by Skylar Finn
Her mother seemed as though she couldn’t stand Matilda—the way she dressed, her hair, and even her expressions.
“How do you expect to find a husband with that moody look on your face?” her mother would demand as Matilda would look up, blinking from whatever book she was reading, still half in another world. “Can’t you smile? Be charming? Make jokes? Laugh? It’s as if you’re indifferent to everything and everyone around you but your own interests.”
And she was. Matilda didn’t see why this was an issue: if their father could ignore his wife and daughters in favor of work, why couldn’t Matilda ignore her mother and sister in favor of books? Especially Chelsea. She was maddeningly superior, judgmental, and constantly criticizing Matilda for everything she said and did. Matilda wondered how she would see herself if she weren’t constantly reflected in the hateful mirror of Chelsea’s condescension. It was almost as if she was threatened by Matilda and needed to diminish her in order to validate Chelsea’s own existence, which seemed to consist of little besides brushing her hair and trying on dresses in front of the mirror.
Matilda mostly hid from her mother and Chelsea, who were predictable in their habits. They were always in the living room, plaiting each other’s hair and discussing what dress Chelsea would wear to various school dances and other functions. Meanwhile, Matilda retreated upstairs to her room to read the endless books she checked out from the library. She suspected her father actually knew her much better than he was able to openly express, because for every Christmas and birthday, he always got her a book. He’d get her something long that would require weeks of concentration and attention, something that most people would consider unsuitable for a young girl: The Fountainhead, Moby Dick, To Kill a Mockingbird. Chelsea, on the other hand, read only Nancy Drew.
“She’s a much simpler person than you are,” her father said one night when Matilda and Chelsea had a dreadful fight where Chelsea pulled her hair and tore the pages from her favorite book, The Prince and the Pauper. Matilda dreamed of finding someone to switch places with so she could live out a different, better life. She pretended she was an orphan, adopted to the wrong family, one that didn’t particularly like her and only tolerated her. Like Jane Eyre.
Matilda had been relieved to come of age and leave her family behind, though she had no real direction or idea of what she wanted to do. She liked books, but didn’t know how to write them. She loved children, but had little desire to teach. She drifted from job to job, working variously as a seamstress, a waitress, a secretary, and finally, a nanny. This was when she felt what she’d heard other people describe as a calling. It was the feeling she got from helping children who weren’t her own.
Matilda, who worked for families much wealthier than her own, couldn’t believe they didn’t want to spend time with their own children. She supposed it reminded her of her own parents, whom she could at least pretend were separated from her by their need to work. The families she worked for, on the other hand, seemingly had everything and still abandoned their children. But it was only after her most recent job at a daycare when she realized what she truly wanted to do.
One of Matilda’s favorite children in the daycare had been a precocious and charming boy by the name of Tyler. He loved nothing more than to curl up in the corner with a good book while the other children rambunctiously ran circles around him. One day, Tyler’s mother failed to arrive on time. Matilda read with him hours past the regular closing time, hoping to distract him. It was clear that Tyler knew exactly what was happening and, even worse, seemed resigned to the fact. Eventually, his mother showed up reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, as if she’d brought the entire bar in her purse. She shunted Tyler away into the back of a taxi and Matilda never saw him again.
While she was normally reticent and kept to herself, Matilda surprised herself with how fiercely she pestered the daycare’s manager, Ann, for information about what happened to Tyler. Ann was initially dismissive of Matilda’s questions, telling her it was none of her business and she had no real stake in his life. Nevertheless, she persisted, and Ann eventually relented. She told her that Tyler had been taken away from his mother, an unrepentant alcoholic, and placed in foster care. Matilda was devastated.
What would become of such a bright boy with a promising future, abandoned to the system? She could only hope he found placement with a kind and nurturing family, but there was no way to know that would happen. She had no control and no way of finding him. She would have taken him in herself, had anyone asked her, but of course no one had.
There was, she learned, a whole series of hoops that a well-meaning person had to jump through in order to care for a child not her own, and Matilda was in the midst of this process. She wanted to foster orphans and other children like Tyler with no place to go, thereby ensuring their futures would be happier ones.
This house, she knew, would be fundamental to her goal. She could feel it. She opened the door that led to the foyer and went into the living room, overwhelmed with memories of her grandparents. This was the place she came to get away from her mother and Chelsea when their nagging got to be too much. She’d go to her grandmother’s house, where she’d teach her how to make apple dumplings and her grandfather would let her spend hours in the library, poring over his vast collection of books.
Out of habit, Matilda felt herself drifting there now, entering the cozy space with its fireplace and built-in bookshelves. She ran her fingers along the spines of old leather-bound tomes, picturing the worlds that lie within, and was badly startled when someone cleared his throat behind her.
A man who looked to be about Matilda’s age stood in the doorway, nervously twisting his cap in his hands.
“I’m awful sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I was working on fixing that loose stair on the back steps; board’s a little rotted through. I used to work for your grandparents, and your grandmother still paid me to come up here every so often after she moved out to keep up the place. I guess she wanted to keep it nice for you.”
Matilda was touched. Her grandmother had mentioned the handyman, Richard, a handful of times when Matilda visited her, but it was usually in passing. She didn’t realize he still came to the property even after both her grandparents had passed on.
“Richard,” she said warmly, shaking his hand. “It’s so good to meet you. Thank you for all the work you’ve done here.”
He blushed. “Well, of course. Your grandparents couldn’t have been kinder. I was heartbroken when—” he stopped. “I shouldn’t be saying that to you about your own family. It must be so hard on you.”
“Well, Richard, whenever I feel sad, I tell myself about the long and adventurous lives they led,” said Matilda as she examined a book on the shelf more closely: We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. “I think about how happy they were together, and how happy I was when I was with them. I’m sure we’ll be reunited someday.”
“That’s real nice, ma’am,” said Richard. “What do you plan on doing with this big old place in the meantime?”
Matilda was grateful for his tact: he had not asked what she and her nonexistent husband planned to do with it, or if she would have many children to populate the rooms, as the presumptuous and frankly patronizing lawyer had. She would have to replace him at her earliest convenience.
“Well, Richard,” she said. “What I’d really like to do is start a home for wayward children. A place for displaced girls and boys to go until they can find a more permanent home.”
“Wow,” said Richard. “That’s awfully selfless of you, ma’am.”
“Please call me Matilda,” she said.
“Matilda, I got some old kids’ stuff at my parents’ place I’d be more than happy to bring over for you,” he said. “Stuff that belonged to me and my sisters mostly, but certainly nothing anybody would miss.”
“That would be wonderful,” said Matilda.
“I’ll go right after I fix up that step,” said Ric
hard. “Won’t do to have you falling through the next time you go out the door.”
“Thank you, Richard,” said Matilda.
Over the next few weeks, Matilda dusted, mopped, and cleaned the dusty old house to its former grandeur. With Richard’s help, she cleared the gutters, repaired loose shingles, and painted the walls to brighten up the place. There wasn’t much she could do about the floors or some of the uglier light fixtures for the time being, but Wilson Wimbly at the hardware store gave her an extremely good deal on several dozen cans of paint. By the end of the month, Matilda felt like she had a home of her own.
She hung new drapes in the living room to better block the blinding light that flooded that side of the house—especially after a blizzard, when the sun reflected off the snow. Richard’s Ford truck pulled into the front yard, and Matilda could see that the flatbed of the pickup was covered with a canvas tarp. She went out to the front porch.
“What have you got there?” she called to Richard as he got out of his truck.
“Well, I know you said the kids’ rooms aren’t very kid-like,” he called back. “So, I wanted to bring you some of those old things I mentioned.”
He threw the tarp aside, revealing a wooden toy chest and what looked to be a hand-carved, hand-painted carousel horse. Matilda marveled over the horse until she got to its eyes, beady red rubies set deep in its skull. She shuddered.
“Why are the horse’s eyes red?” she asked as Richard hefted it out of the truck and carried it up the stairs. “I mean, it’s lovely, of course, just a little…jarring.”
Richard paused to examine the horse. “Huh. You know, I never noticed.” He carried the horse past her as Matilda contemplated prying its eyes from its head and replacing them with a more benevolent gemstone, like sapphire or topaz.
They arranged the items in the attic after Matilda unfurled a large rug decorated with toy trains she found at a yard sale for next to nothing. They stood back and admired their handiwork.
“It’s not much, but it’s a pretty good start,” said Matilda.
“Are you kidding me?” said Richard. “If I could have had a place like this when I was a kid, I’d have been in paradise.”
Matilda flushed with pride. “I just hope this house is the refuge to the children that it always was to me.”
Emily read Matilda’s diary while Jesse drove to the local police station downtown. She had discovered it in the pocket of an old sweater in Matilda’s armoire. Emily thought perhaps if she studied it in great detail, it might yield some clue—something mentioned in passing, a stray observation Matilda had made that led to the culprit. Maybe Three Star had threatened her, or she’d seen the sheriff sneaking around the property after hours.
While it was interesting to learn about the house and her life from Matilda’s perspective, most of the entries seemed fairly innocuous, detailing her plans to decorate and her musings about the past. On top of this was the fact that Matilda’s handwriting was an incredibly old-fashioned cursive which seemed better suited to the Victorian era, making it incredibly taxing and time-consuming to wade through. At the same time, Emily worried that if she skimmed through the journal or started with more recent entries first, she’d miss some important observation or insight. Something Matilda had witnessed or seen without even necessarily realizing it.
“How’s the detective work going?” asked Jesse, turning on his blinkers to pull into the parking lot.
Emily sighed. “It’s going. I wish her writing was a little more legible, like in capital letters or something. It takes me forever to get through one of her entries.”
“Well, keep at it. You’re bound to find something in there, right?” Jesse turned off the engine and regarded the squat, one-story tan brick building before them warily. “Are you ready for this?”
“No time like the present, right?” Emily climbed out of the cab of the truck and Jesse did the same. Glancing around the parking lot one last time to make sure Sheriff Oglethorpe’s massive black SUV was nowhere to be seen, they headed towards the front doors of the police station.
18
The police station was still and silent as a church, as if there was very little crime to report. When Emily and Jesse approached the front desk, the receptionist there looked pleasantly surprised, as if they were dropping in for tea.
“What can I help you with?” she said.
“We were looking for an incident report for the night of December 11th of last year,” said Emily. “Regarding the Meade property. It belonged to my aunt. I just need it for my records.”
“Of course,” said the receptionist. She reached for a clipboard and a pen, handing them to Emily. “Just fill out your information, your reason for requesting the report, and the fee. I’ll have that to you in no time.”
Emily filled out the form in the lobby, remarking to Jesse how easy it seemed.
“I thought we’d have to sneak into Oglethorpe’s office after the station was closed,” she said. “With night vision goggles.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” he said. “Oglethorpe could still find out we were here, looking at the report.”
“If he ever comes back from Vail,” said Emily.
She went back to the desk and delivered the clipboard to the receptionist.
“Just one moment please,” she said. “I’ll just need to retrieve this from Records and print it out for you.”
While they waited, Emily walked around the lobby, pausing in front of a glass case filled with framed newspaper articles and various commendations praising the local police force. Most concerning was one of Sheriff Oglethorpe with the mayor, cutting the ribbon on a brand new natural foods store. KEEP BOULDER GREEN, the headline read.
“Man, is everybody in power here best friends here or what?” said Jesse, coming up behind Emily and looking at the picture.
“Apparently so,” said Emily. “Let’s just hope we never meet the mayor.”
The receptionist returned to her desk with an envelope.
“Here you go,” she said. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“No, that’s it,” said Emily. “Thank you so much.”
They waited till they were back in the truck to examine the report. It was written by
Sheriff Oglethorpe.
On the night of December 11th, 2017, I was dispatched to the Meade residence at 734 Redwood Trail. Richard Danforth, a local handyman employed by the homeowner, reported the home’s residents missing. This included two adult women, Matilda Meade and Cynthia Harkness, and three children fostered by Ms. Meade: Tricia Mills, Bobby Mills, and Andrea Hayworth. There was no sign of forced entry. Nothing appeared to have been taken from the home. Danforth stated all had been present two days earlier, prior to the storm, when he brought them several bundles of wood. When he returned to check on them and saw no sign of them in the house, he says he became concerned and alerted the authorities. No sign of foul play. Officers dispatched to Miss Harkness’s home at 217 Inverness Lane. The residence was empty, with no sign of forced entry or foul play. Currently presumed missing pending further investigation.
“That’s it?” cried Emily in dismay. “That’s all they found?”
“Either somebody’s phoning it in or somebody covered their tracks very well,” said Jesse.
“Or both,” said Emily bitterly. “I can’t believe this. It doesn’t even say anything about the blood on the floor.”
“If there was any,” said Jesse. “Or maybe Sheriff Oglethorpe doesn’t want anybody to know what he found.”
“We need to find out more about Cynthia,” said Emily.
“Do you still think she might be alive?” said Jesse.
“I don’t know what to think. I definitely still think it’s weird that we know next to nothing about her and nobody who’s told us any of these stories seems to know anything about her, either. It’s weird that of all the things we’ve seen and heard in the house, none of them seem to be related to Cynthia. Sh
e’s like a missing puzzle piece.”
“What did Matilda have to say about her in her diary?” asked Jesse, starting the truck and pulling out of the parking lot.
“She mentions her in one of the last entries, when Cynthia started to question her regarding her money problems. Then I went back to the beginning, to when she first got the house. But there is a passage I found from more recently that seems to describe her in more detail.”
“What does it say?” asked Jesse.
Emily opened the diary and read aloud.
September 7th
I’ve finally had to acknowledge that I need to find a suitable assistant to help me take care of this place. Richard has been pestering me about it for years. I’ve taken out an ad in the local paper in the hopes of finding a reliable individual. I can only hope to find someone as passionate as I am about creating a better life for the kids.
There was a knock at the front door. Matilda hurried from the kitchen to the front entryway. Her imagination hoped for Mary Poppins: a smartly-dressed Englishwoman with a firm sense of discipline balanced by whimsy. The wan and slightly dour-looking girl waiting on the front stoop left much to be desired.
“Come in, come in,” said Matilda, inwardly chiding herself for her snap judgement and eager to accommodate the girl in order to make up for her mental rudeness. Hadn’t her own mother constantly scolded her for not looking bright and happy enough? Who was she to judge this girl?
“Thank you,” said the girl. “I’m Cynthia. It’s nice to meet you.”
Matilda shook her hand. Contrary to her waifish appearance, Cynthia had a firm handshake. Matilda felt herself warming to the girl. She ushered her into the living room where they sat across the coffee table from one another. Matilda offered Cynthia a cup from her favorite silver tea set.
