The Women in the Walls (4 page)

“Let's just say I have my ways,” she says after the pause. She wipes her mouth with a napkin and stands, smoothing the back of her satin pajama pants before facing me. “I'm going to bed now. Maybe we can...hang out tomorrow or something.”

She hasn't suggested such a thing in days. I might be happy about the idea if it wasn't for the dreadful pit growing heavy in my stomach. Underneath the table, my feet are tucked nervously against one another. My chest tightens at the sight of her still-present smirk.

“Sure,” I say quietly, desperate for the conversation to end. “Whatever you say, Margaret.”

“Cool.” She gives the top of my head a rough kiss before heading out toward the staircase. “Go to sleep, Lucy. And stop thinking about what happened to my mother. One way or another, death is painful for us all.”

For five full minutes I sit alone at the table, too scared to move, too worried. The notion that Margaret had anything to do with my aunt's disappearance makes me physically ill. There is no way it could be real. At first I thought she was just acting strange because of grief, but certain things, like the attic and the ruined photographs and that icy smirk, make me feel like there's something that she's hiding. Something beyond the disappearance and bigger than her jealousy over how well Penelope and I got along.

I sift through memories in my head, looking for clues suggesting that my cousin is capable of anything sinister: Margaret glaring on as my aunt and I fawned over a gardening book together that my cousin had deemed dull, or Penelope praising me over my studies during dinner, while hardly acknowledging that Margaret had done just as well—if not better—with hers.

There were many instances like that, I know deep down. At the time I was always too happy to notice or care how Margaret felt—whenever I felt bad about it, the same bitter thought would come back to me, sour in my mind:
at least she's got a real mother.

Still, the memories feel stranger now, darker. Is it because there's truth to my suspicions, or is it because I'm completely overcome with paranoia?
No
, I decide,
this is silly. I am just under a considerable amount of stress, and so is Margaret. There's an explanation for everything that's happened.

Margaret could never kill anybody.

Maybe just one small cut
, my mind whispers frantically as the panic fails to dissipate.
Go up to your room and let the pressure bleed out of you, just a little bit, just until your hands stop shaking...

I nearly jump out of my skin when somebody enters the room from behind me. I turn with a gasp, only to see the cook standing beside a similarly featured girl who looks to be around my age. They are both wearing coats that are streaked with rain.

“I'm so sorry to startle you, honey,” Miranda says. “I was just bringing Vanessa through to her room. She arrived earlier than planned.”

Despite my already-growing resentment for Vanessa, I'm at least grateful for the abrupt interruption of silence. It almost feels like someone caught me in the act of something unspeakable, even though there's no way for them to tell what was going through my head. The leftover shame simmers away slowly inside—
nothing happened, you did it, you stopped yourself.

I know deep down that I just got lucky.

I take the girl in, the first peer besides Margaret whom I've seen in a few years, since we started doing our schooling at home. We hated school and the people in it, but not as much as they hated us. Whenever I started coming close to making a friend, Margaret would get jealous and ruin it somehow, earning herself a reputation for being weird and rude. I soon learned it was easier for everybody if I blocked people out from the start. Eventually we just stopped going altogether. It was better for us, Margaret insisted, and I agreed.

“Hi,” the girl says and smiles at me. “You must be Lucy, or Margaret. Either way, I've heard all about you.”

The girl is stupidly cheerful, causing me to feel validated in my preconceived notions about her. Does she not know the circumstances, the entire reason she's here in the first place? Why would she grin at me like she's on fucking vacation?

“It's raining outside?” I ask blankly, staring at the droplets of water falling from the ends of her dark blond hair.

“Yeah,” Vanessa says, uncertainty evident in her voice as she takes in my bitter disposition. “It's been coming down pretty hard for the past hour. The drive was a nightmare.”

I try not to imagine Penelope's body out there in the rain and take a minute to stare into the new girl's face, not caring too much that it might seem rude. “Oh,” I say after a moment. She shifts her weight uncomfortably. “Well, I'm Lucy. Margaret's gone to bed already. I'm just about to turn in myself.”

“You go on ahead, honey,” Miranda says softly and steps up to pat Vanessa's hand. I think she can tell how on edge I am. “I can show Vanessa in just fine. You girls chitchat later.”

Not on your life.

I nod and walk past them, grateful when I realize that Miranda is purposefully lingering behind so that they can walk separately. Knowing I have a minute before they follow, I quickly make my way up to the second floor, past my bedroom to Margaret's.

“Marg?” I say softly and knock on the door. No answer.

“I saw the new girl,” I say through the door. “She came early, apparently. She's way too happy to be here and I'm pretty sure you won't like her.” I pause, my insides turning when I remember the things my cousin said earlier. “Anyway, I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

Still no answer.

“Are you asleep already?” I open the door just a crack and peer in. The fireplace in her room is lit, but the bed is empty. I hear footsteps approaching and realize I don't have enough time to make it back to my room before running into Miranda and Vanessa again. Instead, I keep going down the hall, past the empty room where the hallway curves back to go past the library and around to the main staircase again. While waiting for the new girl to get into her room, I glance up the dark stairs to the third floor.
No way
, I think, shivering.
Margaret's just in the bathroom, most likely.

But curiosity gets the best of me. I make my way to the top of the staircase, my blood already starting to run cold at the silence. My father's room as well as the cook's quarters are both down on the first floor. Nobody lives up here.

Still, there are tiny plug-in lights lining the halls, and by their glow I make my way to the back hallway. The carpet is freshly vacuumed as always, and the stillness and silence coming from the dark, empty spare rooms is looming. Vivid wallpaper surrounds me, its Victorian pattern strangely eerie in the shadows,
reaching
, as if I'm making my way through a tangle of invisible vines that are trying to keep me away from the back end of the house. With every step, it becomes harder to continue forward.

From somewhere in the dark ahead, I hear a sharp, short giggle—Margaret. I take a deep breath and turn the last corner, my heart leaping at the sight before me.

The small opening in the ceiling that leads to the attic is lit up, the glow from the single bulb inside shining down onto the miniature staircase positioned below.

After a moment of shocked silence, I hear footsteps circling the opening, slowly, cautiously, as if she knows that I'm standing down here in the dark.

She giggles again, and I turn on my heel and race back down to my room.

WHEN I WAKE UP
the next morning, I realize, before I've even had the chance to open my eyes, that I'm not alone in my bedroom. There is someone in here,
close
, breathing in long, jagged breaths, like they're struggling to stay calm. Startled, I open my eyes.

Margaret is standing at the head of my bed, her face shockingly blank, her eyes wide and her mouth slacked open as she leans over me. Her hair hangs down like a curtain, casting a shadow over one side of her face. I realize that I'm trapped between her and the wall that my bed rests against. The air is stale with my cousin's morning breath.

Enclosed in her fist is a pair of silver scissors, the elongated blades pointing at my throat.

“What are you doing?” I cry out, my voice still groggy from sleep. Eyeing the scissors, I lean back to sit up against the wall, away from the glistening silver shears. “Why do you have those?”

Margaret blinks then, like she's only just realized what she's doing. She looks to the scissors in her hand, a frown on her face, then turns to toss them onto my desk, like she can't stand to hold them for another second. They spin across the wood before coming to a hard stop against the side of some notebooks. When all is quiet, Margaret turns back toward me. She clears her throat.

“The new girl is here,” she says. “I...wanted to tell you.”

“I know,” I say slowly, pulling the blankets up to my chest from where I lean against the wall. She hasn't stepped back from where she was standing—if I reached out, I could touch her. “I saw her last night. I tried to tell you, but you weren't in your room.”

I don't think she was expecting that. She finally steps away from the bed, lingering in the center of the room. I breathe a long, slow sigh of relief as the panicked feeling of claustrophobia fades away.
What in the hell was that all about?

“Am I supposed to care that you noticed?” she asks, her voice tired.

“I just thought you said you were going to sleep after dinner, is all.”

“I was, okay?” She's getting mad, or possibly embarrassed. “I brought some bedding into the attic. I don't like sleeping in my room anymore.”

I shiver at the memory of seeing the yellow light shining through the opening in the ceiling on the third floor. It's so dusty and stale in the attic, I can't imagine wanting to sleep in it. What's so bad about her bedroom? I suddenly become acutely aware of the scissors on my desk, the blades lit up as they reflect the morning sun streaming through the blinds. I don't like how her face looked just now, when she was holding them near my neck.

“Get up so we can go do stuff,” Margaret says suddenly and makes her way to my vanity to inspect my various tubes of lipstick.

“What kind of stuff?” I ask. Then, because I can't let it go, “What were you doing before I woke up? With the scissors?”

Margaret leans up to the mirror, trying on a dark plum shade that complements her brown skin. “I was trimming my bangs in here while I waited for you to wake up. The scissors were on your vanity.” From where she stands, she picks something up from the base of the mirror—a short clump of hair. “See?”

“But you weren't standing at the vanity,” I say, confused.

“Yeah.” Margaret drops the hair and continues with the lipstick. “I came over there because you started making noises.”

“Noises?”

“Like you were having a bad dream,” she continues. “You started making really weird faces. I came to shake you awake, but you woke up on your own.”

I think back to when I first woke up, before I opened my eyes. I could hear her breathing in the silence. My face was relaxed. Something's not right with the story, but the desperate way my cousin looks at me now is pleading
it's fine, it really is, please just let it go
.

“Look,” Margaret says, her voice softer. “Did you want to hang out today or not? I don't want to be alone.”

Neither do I, I realize. I think I've had just about enough of that.

“Okay.” I give in, pushing the blanket away. Whatever had come over my cousin before has clearly passed by now, whether she was lying about what really happened or not. Clearly, something's on her mind, and she hasn't talked to me for this long in days. Maybe she's finally starting to let me back in.

Maybe she'll tell me what she's been hiding.

“Apparently, things around here are about to get crazy.” Margaret lets out a soulless chuckle. “As if they haven't already. But seriously, how hard could it be to plan a stupid holiday party? They really had to bring another person in? Give me a break.”

“So much goes into it,” I say, defensive on behalf of my aunt. I scoot out of bed and stretch my neck to the side. “More than you'd imagine.” Then, because her eyes have narrowed and I suddenly feel nervous at the idea of saying anything that could possibly remind her of Penelope, “It's completely ridiculous.”

I think of how hard Penelope would always dive into the planning, drawing up centerpiece ideas and making lists and bookmarking recipes for hors d'oeuvres in her cookbooks. Of course Margaret wouldn't have paid attention to any of that, or cared. She thought the whole thing was stupid.

“Those old rich bastards from the country club are what's ridiculous,” Margaret says. “I've never understood why Uncle Felix and my mother were so hell-bent on impressing them with all the parties and dinners. And their
wives
, oh my God, gag me now...”

She puckers her lips and pulls the skin of her temples straight up. “Have you seen my new face-lift, dear?” she says in a flawlessly shrill impression of a country club wife by the name of Nancy Shaw. “It's my tenth one! Whoever says you can't outrun age has clearly never met my wallet, am I right?”

I can't help but laugh at the display. “Pretty spot-on, I have to admit.”

She takes a funny little bow, then straightens back up. “So are we going to do something or not?”

The ice might not be completely broken, but at least it's starting to crack.

“I'll need to shower and stuff,” I say, cautiously optimistic about my cousin's possible turnaround. Maybe getting confronted about the photos last night helped her realize that she's taken things too far. Margaret flops down on my still-unmade bed with a magazine and begins flipping through the pages. Seeing her stand over me with the scissors feels so far away now, like a weird dream.

“Whatever,” she says. “Just hurry up.”

I'm not so sure that it's safe to be truly relieved yet—she still slept in the attic last night. I get ready as quickly as I can, speeding through my shower so that Margaret doesn't have to wait on me any longer than necessary. I don't want anything to turn her mood back around.

“Done,” I say after I've finished with my hair. I feel a strange sort of relief at the idea of being able to get back into our old routine, even if just somewhat. At this point, I'm desperate for things to feel even halfway normal. “Let's eat, I'm starving.”

Margaret whines and throws the magazine down. “Let's just grab something quick and take a walk or something. Put a sweatshirt on.”

“All right.”

The dining room has already been cleared by the time we arrive, the table empty. We walk through to the short hall that leads to the kitchen, where Vanessa stands alone at the island peeling potatoes. She looks happy to see us, until Margaret walks right past her to the refrigerator without even a hello. My cousin opens the fridge and peers inside, grabbing two waffles from a foil-wrapped stack. Then she picks two links of sausage out of a sandwich bag and kicks the door shut.

“I'm Margaret,” she finally says, then walks back over to give me my food. “This is Lucy.”

“I know,” Vanessa says as she peels. “Lucy and I met last night. Hi.”

I give a weak smile.

“So what's the deal with your family?” Margaret asks, biting into her waffle. “How come your mom was so willing to drop everything and come live somewhere with people she'd never met before, just to cook for some country club parties?”

The girl slows down with the peeler, raising an eyebrow at Margaret. “Oh,” she says, tilting her head to the side as if making her mind up about us. “She's in the middle of a gross divorce, so she was happy to leave it all behind.”

It's hard to tell if she's more irritated or embarrassed.

“Bummer about that divorce,” Margaret says with zero compassion. I knew she'd give the new girl a hard time. “So did she tell you that my mother went missing? She's dead. That's the real reason why
you're
here.”

I'm chilled at the sureness in her voice when she mentions Penelope being dead. It reminds me of how she was talking about it all last night. The hope I felt earlier about Margaret's new mood grows weaker. Whatever it is that's bothering her, I'm at least glad she isn't taking it out on me for once, and also that Vanessa finally looks how she should in this house: nervous.

“I'm just here for my winter break,” the new girl says quietly. “But I'm sorry about your mom.”

“No, you're not,” Margaret says with a little laugh. “Don't lie to me, whatever-your-name-is. How could you be sorry about someone you don't know? You're either stupid or you think that
I'm
stupid.”

The girl is blinking at us in shock when a door slams open from somewhere in the front of the house. “Vanessa, come help me bring this stuff inside!” Miranda's voice echoes. Vanessa's face floods with relief at the sound, and she drops the peeler on the counter before disappearing into the hall without another word.

“Well,” I say, looking at the food in my hands. “That was certainly something.”

“It was like ripping off a bandage,” Margaret says with a grin. “I can guarantee you that she won't bother us after this. Didn't want her to get the wrong idea, staying in a room so close to ours.”

Glimpses like this, glimpses of the old Margaret, are what make my heart so desperate to believe that everything will be okay if I just wait it all out.
Just keep your back straight and deal with things as they come
, I tell myself.
Like Penelope would.

“It sounds like Vanessa will only be here until the holiday party,” I say, not enjoying the presence of another new person any more than my cousin is. “At least there's that.” I frown at the idea of having the club here for dinner before then. The first one without Penelope will be especially strange.

“Yep, thank God,” Margaret says, then raises the hand holding her waffle toward the glass patio doors leading to the courtyard. “I'm gonna eat this outside. You coming or what?”

I join her as she opens the sliding door and steps outside, where it's cold. The patio furniture is still wet from the rains last night, so we stand while we eat our waffles and sausage.

“Follow me,” Margaret says after we've finished. She walks backward through the rows of dead rosebushes, her fingers extended and brushing roughly over the tips of the gnarled, thorn-laced branches. The damp chill in the air is biting. “Let's go for that walk.”

“Where?” I say, following her with slight unease. There's something in her tone that's telling of a hidden agenda. She twirls around to face forward again. I notice a strange little skip in her step, an overly enthusiastic touch of pep that I don't think I've seen since we were seven.

“Tell me what's been going on with you.” I rub my hands together in the cold, keeping my eye on her. “I'm kind of still worried.”

“You should be, I think,” Margaret says without turning her head, her voice serious. “I'm starting to worry about myself.”

I knew it. She may have been acting more like herself this morning, but whatever was making her freak out before is still there. I wildly try to think of a way to ask her if she knows what happened to Penelope but can't find the courage to actually open my mouth about it. She'll only get mad, no matter what her answer is, and even if it was yes, it's not like that will make things better.

“I mean it,” I finally manage as I follow her. She makes her way to the end of the courtyard. “We could tell my father that you need to talk to a doctor, and you could tell them all about the photos, or maybe what you thought you heard in the attic...”

She stops walking now. “You don't know what you're talking about, Lucy.”

“Then help me understand,” I try, but Margaret continues walking and doesn't say anything else. We cross over the end of the courtyard, into the dirt and rocks, when I realize that she's heading right for the forest where Penelope disappeared.

My heart jolts at the sight of the trees in the distance. I think about the last time I saw my aunt, how her raven braid lay against her back, how I saw her from the library window and wondered why she hadn't brought a coat or sweater with her for a walk that late in the afternoon.