The Women in the Walls (7 page)

Sure he didn't. Kent's wife, Mary-Anne, a dark-haired lady with impressively smooth skin for her age, looks deeply embarrassed as she scoops more chorizo onto her plate.

“Of course not,” Gregory pipes in. “I'm sure Kent just meant that it must feel strange being the king of a place where you have no authentic blood roots—”

“The Acosta name will carry on,” my father interrupts. “As I'm sure you remember, I had my name changed when Eva and I married, and my daughter, Lucy, was born into it, as well. I've always been fully aware of the connection this place has to the club. I will continue to provide the space for get-togethers and galas, I will continue to fund whatever is needed for our projects of interest...”

“Well now, Felix,” Gregory cuts in. “There's no need to get defensive, my boy. I have never been less than impressed with your contributions to our club and the community of Scarborough Falls.”

My father doesn't respond, instead draining the sangria from his glass before pouring more.

“Let's move on,” I say loudly, much to the shock of Kent and Gregory. If they won't respect my father for his lack of “authentic” Acosta blood, I will drown them out using mine. “What a thing to bring up in front of everybody at the first gathering without my aunt. And from someone who just made a toast in her honor, no less.”

Embarrassed silence from Gregory and Kent; supportive nods from other members. My father nods at me ever so slightly, but I don't return the gesture. I didn't do it for him, I did it for Penelope. And myself, to be honest, because if I had to listen to one more second of it all, I would have screamed.

“Good job, sweetie,” Nancy slurs to me from across the table. “Something tells me that your aunt would have been extremely proud to see you defuse a nonsensical situation such as that.”

Margaret lets out a sharp little sigh from beside me. If Gregory hears his wife's words, he doesn't show it, instead carrying on with someone sitting to Margaret's left about the current state governor. Nancy goes on stuffing her face with food and guzzling her drink, and the rest of the meal goes on without incident.

After dessert has been served and consumed, the couples leave one by one, all stopping to say goodbye or give condolences before they disappear into the night, except for Gregory and Kent, who slip out quietly with their wives when my father isn't looking.

Once everybody's gone and the house is silent again, my father goes into the kitchen to make sure Miranda and Vanessa are ready to pack away the leftover food and clean up, then returns to the dining room to announce he is turning in early.

“Thank you for what you said earlier,” he mumbles as he passes me, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets. “Gregory has always been envious of this estate, and it doesn't help any that he was rejected by Penelope decades ago and had to marry that horrible Nancy woman...”

“It's all right,” I say, unable to resist smiling just a little bit at the visual of Penelope shooting Gregory down. I never heard that before. I wonder if Nancy knows. “He was totally out of line.”

“You're making that up,” Margaret scoffs from where she stands beside me in the entry room, at the foot of the grand staircase. It's the first time she's spoken since dinner. “Gregory is nicer than I've been giving him credit for. It's his wife who's out of line. Mom would have been lucky to be with a man like him. She never would have turned him down.”

My father laughs darkly. “Believe what you want to believe,” he says as he disappears into the unlit hallway that leads to his study. “Good night, girls.”

“Good night,” I call after him.

“Your dad is delusional,” Margaret says with a huff and turns to head up the stairs. “He's just mad that she didn't love
him
.”

But she did love him, and I'm pretty sure my cousin knows it deep down. Let her continue to deny it; it's not like it matters anymore, anyway.

“Wait,” I say. “You shouldn't be alone right now. Just come hang out in my room tonight. We can talk, or—”

“It's too late for that shit,” she replies without a pause. “By the way, how does it feel to know that you're not Penelope's favorite anymore?”

My heart skips in my chest. “Margaret,” I say as calmly as possible. “You've lost your mind. How do you not realize it? A few days ago you said Penelope's ghost was in the walls, that she wanted you dead. Now you're closer than you've ever been?”

“She heard us talking the other day in your room.” Margaret is still making her way up the stairs. “After we found those graves. She said I misunderstood, and she explained things to me, she even talked about
you
—”

“Christ, Margaret!” I cut her off. “What is
happening
here?”

She does pause then, midway to the second floor. “Why don't you tell me?”

I stare at her, trying to figure out if I believe she is capable of hurting my aunt.

“You had a bad relationship with Penelope, and now she's gone,” I say, no longer wanting to hold back, wondering instead if I can make her confess something. “You're obsessing over it, and you're taking it out on me because she and I were so close, but you
know
something, Margaret. You know something that you haven't told me!”

“You are so self-centered.” Margaret laughs. “I saw the way you used to puff your chest out after my mom would compliment you on anything. Well, guess what, cousin? She only treated you that way because she felt sorry for you. Because your dead mom was a bitch and your dad is so pathetic that he could hardly keep it in his pants whenever he was around his own sister-in-law.”

My face gets hot, and I take a step toward her. Hard times for Margaret or not, I'm pissed. “How dare you?”

“And you wonder why I don't talk to you about stuff anymore,” she says, coming down just one step as she glares. “You're so judgmental. I know things about you, you know, things my mom told me in the attic the other night, things that you'd be humiliated to know were no longer secret.”

“You need to be committed,” I say in all seriousness. “I'll make the call myself if I have to, first thing in the morning.”

“You'd better leave me alone, Lucy,” Margaret says over her shoulder as she heads past the break to the second floor and onward to the third.
Going to the attic again. Of course.

“Or else what?” I call up the stairs.

“I'll tell your father all about that sick little box you keep in your room.”

I freeze where I stand, willing myself not to show any reaction. “What?”

“Do you realize how profoundly fucked up it is that you've
decorated
that thing?” she continues. “Something tells me there's more evidence in this house to put you away than there is for me.”

For a second I feel like I might throw up. She wouldn't do that, would she? What would my father say? A lump forms in my throat at the realization that I actually care about what he thinks about me. It's something I've vehemently denied to myself over the past years in reaction to how cold he is, to me, to Margaret, to everybody except Penelope. But I don't
want
to care what he thinks; why can't I just change that? Of all the things I've kept under control, why can't I have that one thing?

Now, seeing the look on Margaret's face, I believe that she would tell.

I remember how I felt to wake up to the scissors pointed at my throat, how her fist was shaking, like she was having to stop herself from killing me right then and there. “What's happened to you?” I finally manage.

“Something that should have happened a long time ago,” she calls down from the top of the grand staircase before heading down the dark hallway that leads to the attic. “I finally got my mother back.”

I ARRANGE PIECES
of wood inside the fireplace in my bedroom as soon as I get in, my movements rigid and slow. I regret nothing in my life as much as I regret showing Margaret my collection of razors and lighters and pins—how could I have ever thought it was a good idea?

Because she was your best friend
, I think.
Because you were tired of feeling alone. Because you shouldn't have had to worry that she'd use it against you someday.

But she is, and I am helpless to the threat. How did I fail to notice that telling Margaret my secret would give her all the power over me? I showed her my ultimate weakness. Shame burns hotter than anything else inside me, rising, all-encompassing. The idea of that shame being exposed to my father and the world is enough to immobilize me.

I refuse to even look at the cigar box on my vanity shelf, the jewels and glitter shimmering in the light of the fireplace. I don't just feel the weight of my inevitable loss of control to it—now there's humiliation, too. I thought I was so strong when I first started using the razors and pins, a true Acosta making her own way, but in truth I've been weak from the start. And Margaret? I'm starting to believe she's more than just reckless. I'm starting to believe that she's dangerous, too.

After getting into bed, I hold my hands over my ears, blocking out the nonexistent sounds of the box pleading with me to come take a peek inside, to come find some relief in the pain.

Think about something else
, I command myself desperately. So instead of the razors, I think about what Margaret said when she got upset in my bedroom a few days back, about her future being under the ground. I'm starting to believe that mine might be, too.

Maybe then,
finally
, I won't have to be alone anymore. Or if I am, I most certainly won't give a shit. Either way, I win. After a few more minutes of lingering on the fantasy of eternal peace, I am able to lower my hands from my ears. I eventually climb out of bed to change into loose cotton pajamas and wipe off my makeup, before returning. I wiggle in between the two pillows and pull the duvet and satin sheets up to my chin, forming a protective cocoon.

The darkness of my bedroom comforts me, as it always has. Margaret is afraid of the dark, oddly enough, even with her fireplace lit. She hates how the flames cause strange shadows to flicker over the walls. She used to say it made it look like the swirl design of the elaborate Victorian wallpaper was curling into itself.

But it's that same atmosphere that helps me feel hidden, quiet, calm. As long as I'm in here, everything is okay, at least for now. My door is locked and it's late enough to go to sleep.

Tomorrow will be even worse than today
, I say to myself in warning, to begin the mental preparation now. I remember the hatred in Margaret's eyes at the end of our fight, when she called me judgmental, and the great sadness deep inside me flexes its brawny muscle again, still sore from when I fantasized about death. I find myself terrified of what awaits me in the daylight.

There comes a gentle knock on the door. I sit up, confused as to why the fire is almost out already. Did I fall asleep without realizing it? I get up in the near-dark and make my way to the door. Standing in the hallway is Vanessa, looking tired and unhappy.

“I'm sorry if I woke you up,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “But is there any chance you know where Margaret is? She's not in her room and I thought she might be in here.”

“Why are you looking for her?” I lean against the door frame, still woozy from sleep, eager to get back to bed. “She's probably up in the attic again, on the next floor up.”

Vanessa nods and walks away without another word, her ponytail swaying behind her.

“Wait,” I call after her when I process what just happened, suddenly feeling very awake. “Why are you trying to find Margaret this late?”

Vanessa doesn't answer, just loops the corner of the hallway and disappears. I run after her, fast enough to catch up by the time she's made it to the staircase. I wasn't thinking when I told Vanessa about the attic.

“Stop,” I say, and the girl turns to stare at me impatiently. “She's not feeling very well and it would be a bad idea to interrupt her while she's up there.”

“I don't really care how she's feeling,” Vanessa says, her face flushed from walking so quickly. “She's going to come downstairs to clean up the mess she made and apologize to my mother, or I'm going to call the police.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my stomach dropping. “What did she do to Miranda?”

“As if you don't know,” Vanessa says, narrowing her eyes. “My mom swears up and down that it had to have been Margaret alone, that
she's
the troubled one, but I've seen how you two are together, so forgive me for jumping to conclusions. Because if you don't mind me saying, you and your cousin both seem kind of fucked up.”

The girl's glare is cutting. I can't tell her she's wrong, because she isn't.

“What did she do?” I ask, out of my mind worried about whatever the answer will be. “Tell me what she did and I'll go with you to find her.”

Vanessa's eyebrows relax, her mouth still turned down. “You really have no idea?”

“No.”

The new girl sighs and looks up to the darkened third floor. “She left a dead rat on my mother's pillow. Cut open. Its guts were spread out all over the pillowcase.”

I raise a hand to cover my mouth, wishing I hadn't answered my door. I thought I was scared before, but this is a nightmare come to life.

“My mom walked in on her and she bolted,” Vanessa continues. “I showed up a few minutes later to say good-night and she told me what happened. Now I'm here.”

“Oh my God.” I feel ill.

It's never going to stop escalating, I realize. She's snapped, and there's no going back. Even if it ends with me getting sent away, I need to get her some outside help and end this. I have no idea what will happen to me, but after what I've just heard, I'm beyond caring. Let me take down the family's reputation single-handedly. Let my father find out who I really am.

Let me prove to myself that I'm capable of being strong, just once.

“I'm so sorry,” I say to Vanessa, scared at what else my cousin might do.

“I don't want to hear that from you,” she says, continuing to go up the stairs to the third floor. “I want to hear it from her. Right after she finishes explaining to me why she'd do such a fucked-up thing to someone who busts her ass to keep this ridiculous freak show up and running.”

I imagine how the dinner party with the club must have looked to someone who wasn't born into it.
Freak show
comes pretty close, I guess.

“I realize you're really mad,” I say, scrambling to follow her. “But I don't think confronting her about it here and now is a good idea, seriously. She's messed up about her mom. She's not right in the head.” I need to get rid of this girl, and fast.

“I'm going to talk to her about it,” she says, “and I'm going to talk to her about it now.”

I'm beginning to panic. There is no possible way this will end even close to okay. “Just let me go in first,” I plead, trying to stay close to Vanessa as she reaches the top of the stairs. “To give her a heads-up so she doesn't get too startled. Trust me when I say that it's for your own good, seriously!”

She finally slows her pace, then stops to look back at me.

“Fine,” she finally agrees, crossing her arms. “Hurry up, please.”

At least there's that. I nervously make my way down the hallway that leads to the back corner of the house, my pulse still pounding in my ears from Vanessa's confrontation. I need to do what I can to make sure that this doesn't turn into a full-on brawl between the two of them, and get Margaret to my father immediately. But when we finally turn toward the back corner of the third floor, the sight is unexpected.

The miniature staircase descending from the attic opening is shrouded in shadow.

The light in the attic is off.

“Are you sure she's up there?” Vanessa whispers, sounding uneasy. “You do realize what time it is, right? Why would she be up there in the dark?”

Margaret's afraid of the dark.

“She's been sleeping up there,” I respond. I feel jittery at the idea of climbing up into the dark space and turning on the light. “I told you, she isn't right in the head.”

“I figured that out the first time I met her,” Vanessa says. For a moment I'm embarrassed about what she said.
You and your cousin both seem kind of fucked up.
After the past few days, I can't even bring myself to disagree with her, and that's the worst part. Who have I become?

I climb the tiny steps up into the pitch-black. The air in the attic is cool against my hot face. I don't hear anything, not Margaret snoring, not Margaret breathing. I wave my hand wildly in front of myself, trying to locate the chain that hangs from the single bulb somewhere in the center of the room. I inch forward, dragging my feet to avoid stepping on my cousin if she's sleeping on the floor.

“Are you guys screwing with me?” I hear Vanessa's voice below me. “Why aren't you turning on the light?”

I'm trying
, I want to say, but don't want to startle Margaret awake. I hurry my pace, and my fingers finally graze across the cold metal string hanging in the air in front of me. I pull it down hard and quick, gasping as all my pent-up fear releases and the room is flooded with light.

The attic is empty.

“Hello?” Vanessa calls up again. “Can I come up now?”

“She's not here,” I say, goose bumps flourishing over my arms. I climb back down through the opening on the floor, not bothering to turn the light off. “You said you looked in her room?”

“Yes.” Vanessa looks let down at Margaret's absence. “She's probably off mutilating another animal or something. Sicko.”

I take off for the stairs again. Where else would she be at this time of night?
Something is wrong
, my brain screams, and my head gets light with anxiety.

“Maybe she's hiding in one of these extra rooms,” Vanessa says, taking in the amount of closed doors studded along the hallways.

“Maybe,” I say, even though I know for a fact that she's not. If my cousin was hiding, it'd be somewhere good, undetectable and most definitely not a guest bedroom. Regardless, I can no longer put on a front for this girl. “Why don't you check them out while I try her room again?”

She nods seriously and walks into the first spare room, turning the light on as I head for the stairs. I need to talk to Margaret alone first, before the new girl goes crazy on her and possibly sets her off, and before I take her to my dad. But where is she?

I go briskly back down to the second floor, opening my cousin's door just long enough to confirm that her room is indeed empty. I decide to check the library next, since it's on the same floor and was frequented by Margaret somewhat often before Penelope disappeared. After looping around the horseshoe-shaped hallway, I step into the library.

I don't even bother to turn on a light—it's not necessary with the amount of moonlight that is streaming in through the massive wall of windows in the back. I call my cousin's name and weave my way through the shelves of books, which tower over me in the shadows. I try not to imagine Margaret's hand shooting out from behind one of the shelves, still holding the knife she used to cut open the rat, the blade slicing through my Achilles tendon like butter. Soon, I've searched through the entire room and find myself at the chair I moved in front of the window to overlook the forest days before. The sight of the chair makes me want to throw it through the glass.

I'm about to head out to scour the first floor when I see something through the window that catches my eye, off in the distance where the forest begins.

The glow of a flashlight.

Someone is returning from a walk in the woods. As I squint out the window, I notice that whoever is holding the flashlight isn't just walking, they're running. I watch, breathless, as the light gets closer and closer to the house. I see that it's heading toward the entrance in the kitchen, and I bolt out of the library and down the stairs. I'm halfway through the dining room when Margaret steps in from the kitchen, still holding the flashlight.

“Hi!” she manages, completely out of breath. “I'm glad you're here, Lucy.”

My blood runs cold as I take in my cousin's outfit: a pair of blue pajama bottoms and a loose, black tank top. There is blood all over her hands.
She really did cut open a rat!
I search her free hand for a knife but don't see it.
She could be hiding it in her waistband.

“Margaret,” I say, struggling to sound calm. “Why were you outside this late, and why didn't you bring a coat? It's freezing outside.”