mine.”
“It’s dead.” I stand, the adrenaline that’s been coursing through me draining fast, and the stench of smoke finally hits me in full. The air outside the sunroom looks thick and hazy.
Paula, why don’t you light a fire in the south parlor?
That’s what Theresa had said, just before her sister left the room. I step halfway through the door and peer into the hallway. There’s a crackling, hissing noise coming from somewhere. The floor is slick and wet.
Tess, are you sure?
Positive.
“Something’s wrong,” I say.
Then the hallway explodes into flames.
“Jesus!” Uncle Archer shouts as I stumble backward into the sunroom. “We have to get out! Come on.” He reaches down to haul Theresa to her feet. She moans in protest, limp as a rag doll, and he heaves her into his arms. “Stairs, Aubrey! To your left.”
“We can’t!” Within seconds, the scene in front of us has transformed. Fire is everywhere, flames dancing and rolling through the hall. Smoke billows toward us and I choke when the first wave hits me, sending me back into the sunroom, my eyes streaming.
“We have to,” Uncle Archer says, pushing past me with Theresa in his arms. He backtracks just as quickly, gasping. “Okay. New plan.” He drops Theresa into one of the leather armchairs in a corner of the room, then picks up the second chair and hurls it at the nearest window. The glass shatters, flying everywhere.
I cover my nose and mouth with my hands as more smoke pours into the room. Uncle Archer picks up a long, old-fashioned umbrella from a decorative stand and swings it against the edges of the pane, clearing away jagged chunks of glass. I grab another umbrella to help, and look down at the ground. My heart plummets. “It’s too far.”
“We’ll make a rope,” Uncle Archer says, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch. I rip gauzy curtains from the window and turn to see what else might be in the room. There’s a roaring sound at the door, and I watch in horror as flames zip up the crown molding that surrounds it, then spread to the nearest bookcase. At first its’s just a small orange line running along the top shelf, and then the books catch fire.
The couch nearest the broken window is old-fashioned and heavy. Uncle Archer ties an end of the blanket to one of the couch’s legs in a tight double knot and the other end to the curtain I’m holding. It feels weightless in my hands. “Will this work?” I gulp. He knots the ends firmly, tests the hold, and doubles the knot. “Is it strong enough?” I ask.
Uncle Archer looks around the room. The bookcase is consumed in fire, the ceiling above it also alight. The smoke is gray and black now, stealing breath from our lungs even with fresh air streaming in through the window. Flames lick an area rug and spread across its surface. “It’ll have to do,” he says, tossing the loose end of the knotted material out the window. “You first, Aubrey. Keep your body relaxed and try to land on your feet.”
There’s no time to argue. I grab hold of the blanket beneath its knot near the couch and haul myself over the edge of the window. Shards of glass slice my arms and my wrists, spattering the pale-green blanket with blood. I lower myself as fast as I can. Before I know it I’ve run out of blanket, then curtain, and I haven’t gone far at all. I don’t know how close I am to the ground, but it doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere to go but down.
I let go of the curtain and I fall.
I slam into the ground feetfirst, my knees giving way as I tumble hard on my side. Everything hurts, but nothing so badly that I can’t roll over and look at the house. The ground floor is fully alight. Smoke is pouring out the window I just came from. The curtain hangs loose, the bottom about six feet from the ground. There’s no sign of my uncle or Theresa.
I cup my hands around my mouth and scream, “Uncle Archer! Come out!” Fighting back rising panic, I try to stand. Pain shoots up my right leg, forcing me back to my knees. “It’s okay, it’s not far. Hurry!”
The window stays empty. My lungs hurt, making it hard to yell. But I keep at it, calling my uncle’s name over and over and over until my throat is raw.
And then, thank God, he appears. Theresa is slung over his shoulder, making his crawl out the window agonizingly slow. She’s either unconscious or refusing to help, and as I watch him struggle through the billowing clouds of smoke, a furious thought sears my brain.
Drop her. Just drop her.
He doesn’t. He inches down the makeshift rope until what’s left of the window glows orange and the rope goes slack. They fall, and I hear a sound like the terrified scream of a dying animal. It takes a few seconds to realize it was me.
“Uncle Archer!” I crawl toward the motionless lump of limbs and clothing that landed a few feet away. Theresa’s face is turned toward me, her eyes empty and staring. I let out another involuntary animal sound, and scramble past her until I reach my uncle’s arm. “Please,” I whisper, tugging at his wrist to turn it palm up. “Please.”
When I feel a pulse beat faintly against my thumb, I start crying for the first time all day.
Catmint House burned to the ground that day.
Theresa’s sister, whose real name is Paula Donahue, had soaked it with gasoline before striking a match and taking off. Police have spent all week combing Gull Cove Island and staking out local airports, but there’s no sign of her. I’m convinced she made it out of the country on a fake passport and is living off money that she and Theresa stole from Mildred and stashed away offshore. It’s infuriating. At least Donald Camden, who didn’t have the benefit of a head start, was arrested in his office and is in jail awaiting trial.
Aubrey sprained her ankle in the fall from the window, and Uncle Archer suffered a concussion and dislocated his shoulder. According to medical examiners, Theresa Ryan probably died from smoke inhalation before she hit the ground.
The land surrounding Catmint House is a crime scene now, so we’re not allowed anywhere near it. But the day after the fire, Aubrey, Jonah, and I drove to the bend in the road where we’d first glimpsed the house. None of the destruction was visible from a distance, but there was something deeply unsettling about seeing an unbroken stretch of sky where the house used to loom. All of that history of Abraham and Mildred’s legacy, and my mother’s childhood home just—gone.
Mom arrived the next day, taking charge like she always does. “You can’t stay here,” she insisted as soon as she set foot in Uncle Archer’s bungalow. “It�
�s not private enough. The media is in a frenzy.” And just like that, we moved into a swanky Story rental house. Since then, Mom’s been acting as a liaison with police, medical examiners, reporters, and lawyers trying to untangle more than two decades of fraud.
The one thing she hasn’t done, though, is talk about what happened to Matt Ryan on Cutty Beach that summer night twenty-five years ago.
I wanted to ask as soon as she stepped off the plane that brought her to the Gull Cove Island airport. But she pulled me into a stiff hug and said, “No questions, okay? Let’s just get through today.”
She’s been saying that every day since. I’m trying to give her space, because I know that in addition to everything else she’s handling, she has to come to terms with the fact that the mother she’d always hoped to reconcile with has been gone for twenty-four years. And that Mildred Story wasn’t a villain after all, but a woman who got taken from her children without having a chance to say good-bye.
Uncle Anders took off from Gull Cove Island as soon as the first article appeared. He’s done a single interview since, with Fox News. “It’s all lies,” he said about Kayla’s story. “Made up by a bitter ex-girlfriend. May she rest in peace, of course.”
Uncle Adam isn’t granting interviews, but he said the same thing through a spokesperson. Ironically enough, sales of his decade-old book went through the roof when the story broke. Just now, at 5 p.m. sharp, Aubrey got a text from him saying that he’d made the New York Times paperback bestseller list.
She tosses her phone aside with a frown. “I guess there are no consequences for some people, ever,” she mutters.
Everyone except my mother is in the kitchen, making guacamole for tonight’s dinner. It’s the last week of July, so there’s still plenty of summer season left on Gull Cove Island, but not for us. Aubrey and Jonah are both leaving tomorrow, and I’ll follow soon after. My parents want me to stay with Dad and Surya while Mom deals with the fallout here.
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