by Skylar Finn
Worst of all, I can barely afford to pay Cynthia. Her check bounced again, and while she acted patient and forgiving, I could tell she was both troubled and annoyed. Cynthia has enough problems of her own without being subject to mine.
I made another excuse, which she seemed to accept for the time being, but how much longer can I conceal what’s happening? And what will happen if she finds out how deep in the hole I really am? I can’t afford to lose good help, but I can’t afford to keep it.
Emily set the journal down, disturbed. It painted the portrait of an increasingly desperate person who might resort to things they wouldn’t have ordinarily. Was Emily wrong? Was Matilda who the townspeople said she was? And if Matilda was the villain, what did her ghost want from Emily?
23
Emily was starting to doubt her conviction that Matilda was innocent. Her diary depicted her as a desperate woman surrounded by people who had grown to depend on her, all of whom would have nothing if she failed. That kind of pressure had to weigh heavily on a person. Most of the town thought she was guilty of something terrible. The sheriff, compromised though he undoubtedly was, refused to even acknowledge the possibility that it might have been someone outside the house and was adamantly convinced that Matilda was the one responsible.
Emily had moved across the country to a strange place where she had no friends or family besides Jesse and Widget. As Richard said, money made people desperate. How desperate had Matilda been? Especially with Cynthia leaving? Had Matilda done something to try and keep her there?
Emily reached into her bag and pulled out the portrait Nolan Sawyer gave her at the farmers’ market. She carefully unwrapped the tissue paper and held the painting on her lap. This house had been a refuge for Matilda and the physical embodiment of her family history. Would she have gone to any means to keep it?
MEADE HOUSE, 1927. For some reason, Emily’s eyes were continually drawn to the words in the corner of the picture. There was something familiar about it, something important. It had also been the caption under the photograph in the book she found in the library, the same photograph Matilda had used to commission this painting. But there was something else—
“The Ouija board!” exclaimed Emily.
During her séance with Jesse, the planchette spelled out a final cryptic message before Matilda had vanished when Sheriff Oglethorpe knocked on the door. Matilda spelled out DELPHINE 1927. Delphine was Emily’s great-great-grandmother who had owned the house originally. Combined with the date the picture was taken, it would make the ideal password to Matilda’s computer. Emily found the laptop the night of the blizzard but had yet to figure out Matilda’s password. What if it was Delphine 1927?
Emily hurried into the library where she’d left Matilda’s laptop. She hit the power button and waited, biting her lip. She had a feeling this was the combination of words that would grant her access to another source of evidence Matilda left behind, and now the momentary suspense created by Matilda’s slow old laptop was agonizing. At last, the password screen came up and Emily quickly entered delphine1927. The password she entered was incorrect.
“No!” She’d been so sure. She tried again: DELPHINE1927. This, too, failed. Emily visualized the Ouija board. It contained letters, numbers, and a few words—hello, good-bye, yes, and no—but certainly not a full QWERTY keyboard and no special characters. Emily typed Delphine_1927, and Matilda’s desktop promptly emerged.
“Yes!” Emily was starting to feel like she could have entertained a second career as a fledgling detective.
Most of Matilda’s hard drive seemed to be taken up by pictures and videos of the children she’d taken care of over the years: not just Andrea, Tricia, and Bobby, but dozens of others. They all looked content, clean, happy, and safe. There were pictures of Richard in the garden with the children. There were pictures of Matilda with them on their birthdays and holidays. Emily felt guilty for doubting her. But what had happened to Cynthia?
Emily clicked on a folder marked PERSONAL_DOCS. In it was a document labeled LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT_OCTOBER 2017. This correlated with the most recent entry in Matilda’s diary. Emily scanned the contents of the will: she was still named as the one to inherit the house, but only in the event that Cynthia Harkness was unable or unwilling to accept it.
Emily was shocked. She couldn’t fully articulate why. Matilda mentioned leaving everything to Cynthia in the diary, so why did this come as a surprise? Emily guessed it was because if it made anybody a suspect, it was Emily herself. According to this version of the will, the only thing standing between the house and Emily was Cynthia. Of course, she and Jesse hadn’t even known the house existed, who Cynthia was, and were barely aware of Matilda’s existence, but anyone looking in from the outside wouldn’t have known that. Emily was surprised Sheriff Oglethorpe had never questioned her about this. Unless he had never seen it.
Emily was beyond confused. Matilda had named Cynthia the beneficiary in her will and only weeks later had her taken out of a painting and told the artist Cynthia was leaving. Another few weeks later, everyone in the house vanished. What took place in the interval?
Emily took the diary from her pocket. She had only two entries left. There had to be something conclusive contained within those final pages.
November 21st
The situation has escalated in only a few short weeks. I missed all of the credit card payments again last month. I was only able to make my payment on the bank loan by selling off several pieces of antique furniture. I hope no one notices they’re gone. I unplugged the phone to keep the collection agents at bay during the day when Cynthia is here, so she won’t become even more suspicious than she already is.
Worst of all, the Three Star rats, as if somehow sensing my distress, have taken to ambushing me in public spaces all over town. They keep bringing up how much the property is worth, talking about how I could retire to Miami and move somewhere warm. Why struggle? they ask me, and it seems like a fair question. But what would happen to the children?
And what will happen to the children if I can’t take better care of them than their parents would have? Wasn’t the whole point to give them a better chance than they would have had otherwise? What was the point if I can’t even do that?
I know that this is the time I should consider swallowing my pride in order to ask for help, but who can I ask? I haven’t spoken to my sister in years, and I barely know her daughter or anyone in my extended family. Who is there to ask for help? Richard is certainly hardly any better off than I am. I’m supposed to be the one paying him, not the other way around.
Maybe I should sell the house? I’d have to find a safe place for the children to go first, but maybe it’s time to stop being so stubborn and put others ahead of myself for a change.
December 1st
Cynthia confronted me about my recent financial difficulties, just as I feared she would. We were in the parlor and I tried to hush her; sound always did carry so freely through the house. It was late evening and the children were in bed, but she was so angry, practically yelling, and I didn’t want them to wake up and realize that something was wrong.
She wanted to know why her checks kept bouncing. I made up the usual excuse: banking errors, whatever I could think of. This time, she didn’t accept my reasons so freely.
“No one makes that many mistakes, Matilda,” she said. “I know there’s something else going on. Why can’t you just be honest about it? You know I have problems of my own. Can’t you see that you’re making it worse?”
I felt terrible. She was right, of course. I’d been lying to her for far too long. I broke down and told her the truth: I was broke, in debt, with no way of recouping my losses. I’d never learned to work and save or had a head for business. I’d gotten in over my head and hid it, and now the situation seemed irreversible.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “I’m extremely organized. I could have helped you untangle this mess you’ve gotten us in. I still can, if you’l
l let me.”
Now I felt especially bad, because at this point, I’d already resigned myself to having to let Cynthia go after we found homes for the children so I could begin the long, terrible, and shameful process of dealing with Three Star. A property this large, in this location? They’d surely divide it into as many units as they could and then charge students some astronomical sum to live in them. They’ll pay me a fraction of what they’d make, but what other choice did I have?
Cynthia was furious. How could I sell out this way? I’d done nothing but badmouth these people the entire time she worked for me, vowing I would never sell, and now, just like that, I was giving in? When was I planning to tell her? Was she just going to walk up to the house one day and see a FOR SALE sign on the lawn and then realize she was out of a job?
I realized at that point how selfish I had been and what a compromising position I’d put her in. On the surface, she seemed to accept my apology, stating that she knew that I was scared, but it was still not an excuse to lie to her and manipulate her all these months. She was right. She was short with me as she gathered her things and did not say good-bye when she left.
There’s no point in leaving her my “empire” because there will be nothing left of it. I wonder now if it wouldn’t be better for everyone involved if I wasn’t here anymore, either. I could leave the house to family and ensure that the vultures never got their greedy mitts on it. The children would be in better hands with anyone other than me. Cynthia would find a better employer in someone else.
I just don’t know what to do anymore.
It was the last entry in Matilda’s diary, and it was dated ten days before they disappeared. Matilda had clearly been filled with despair. She sounded like she was on the brink of doing something desperate. But while it seemed she might consider harming herself, there was nothing in the entry to indicate she would ever harm the children, or Cynthia. If anything, she seemed overwhelmed with remorse for the position she had put them in.
Emily heard Jesse talking to Richard in the kitchen, followed by the sound of the door closing. She went out to see Jesse, splattered with paint, brewing a fresh pot of coffee.
“Well, that was tedious,” he said. “An afternoon of painting combined with Richard’s stories about his childhood. Apparently, he caught a lot of frogs in his day.”
Emily almost smiled in spite of the heavy thoughts now weighing on her. “I got into Matilda’s computer, finally,” she said, pouring a cup of coffee. “And I finished the diary. It turns out Matilda originally left the house to Cynthia, but they started arguing about money. Matilda was keeping a lot from her.”
Jesse’s jaw dropped. He ran a hand through his hair, accidentally leaving a bright streak of paint in it. “Wait, this place was originally supposed to go to her? And she, what, wrote her out of the will?”
“In her diary, she said there was no point in leaving her empire to Cynthia if there was no way to keep it going.”
Jesse snorted. “Her empire, sure. It’s clearly done us wonders. Do you think she knew? That Matilda wrote her out of the will?”
“I’m not sure she knew she was in it in the first place,” said Emily. “Matilda hinted that she would leave it to her, but I don’t think she ever told her anything definitive. It seems like Cynthia was even a little dismissive of the idea. Maybe because she already knew about the money problems, or at least suspected. It would have been like inheriting a sinking ship.”
“Was that will that you found the most up-to-date copy?”
“I’m not sure. The lawyer promised me he’d send me one, but it hasn’t arrived. He doesn’t have the greatest help,” she added, remembering his assistant Bryce’s cold-blooded interrogation about what really happened at the house.
Jesse bit his lip. “We need to see that will,” he said. “We should have demanded it and memorized it before we even came here. It’s weird that he hasn’t sent it to you. Do you think maybe he’s in on it?”
Emily was startled. Watkins seemed like a pretty unassuming figure to her. Unless it was an act. “You think he’s working with Oglethorpe and Three Star?”
“I always thought it was weird that Cynthia disappeared the same night as Matilda and the kids,” he said. “Why bother with the assistant? Why not just get the old lady who won’t cooperate with you out of the way and whoever else is in the house? Maybe they knew they’d have to get rid of Cynthia, too. But who would have told them something like that? Who would have had access to that information?”
“Only someone with access to the will,” said Emily, remembering the benevolent, paternal air Watkins adopted with her so shortly after snapping at Bryce. It seemed a little two-faced. “And they’d know they’d have to get rid of us as well.”
“I don’t want you going back to Watkins,” said Jesse. “I think it would be safer if I went this time.”
“What about Three Star?” said Emily. “We need to know if Matilda talked to them about selling the house before she disappeared. If she had, they would have had no reason to get rid of her, knowing they were about to get their hands on the house, anyway.”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want you going near those people again until this is resolved.”
“Jess, it’s the middle of the day, broad daylight, during business hours. The office is packed with their little property minions. I feel like they’d be hard-pressed to do anything now. I’ll just tell them I’m on my way to discuss selling the house. That way, it will be in their best interest to keep me alive as long as possible.”
“Okay,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll go talk to the lawyer. But you have to text me every fifteen minutes until we meet back at the house so I know nothing’s gone wrong.”
Emily agreed and set the timer on her phone. They went out to the truck, and Jesse drove down the hill and into town. Three Star, quite naturally, was located in one of the biggest houses on the block. The business was on a quiet side street inside of what had once been a rambling old Victorian, freshly painted and restored to look modern.
“How much do you want to bet that used to be someone’s house?” asked Jesse, looking at it through the windshield.
“They’re probably still chained up in the basement,” said Emily as she opened the passenger side door.
“Be careful,” Jesse cautioned her.
“You too,” she said.
“I think I can handle one elderly lawyer,” he said with a rakish grin.
Jesse pulled away from the curb and the truck rumbled up the street. Emily stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the bright blue house with no little trepidation. She went up the front steps of the porch and pushed open the bright red door.
24
“Emily! As I live and breathe! At long last, you’re finally here.” Darla Chinn swept over to Emily the moment she stepped over the threshold of the doorway. Emily expected an over-the-top reception, but this was slightly absurd even by Darla’s standards.
Darla’s long red coat whipped around her like a cape. Emily repressed her urge to turn around and run out the door the way she came.
“We’re so glad you’ve finally come to see us,” gushed Darla. “Instead of the other way around.”
Emily flashed on the memory of them crawling out of the living room window, fresh graffiti in their wake, and forced down a surge of anger. Was she really going to be this blatant? Although for all Emily knew, maybe they thought their little break-in wasn’t as obvious as it had been. She glanced around for Roger Oglethorpe.
“Roger’s out showing a property,” Darla said. Not for the first time, Emily wondered if Darla had the ability to read minds. “But I’d be happy to sit down with you and discuss your options. Right this way, please.”
Emily followed Darla down a long hallway into a large and opulently-decorated space that looked like it had once been a living room. A vast and imposing mahogany desk sat across from the doorway. In front of the massive desk was a tiny swivel chair. The set-up seem
ed designed to make the person meeting with Darla feel small.
“Can I sit behind the desk?” Emily asked Darla as she ushered Emily over to the swivel chair.
“Oh, Emily!” Darla laughed loudly. “That’s what I love about you. Your sense of humor.” She pulled the tiny chair out for Emily. The phone in Darla’s coat pocket vibrated. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
“Excuse me, Emily. I just have something I need to attend to for just a moment, and then I’ll be right back with you. Please feel free to help yourself to coffee or water and any of the snacks in that basket on the table. Be right back!” Darla swept out of the room, her long red coat streaming behind her.
Emily got up from her small swivel chair and went over to the coffeemaker. The room was freezing cold, and she wanted something hot to hold more than she wanted caffeine. She poured herself a cup of coffee and texted Jesse all good. He texted her back a thumbs up.
She went over to the window with her coffee and discovered the source of the frigid temperature. The window was open just enough to gradually let in the cold air from outside. This, Emily speculated, was another tactic of Darla’s to make anyone she met with as uncomfortable as possible and therefore more likely to agree to whatever she wanted. Emily marveled at Darla’s cunning. Had she worked as an interrogator prior to entering property management?
Emily was struggling to close the window when she heard voices. One of them was clearly Darla; the other, while muffled, sounded like Roger. Where were the voices coming from?
She stopped trying to close the window and instead pushed it open farther. Their voices drifted out the open window from the room adjacent. Emily leaned out her window and strained to hear them, but could only catch about every other word. She pushed the window the rest of the way open and climbed out, carefully lowering herself to the ground. If they could climb in and out of her windows, she figured it was only fair that she climb out of theirs.
