It took me a moment to understand what he was referring to, and then I remembered: the PI’s case files on my mother.
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks for sending those.”
“Did you find the answers you were looking for?” he asked.
“Yes and no,” I said. “I got some answers, but somehow more questions, too.”
Uncle Teddy nodded.
“My uncle Hank said the two of you had an interesting conversation, though,” I said.
“Did he?”
“Apparently, you threatened him and made him hand over the photographs he found at the lake house?”
“I tried asking nicely first,” Uncle Teddy said, taking another sip of Aunt Grier’s champagne. “But Hank has always been a bit . . . gruff. When he refused, I might have gotten a little . . . colorful in my response.”
“Why would you do that?”
Uncle Teddy sighed. “If you listened to those interviews, you already know.”
“You and my mother used to date,” I said.
“It was more than that. She was the first girl I ever loved,” Uncle Teddy said. “Listen,” he said after a moment, “I want you to know, that whatever was said in those interviews, whatever some people might think, Grace never cared about the money. If anything, she loved your father despite his money, despite who his family was.”
“You really think she loved him?” I asked. I used to be so sure of the deep affection my parents had for one another, so sure of their tight bond. But after everything I’d learned over the past couple months, I’d started to doubt it.
“Yes, I do,” Uncle Teddy said. “As much as it pains me to admit it.”
“You don’t think she ran off, do you?” I asked.
Uncle Teddy shook his head. “No, I don’t. But I’ve never had any solid evidence to the contrary. And when you mentioned those photographs, well, I had to see them.”
“What did you make of them?” I asked.
“Not much,” Uncle Teddy said. “They looked like some sort of blackmail, maybe, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, to be honest with you.”
“I couldn’t either,” I lied. If Uncle Teddy didn’t know, then he hadn’t spoken to my father about the photographs, or, if he had, my father hadn’t told him the truth. I wasn’t sure why I was protecting my father when I still wasn’t sure I believed his story, but for some reason, I was.
“Apparently, Clementine convinced the sitter she’s allowed to have processed sugar,” Aunt Grier said, returning clearly agitated. “She ate half a bag of your secret stash of marshmallows and is now running around the house like a crazy person and refuses to go to bed.”
“Come on,” Uncle Teddy said, putting his hand at the small of Aunt Grier’s back. “Let’s go look at overpriced vacation rentals. That will calm you down.”
He gave me a wink as he steered my aunt in the direction of the silent auction tables across the room.
Someone put their arms around me from behind and I stiffened. Then I heard Dalton’s voice in my ear as he tugged me close.
“You look ravishing,” he said.
I wanted to remind him that the word “ravish” came from the Latin word rapere, which meant “to violently seize or take away by force.” I knew that meaning of the word was archaic now, but I still found it a little offensive that women were supposed to take it as compliment when men were basically saying, You look so good I want to carry you off by force and have my way with you. But I bit my tongue.
“You know, when we were setting up earlier, I noticed there are a lot of dark corners and empty hallways in this building,” he whispered. His hands circled my waist. “I could show you.”
“Is your mother here?” I asked.
His hands stilled. “My mom?” he asked, sounding disappointed.
“Yes,” I said. “When I was putting together the silent auction this morning, I saw something she might really like. I wanted to show her.”
“Can’t you do that later?”
I pivoted out of his arms and gave him a quick, pacifying peck on the tip of his nose. “I’ll come find you after,” I lied.
I found Margot making the rounds at the silent auction tables.
“Looking for anything in particular?” I asked.
Margot straightened and gave me a smile. She was wearing a classic off-the-shoulder gown in black. She looked polished and stunning.
“The vacation homes are always my favorite part,” Margot said. She took a sip from her champagne glass. “Oliver—Royce’s father—and I are thinking of investing in a place in Napa. I was seeing if there were any places I might stay while I looked.”
“If travel is your thing, I have something that might interest you,” I said.
She followed me to the end of the table, and I pointed to the item card I had staged there that morning. I studied her face as she read to gauge her reaction.
Vintage Burberry Cloth Luggage Set in Paisley Print, $500
Wouldn’t you just kill for a striking set of luggage that will make you the envy of every girl in town? This vintage Burberry cloth luggage set in paisley print is perfect for a quick getaway. Get noticed with this elegant and graceful style.
Luggage set is in nearly mint condition with only a slight tear in the inner lining. Don’t let this steal pass you by.
Margot was silent for a moment. Then she gave me a knowing smile.
“You’re a clever girl, Charlie,” Margot said, taking another sip of her champagne. “And you have a certain fortitude that I admire. You must get that from Grace.”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice bare and cold. “Don’t talk about my mother as if you were her friend.”
I was sure now that the blond woman I had seen down by the lake that night ten years ago with my mother wasn’t Claire. It was Margot. And the embrace I’d thought I’d understood at the time had been something else entirely. Not an embrace, but a struggle.
“You killed her,” I said. “I saw you that night down by the lake. And before my mother, there was Jake. You killed him, too.”
Margot sighed and took a sip of her champagne. “That’s too strong a word for what happened with Jake,” she said. “We were kids. I was seventeen. Jake took those pills of his own volition; no one forced him. And if we hadn’t done what we did, he probably would have died anyway. That’s the ugly truth of it. He wouldn’t have made it to the hospital. We didn’t know what we were doing, but in the end, it was good that we didn’t, because we probably wouldn’t have had the guts to do it. We gave him a swift and painless end. It was merciful, what we did.”
“I would hardly call that merciful,” I said.
“He was unconscious,” Margot said. “He didn’t feel anything.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” I said.
“I do,” Margot said. “I stood at the Ledge and I held him. His body was so still and cold and lifeless that we thought he was dead. And when he went into the water, he just—sank. He was there one moment, and gone the next.”
“So you admit that you were the one to throw him in?” I asked.
“Your father was supposed to be the one to do it,” Margot said. “But he was too weak to stomach it.”
“So first there was Jake,” I said. “And then my mother found out the truth. And you couldn’t have that.”
“I told her what happened that night, because she wanted to know,” Margot said. “And that was supposed to be the end of it. But then she hired an investigator. He showed up one day asking questions.”
Margot shook her head at the memory, as if it still grated on her nerves.
“Where is she?” I asked. “Where did you put her?”
Margot looked at me and gave me a sad little smile. “I want to be very clear, Charlie, so that you understand me,” she said. “I’ve worked very hard to get to where I am. And I won’t ever let anyone take that away from me. Not Jake. Not your mother. And not you.
“You’re smart, Charlie, so really th
ink this through,” she said. She held up a finger.
“First, there’s Jake,” she said. “You can’t make a case about Grace without talking about what happened to Jake. And there are witnesses for that night—people who will say it was your father who did it and who blackmailed us into staying quiet. I could never lift Jake by myself; I couldn’t have acted alone. But your father could have, and we’ll all say he did, because why should we all take the blame when it can so conveniently be shouldered by one?”
She held up another finger.
“And then there’s Grace,” she said. “I suppose you think you have evidence. But all you really have is a pair of suitcases that could have easily been planted in my basement by you or Alistair—both of whom have very conveniently been up to my house recently. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve touched those suitcases. Your DNA is probably all over that basement.”
Margot clucked her tongue.
I couldn’t believe the lies she was spinning, how easily she manipulated the facts until the story played in her favor. In the end, that’s what it would all come down to: the best story. It didn’t matter what the truth was; all that mattered was what people would believe. And what if they believed her?
“It’s amazing to me how much credit men always get,” Margot said. “Even for things they have no part in. I never lifted a finger to point people in Alistair’s direction, and yet look how viciously they went after him. You wouldn’t want to see the damage I could do to your father if I actually tried.”
“One day,” I said, “all of your lies are going to catch up to you.”
Margot shook her head. “That’s what you still don’t understand, Charlie. That’s the thing about the truth: nobody wants to tell it. Not even you. Nobody tells the whole truth and comes away unscathed.”
I opened my mouth to say something, to level at her some threat, but nothing came out. Because as much as I didn’t want to believe what she was saying, I knew that she was right.
It was just like what Ren had told me that night that I became an initiate of the A’s: secrets bound us to one another. It was a bond that could make us, just as surely as it was a bond that could destroy us all.
Forty
Grace Calloway
August 4, 2007
9:25 p.m.
I finished my sprint across the lake, my breaths racking my body, my heart exploding in my chest. I turned over onto my back in the water, taking a deep breath through my nose and exhaling slowly, puffing out my cheeks, to steady my breathing. That sweet sense of exhaustion settled over me, my muscles tingly and weak—so weak I could barely hold myself up. I let the water buoy me, my ears slipping below the waterline so I could hear the hum and echo of the lake.
My mind drifted, as languid now as the muscles I had worked past their breaking point. I thought about the photographs of me and Peter and the girls that I’d hidden underneath the floorboards of my bedroom, and the five hundred thousand dollars in cash I’d packed in my suitcase, along with the forged passports that Peter had secured for me and the girls.
Tonight, I’d take the girls and we’d drive down to Teterboro, where I’d arranged to charter a private jet to Mexico City. I had used my new identity when making the arrangements and had paid extra for a pilot who would be discreet. From there, the girls and I would fly on to Léon, where we’d board a bus to take us the remaining hour and a half southeast to San Miguel de Allende, a Spanish colonial town in central Mexico nestled in the Bajío mountains—the last place anyone would think to look for us. We’d stay in a hotel until I could find a small house on the outskirts of the city to rent.
I hadn’t told anyone where we were going or what I knew about Jake’s death—not Hank or my mother or Claire. I didn’t want to put them in the same sort of danger I’d landed myself and the girls in. Once we made it to San Miguel, I would find a way to send them word that we were safe.
I’d already packed my suitcases and loaded them into my SUV. In half an hour, I would wake the girls and pack their things. We’d touch down in Mexico before Alistair woke up tomorrow, before anyone would notice that we were gone or think to look for us.
I was still trying to figure out the best way to handle Charlotte. Seraphina would go easily, too groggy with sleep to ask questions. She’d doze in her car seat on the drive down, and I’d carry her from the car to the plane, her warm body clinging to mine. But Charlotte would be alert and inquisitive as soon as I woke her, and I knew she wouldn’t go anywhere without Alistair. I knew how stubbornly she loved her father, how blindly, how resolutely.
Every Friday evening, she’d insist on staying up late to wait for Alistair to drive in from the city. We’d sit on the couch in the front living room watching Nick at Nite, the girls growing bleary eyed and yawning. But as soon as Alistair’s headlights turned down the drive and reflected off the television screen, Charlotte would snap awake and shake her sister, and they’d race out onto the front step in their nightgowns and bare feet to greet him.
But last night, much to their disappointment, I’d sent the girls to bed at their normal bedtime. Seraphina sulked but Charlotte raged.
“You can’t tell somebody when to go to sleep,” Charlotte said. “That’s like telling someone when to breathe. You can’t actually make me.”
It was such an articulate argument for a seven-year-old. How had enforcing bedtime become a larger discussion on Charlotte’s autonomy over her own body? She was surely Alistair’s child, through and through.
“Bed,” I said, too exhausted to get into it. “Now.”
“I’ll go to my room but I won’t go to sleep,” Charlotte said as she marched off upstairs.
“Brush your teeth first,” I called after her.
She was determined to keep herself awake until Alistair came home. When I went up to check on her an hour later, I found the stubborn girl had fallen asleep propped up against her pillows, sitting upright in her bed.
When Alistair had arrived, he’d woken the girls anyway, against my protests. The three of them rushed outside to catch fireflies, Alistair calling over his shoulder for me to bring mason jars from the pantry. When I came out, I saw them, barefoot in the front yard, hands outstretched toward the sky.
How could I reconcile that Alistair—the one who wandered around barefoot in the yard with our daughters catching fireflies, with the man who had done those terrible things to me this evening? I could still feel his hands on me as he pressed me up against the shower wall, one hand on my neck as he thrust his body against mine, the water in my mouth, so I could barely breathe.
I gagged and choked.
It took me a moment to realize what was happening, that there was actually something, someone, holding me down, their hands on my shoulders, twisting around my neck, pushing me below the water. I coughed, trying to get my bearings, my heart hammering in my chest. I felt a hot wave of adrenaline course through me as I clawed at their fingers, trying to loosen their grip, but they only applied more pressure, pushing me farther down.
It was shallow enough that I could stand. My toe stubbed the rocky bottom of the lake and I stood, pressing myself upward, out of the water. The top of my head met the underside of their jaw, and I heard the hard clacking of teeth. Their grasp on me slipped slightly, and I thrust out and hit at them blindly, as I gulped in air and tried to blink the water out of my eyes. I felt my fist knock into flesh, breaking their grip on me. They groaned.
My eyes cleared then and in the dim moonlight I saw the familiar curves of her face, the blond tint of her hair. Margot.
She lurched toward me, grabbing on to my shoulders, trying to force me back beneath the water, and I grabbed on to her, one hand clawing at her shoulder, the other pulling at her hair. I brought my knee up, hard, into her stomach, and I heard the breath go out of her as she released me. I turned and ran toward the shore, back toward the house, but the water muted my strides, pulling at me, slowing me down.
My chest was heaving and my legs shook as I ran, all
my energy sapped from my sprints and that initial surge of adrenaline. I could hear her close behind me in the water, closing the gap between us. I wasn’t fast enough. She thrust herself forward, onto my back, and I screamed—a shrill, bloodcurdling call into the night.
Margot grabbed and tore at me, one hand in my face. I bit down on her fingers, drawing blood, and she slipped off of me. I swung around to face her, and our arms locked around each other. We grappled with one another, each trying to push the other down.
I gasped for breath. My legs felt leaden. Margot grunted and shoved me backward and I fell. I felt the weight of her body slam on top of me and I took an involuntary breath, lake water flooding into my mouth. Margot’s hands encircled my neck and she squeezed, tighter and tighter, her thumbs cutting off my trachea. My jugulars beat against her palms like rabid drums. She pushed my face underneath the water and it was in my eyes, my mouth. I struggled against her with all that was in me, with my shaking, weakened arms, but I couldn’t get up.
I thought about my girls, all alone in the house, asleep upstairs. What would happen to them? I tried to think of some way to protect them, the way my whole life I had tried to protect them, to shelter them from the sadness and the evil in the world, from all the injustice and the cruelty. Now I saw how futile that was, how misguided. I shouldn’t have kept the darkness from them; I should have taught them how to survive it, how to shine through it. I should have taken them outside on a moonless night and pointed up at the stars, at those pocks of light in the darkness, how they lit up even then.
I took another involuntary breath and felt the water claw its way down my throat, into my lungs. She held me there, until my body went still and limp, the beat of my pulse flickering out.
Forty-One
Charlie Calloway
2017
It was the busiest I’d seen the dining hall on a Sunday morning all semester. Most of the alumni whose children attended Knollwood were crowding the pancake bar or sitting along the long oak tables with their kids, eating breakfast. I grabbed a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice and sat down at an empty table. I checked my watch. My father had said he’d meet me for breakfast at eight thirty this morning before heading back to the city. It was nearing eight forty-five.
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