The Spires

by Moretti, Kate

  Oh God. They’d killed her. Penelope sank to her knees on the pavement. She was killing someone. Someone who tried to kill me? a small voice inside said.

  Jack stood in the alley, between the garden and the street, and called to Bree and Penelope. “Where’s Grace?”

  Penelope felt dazed, unable to answer, her throat closed, her mouth filled with cotton, and she squawked out, “In the—” before Bree cut her off with, “I saw her run downstairs before the steps exploded! She has to be out here somewhere!” The lie came out so quick, so smooth. Penelope put her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Bree ran her hands down Penelope’s hair, shushing her. Lovely Bree. Always there. Always watching.

  “I never had a father,” she whispered. “We did it for the baby.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  February 27, 2020

  Penelope turned to Jack in astonishment.

  Cole.

  She thought about him every day—that tiny space between asleep and awake. He came to her, fully, at five, then ten, then fifteen, and now, almost nineteen.

  By the time her feet touched the cool hardwood floors in her bedroom, her mind racing with the thoughts of the day, her boy would slip from her consciousness, only to return the next morning.

  Her boy. Their boy.

  She had no idea what he actually looked like. She imagined some cross between her and Jack—the black hair, the bright-blue eyes, with her quick wit and affinity for debate. Jack’s easy charm. Her empathy.

  After the fire, the short six months at her aunt’s little blue saltbox. The looks exchanged between the nurses when she showed up at labor and delivery, alone. They’d asked her, over and over, who could they call? I’m fine. There’s no one to call. No, thank you, really, I’m fine.

  The private adoption, semiopen. She could find him; he could not find her. She could send him letters. And she did—every five years or so. She received two back, from his adoptive parents, sent through the agency, names redacted. He was healthy, happy, well adjusted. He knew he was adopted. Then, later, he played lacrosse (both her boys had picked the sport without any influence from her—genetics being a fickle, funny thing). He was accepted to Cornell. Wanted to be an engineer.

  Why hadn’t she terminated the pregnancy? That had been her quasi plan before the fire. Maybe because the month immediately after the fire passed in a fever dream, like moving underwater, and by then it was too late. Maybe it was that final severing—what had once felt like a relief started to feel unbearable. Maybe, just maybe, she’d hoped he’d come back to her. We did it for the baby, Bree had said. Had she intuited somehow that Penelope would never go through with it?

  The letter she sent Jack, right before her wedding to Brett. Not knowing where he’d ended up, she sent it to the Church House, hoping at least his cousin—the homeowner—might intercept it and pass it along. Telling him about Cole, the adoption, the agency. All the information she knew. He could make his own choices.

  It may or may not have been the best way to handle it. She’d only been twenty-two—no excuse, she knew. She tried to do right by Cole, by Jack. She truly did.

  Jack turned to her then, and said quietly, his voice hoarse with regret and fear, “I’ve met him, Pip. About five years ago. I . . . I didn’t know what to do, if I should tell you?”

  In that moment, Penelope’s world collapsed.

  Talia said, “This is all very nice, but please shut the fuck up.”

  “Did you do something to him?” Penelope asked, her blood rushing, her throat closed.

  Then she remembered: Tara. Linc. Brett. And now Cole.

  “Did you do something to any of them?” Penelope asked again.

  “I just told you. You’ll know what it’s like to not have anyone care if you live or die. Jack, you were a bit harder. You must have worked pretty hard to be that isolated in the world. No wife. No other kids. Not even a girlfriend. A one-night stand in Gaborone, where you confess all your life regrets. That’s actually pathetic.” Talia moved the gun between them as she talked. She looked at Penelope. “You know, new construction doesn’t burn the way an old oiled church does, but it was easy enough to take a page out of the same book. It’s taken a bit of time, but you have to admit the floors in your house have never looked more beautiful. I mean, everyone says so. Easy enough to leave a pile of rags, even give it a middle-of-the-night spark just to keep it all going according to plan.” She gave Penelope a helpless smile. “You’ve been gone for a few days, you know? Do you even know what’s happened to your family? I mean, do you even care? Everyone thinks you’ve checked out as a mother—the kids have practically been on their own. Except when your old friend Willa has been able to pick up the pieces.”

  Penelope felt sick, the room spinning a nauseous vertigo. Tara was probably okay, since she’d spent the night with Sasha, but what if Linc hadn’t stayed at Zeke’s like she’d asked?

  From somewhere underneath them, deep in the belly of the church, they heard a thump. The floor seemed to vibrate just for a second, and Penelope had the sudden realization that they were not alone in the house.

  “Who else is here, Talia?” Jack asked suddenly.

  Talia swung the gun between them, a wild look sparking in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, and Penelope looked from Jack to Talia and back to Jack, inclining her head, widening her eyes.

  “Penelope.” Jack’s voice was low, almost slow motion. He did not look at her when he spoke and instead kept his gaze trained on Talia. “Listen to me. Remember the Moirai?” She did, faintly, something insistent, pushing in the back of her mind. The three sisters of fate. He looked at her then, a split second that felt interminable, and his mouth quirked up. An ironic half smile that seemed trademarked to Jack alone, his blue eyes wide and searching hers. The creases around them new and different, but she was suddenly thrust back in time, to their own private world, a language no one else knew.

  Penelope closed her eyes, feeling the inevitability of what he was going to do. Knowing what would happen in the next few seconds.

  He lunged at Talia, the gun’s going off making Penelope’s ears ring, her body going numb, her hands fumbling behind her and landing on the iron poker resting against the still-standing remnants of the stone fireplace, and she swung without thought or reason.

  The iron rod connected with Talia’s head, and she lost her grip, the gun skittering across the floor and stopping neatly next to Jack’s prostrate form.

  It was then that she noticed the bloom on his shirt, the crumpled way he’d fallen. Penelope lunged for the gun, dropped the iron rod. She could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the gurgled breathing.

  She turned just in time to see Talia, the iron rod held in her fist like a scepter, swinging at Penelope’s face. Talia’s face, bright in the morning sunlight, merged back once again with the Willa that Penelope remembered, until she had the surreal sensation that she was pulling the trigger on her old friend, and she hesitated, almost couldn’t do it.

  And then she could. She felt the give of metal underneath her index finger, and a second shot rang out, echoing in the open air of the burned-out church.

  With the recoil she stumbled back, tumbling against the wide stone mantel of the fireplace in stunned silence. Talia had fallen backward, a deep red pool forming beneath her, her eyes frozen wide. Penelope gulped lungsful of cold February air, her hands shaking, her fingers stiff.

  She crawled to Jack, whimpering, her fingertips thrusting into his neck and finding no pulse. No gurgle of breath. Just a complete and utter stillness. Oh God. God no.

  She heard the scream then. The far-off muffled keening that in her state of shock she thought might have been her own.

  Who else is here, Talia? Jack had asked. He’d put the pieces together before Penelope did.

  Penelope stood, with the gun held down by her side, and picked her way through the gutted great room and into the kitchen, toward the back of the house. A faint thumping on the wa
ll grew louder. Woodenly, Penelope found the basement door and fumbled her way down to the stairs. Underground, the hallway was barely lit—only the dimness from two small ground-level windows to see with. She could hear it now, the screaming, a steady thump at the end of the hallway.

  The secret staircase.

  Penelope felt along the wall, letting the cool concrete of the basement walls hold her up. Their rooms had remained untouched, and in the faint light of morning she could see the outlines of dressers and beds, a wayward shoe.

  Penelope held one hand over her mouth, fingers shaking, and paused at the storeroom door at the end of the hall.

  Bree’s hand over hers. The feeling of the dead bolt clicking into place. The cool touch of Bree’s skin, always so chilled, even in the blazing heat of fire. “We did it for the baby.”

  The dead bolt in her hand, turning the other way. The door swinging open, not closed. A face, pale and streaked with dirt.

  “Pip.” A single word.

  Talia. Still alive.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  Willa.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  February 27, 2020

  Penelope had fainted. When she came to, she fumbled in her pocket for a cell phone. She called 911, relayed her location and nature of the emergency, then leaned her head against the wall. She pressed the speed dial for Tara, and when she answered, felt herself immediately start to cry.

  “I’m fine, Tara. But find Daddy and tell him to bring you and Linc to Deer Run, Pennsylvania. I’ll tell him where to go. Probably the hospital, okay? Don’t panic. I’m fine.”

  Tara was stoic, as Penelope had known she would be. If it had been Linc, he would have fallen to pieces.

  “Mom,” Tara said with just one quick sob. “The house burned down.”

  She’d known, of course. Talia had told her. Your floors have never looked more beautiful. Still, it felt like a blow. She was so tired. She rested her head back against the stone wall, reached out for Willa’s hand.

  Willa, next to her, rasped, “How did you know I was here?” Her voice was reedy and thin.

  “I didn’t.” Penelope still felt the thick fog of shock. They held tightly to each other. As briefly as she could, Penelope told her the story of Talia. There would be time for talking later.

  In the distance, she heard the sirens.

  Willa was taken to Deer Run Hospital and admitted for observation. She was dehydrated and hungry, but otherwise unharmed. Penelope was physically fine, but she felt brittle and disconnected, like she was floating above everyone. She was taken to the Deer Run police station to complete her statement. Answered the officers’ questions, but on autopilot, rote and mechanical. They offered her coffee, and when they brought it to her, she gagged, vomited into the trash can. They brought her water instead.

  Jack was dead. Penelope had known it the instant she saw the bright-red bloom on his chest. In the subsequent turmoil, Penelope hadn’t heard him cry out or take his last breath. He was standing next to Penelope one minute, and the next, he was simply gone. She couldn’t grieve for the man he was—she no longer knew him. She could grieve for the man she’d known twenty years before. She could grieve for the father of her firstborn son. She could grieve for her role in his death, which of course came back to Grace.

  Talia was dead. When the officer told her that, Penelope tried to feel something but couldn’t. The officers were kind and understanding, and they took her statement, asking many, many questions, and after three and a half hours, they let her go.

  For the second time in as many days, she wondered where she’d go.

  Brett showed up at the police station with the kids, and they hugged her and held her, and Linc and Tara cried, and Brett looked sufficiently stricken. He apologized softly into her hair, and she smelled his aftershave and felt his warm back, strong beneath her palms, and kissed his cheek, but still felt nothing.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked her, gentle, like she was made of glass and would shatter if he spoke too loudly.

  “The hospital,” Penelope said and ignored their glances at each other. “I want to talk to Willa.”

  Tara said, “Mom!”

  “The real Willa,” Penelope said.

  In the quiet of the hospital room, Penelope studied Willa’s face. The pinked, zagging scar up and down her cheek. The soft pad of cheek under each eye. The youthful smile, now less bright than she remembered in her trauma, but still hers. The distinct sparkle in her eye. Her hair, thick and blonde with natural wave.

  How could she have been so fooled?

  “You hadn’t seen me in twenty years,” Willa said, reading her thoughts.

  Penelope, unable to figure out where to start, simply asked, “How?”

  Willa told her.

  Willa had gone to the post office that day. Talia, in a baseball hat and glasses, had asked for help—a flat tire, just down the street, she pointed. Willa being Willa had followed the woman, chatting and bubbling; she didn’t even realize she’d left her keys in her own car, her purse, her cell phone. The spare tire was stuck in the trunk well, wedged all the way back—maybe the two of them together could get it out? She didn’t want to approach a man alone . . . The next thing she knew, she awoke in the trunk of a moving car. An hour later, the car parked, the engine running. She kicked at the trunk with bound feet, her hands tied with plastic handcuffs.

  When the trunk opened, she saw her own face, or a close approximation of it, staring back at her. She tried to scream and realized she’d been gagged. The woman smiled, and that was the last thing Willa remembered.

  When she woke up again, she was in the stairwell. Her bindings had been cut loose, but roughly, her wrists and ankles marred with shallow cuts.

  “Jack showed me the secret stairwell,” Willa said.

  Penelope felt light headed. “I didn’t know he knew about it. I thought only Bree and I knew.”

  Willa laughed, her voice hollow. “Oh, I think we all knew. Didn’t you? That’s how Flynn would get to Jack’s room sometimes. At night?” Willa raised her eyebrows, waved her hand in a circle.

  Light-headedness overcame Penelope, and she had to lean forward, waiting for the stars to clear. “I had no idea,” she finally said.

  “How long were you in the stairwell?” Penelope asked, her voice a whisper, already knowing the answer.

  “Since August. She used to bring me food, sit outside the door, and talk to me. Tell me why. She had all these notions: We killed her sister. It was planned. We hated her.” Willa took a deep, shuddering breath. Penelope could see the captivity on her: the deep sleepless bruising around her eyes, a missing canine tooth, the loose skinniness of malnutrition. “Some of it made sense. Remember when Bree made stroganoff and her face blew up and she almost had to go to the hospital? It was an accident. She spent a lot of time on that. She had this idea that she could bring us all back here. She started with Bree, but I guess Bree wouldn’t cooperate. She tried to do the trunk-of-the-car thing to her, but she fought back. Kicked Talia in the face and escaped. It was reported as a random mugging, and when the police showed up, Talia was gone. A week later, Bree was hit by a car and killed. Flynn lived too far away to lure back here. I guess she tried? She was less angry at him. It was really more about the four of us.”

  “I let Bree turn the dead bolt that night. I didn’t stop her. I was in shock, I was terrified. Grace and I had just gotten into a horrific fight.” Penelope felt the tears sliding down her cheeks, the only time she’d ever said those words out loud. Until that moment she could have barely admitted it, even to herself. She’d felt removed, as though floating above them, watching the scene play out. She tried to feel something—fear, panic. Everything she’d worked so hard to keep secret. It was all coming out. All she felt was relief, a numbness through her body, into her extremities. Quietly, “I killed Grace. So why do this to you?”

  Willa was crying, too, silently but steadily. “I gave everyone Molly. I drugged you all. I thoug
ht . . . I thought it was going to be fun.” She covered her face with her hands, half sobbing.

  “I’m so sorry,” Penelope said. She’d never said it to anyone about that night. “Because of me, Jack is dead. Grace is dead. Bree is dead. Flynn is in financial ruin.”

  “But because of you, I’m alive.” Willa touched Penelope’s hand again. This time she did not let go. “My baby still has a mama. That must mean something.”

  Later, in the hallway, Grey found Penelope and hugged her close, little ponytailed Violet by his side. Penelope held him as his shoulders shook, a sob against her shoulder. She didn’t know she was crying until she felt the cold wet spot on his shirtfront. She tried to apologize, but he waved her away.

  “You saved her life,” he said hoarsely. “You’re a hero to us.”

  Penelope’s stomach gave a slippery little flip at that. She shook her head no, and knew that he took it for modesty. When she finally extricated herself, she ran for the nearest restroom and vomited. Tara found her on the floor, crying.

  Talia had kept Willa in the stairwell for five months and twenty-two days. She left her often with a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter that had traces of Restoril in it. For five months and twenty-two days, Willa was kept in a state of half consciousness. She was given gallons of water to drink and buckets to urinate in. The three weeks Talia lived with Penelope, she did not come back. Her intention, the police believed, was to simply let Willa die of dehydration.

  When they raided Talia’s apartment, and her computer, they discovered extensive tracking on all of them. Paid private investigators had followed them all for nearly a decade. An elaborate Ponzi scheme had taken Flynn’s money and sent him to prison for five years. On Talia’s computer, they found the details. The mastermind behind the scheme: Talia, operating as a venture capitalist, a man named Garrett Brooks—a beneficiary who worked on Flynn for years before Flynn trusted “him.” Talia made Garrett Brooks disappear as easily as he appeared, and Flynn’s defense merely looked like a pathetic attempt to cast blame. Had Flynn swindled innocent people out of their life savings? Or had he simply fallen for a line fed by Garrett Brooks? Penelope couldn’t be sure, but she’d bet the latter. The Flynn she knew would never have done anything so immoral. Garrett Brooks was a mirage, and in the end all the accounting had Flynn’s name on it.