by Riley Sager
I thank her and shuffle to my room. As I unlock the door, I wonder if it’s the same one my parents and I stayed in after fleeing Baneberry Hall. If so, I doubt much has changed between stays. The interior looks as though it hasn’t been updated in at least thirty years. Stepping inside feels like entering a time machine and being zapped straight back to the eighties.
I head to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and, still fully dressed, step under the spray. It seems easier than using the sink.
At first, it looks like the shower scene from Psycho—stained water circling the drain. When enough grime slides off my clothes for me to deem them salvageable in the short term, I take them off piece by piece.
It’s not until after all the clothes are off and draped over the shower curtain, dripping soapy water, that I plop down in the tub, knees to my chest, and begin to weep.
I end up crying for half an hour, too sad, angry, and confused to do anything else. I cry for Petra, mourning her even though I have no memories of meeting her. I cry for my father, trying to square the man I thought he was with the horrible thing he might have done.
Finally, I cry for all the versions of myself that have existed through the years. Confused five-year-old. Sullen child of divorce. Furious nine-year-old. Inquisitive me. Defiant me. Dutiful me. So many incarnations, each one seeking answers, leading me to right here, to right now, to a potential truth I have no idea how to handle.
I’d hoped the shower and crying jag would invigorate me—a cleansing blast of catharsis. Instead, it only leaves me weary and prune-fingered. Since I have nothing dry to wear, I wrap myself in a towel and use a comforter from one of the twin beds as a makeshift robe. Then I sit on the edge of the stripped bed and check my phone.
Allie called while I was in the shower. The voicemail she left is jarringly perky.
“Hey, handywoman. It dawned on me today that you’ve sent me exactly zero pictures of the interior of that house. Get on that, girl. I want details. Cornices. Friezes. Wainscoting. Don’t leave a bitch hanging.”
I want to call her back and tell her all that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. I don’t, because I know exactly what she’ll say. That I should leave. That I should come back to Boston and forget all about Baneberry Hall.
But it’s too late for that. Even if I wanted to leave, I don’t think I can. Chief Alcott will surely have more questions for me. Then there are my own questions—a list a mile long, all of them still unanswered. Until I learn more about what really happened in that house, I’m not going anywhere.
I text Allie back, trying to match her in perk.
Sorry! Been too busy for pictures. I’ll try to send you sexy wainscoting snaps tomorrow.
That task over, I tackle a second—another call to my mother. Unlike the first one, this time I want her to pick up.
My hope is that my mother can shed more light on my father’s association with Petra. Brian Prince was right—the two of them did seem close in the Book. That doesn’t mean it’s true. Only my mother knows for sure. Only she’ll be able to assure me that my father is innocent.
For the first time in my life, I need her opinion.
Which is why my heart sinks when the call again goes straight to voicemail.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me. I’m still in Vermont, doing work at Baneberry Hall. And, um, we found something.” I pause, struck by the awfulness of the euphemism. Petra wasn’t a mere something. She was a person. A vibrant young woman. “We need to talk about it. As soon as possible. Call me back. Please.”
I end the call and survey the room.
It’s a dump.
The wood-paneled wall opposite the room’s sole window has been faded by the sun. A ceiling tile in the corner bears a stain worse than the one that was in Baneberry Hall’s kitchen, which doesn’t engender good thoughts. I look at the carpet. Orange shag.
There’s a knock on the door. Two tentative raps that make me think it’s the desk clerk coming to tell me the state of Vermont has deemed the place a health hazard and ordered the premises vacated. Instead, I open the door to find Dane standing outside.
“I’m sorry I broke your ceiling,” he says sheepishly. “To make up for it, I brought apology gifts.”
He lifts his hands, revealing a bottle of bourbon in one and a six-pack of beer in the other.
“I didn’t know how drunk you needed to get,” he explains.
I grab the bourbon. “Very.”
Dane correctly takes it as an invitation to join me. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The presence of the alcohol momentarily masked just how damn good he looks. He’s in jeans and a threadbare Rolling Stones T-shirt that fits tight across his chest. There’s a hole in the shirt, right where his heart is located, revealing a patch of tanned skin.
“Nice shirt,” I say when Dane catches me staring.
“I’ve had it since I was a teenager.”
“It shows.”
“Nice blanket,” Dane says.
I twirl a corner of the comforter. “I’m pretending it’s a caftan.”
Dane uncaps a beer. I open the bourbon. There aren’t any glasses in the room—it’s not that kind of hotel—so I swig directly from the bottle. The first swallow does nothing but burn the back of my throat. The second proves to be a repeat of the first. The third gulp is the charm. Only then do I start to feel that welcome numbness creep over me.
“How did you find me?” I say.
“Process of elimination.” Dane takes a sip of beer. “I went to the house first. The police were still there, which meant you were staying somewhere else. Which in Bartleby means here.”
“Lucky me,” I say before two more swigs of bourbon.
The two of us fall into a comfortable silence, Dane on one bed, me on the other, content with simply drinking and staring at the Red Sox game flickering on the twenty-year-old television.
“Do you really think it was Petra Ditmer in the ceiling?” Dane eventually says.
“Yeah, I do.”
“God, her poor mother.”
“Did you know her?” I ask.
“I might have met her one of the times I was here visiting my grandparents. But if I did, I don’t remember it.”
“You said you talked to my father when he came to the house each year,” I say. “What did you talk about?”
Dane sips his beer a moment, thinking. “The house. The grounds. If anything had needed fixing.”
“That’s all? Basic maintenance stuff?”
“Pretty much,” Dane says. “Sometimes we’d talk about the Red Sox or the weather.”
“Did he ever mention Petra Ditmer?”
“He asked me about Elsa and Hannah. How they were doing. If they needed money.”
An odd question to ask someone. I want to think it was my father being charitable. But I suspect it might have been something else—like a guilt-prompted desire to pay them off.
I gulp down more bourbon, hoping it will stop me from thinking this way. I should be certain of my father’s innocence. Instead, I’m the opposite. Waffling and unsure.
“Do you think it’s possible to believe two things at once?” I ask Dane.
“It depends on if those things cancel each other out,” he says. “For example, I believe Tom Brady is the greatest quarterback to ever play the game. I also believe he’s an asshole. One belief does not negate the other. They can exist at the same time.”
“I was talking about something more personal.”
“You’re in New England. The Patriots are personal.”
On one hand, I’m grateful for the way Dane is trying to take my mind off things with the booze and the banter, but it’s also frustrating—the same kind of avoidance tactics my parents used.
“You know what I’m talking about,” I say. “I truly believe my father wasn’t capable of killing
anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl. He was never violent. Never raised a hand to hurt me. Plus, I knew him. He was doting and decent and kind.”
“You also think he was a liar,” Dane says, as if I need reminding.
“He was,” I say. “Which is why I can’t stop thinking that maybe he did do something. That if the Book was a lie, then maybe everything about him was. The things he said. The way he acted. His entire life. Maybe no one really knew him. Not even me.”
“You really think he killed Petra?”
“No,” I say.
“Then you think he’s innocent.”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
The truth is that I don’t know what I think. Even though all signs point to his being involved in Petra’s death, I’m having a hard time seeing my father as a killer. Equally difficult is thinking he’s completely innocent. He lied to me literally until the end of his life. And people don’t lie unless they’re hiding something.
Or want to spare someone the truth.
Whatever that truth is, I know Petra’s death was part of it.
“One thing is clear,” Dane says, interrupting my thoughts. “Your reason for coming here has changed. Big-time.”
My plans for the house have, that’s for certain. Even if the police let me back into Baneberry Hall to renovate it, I’m not sure I still want to. From a brutally practical standpoint, it’s foolish. That house will sell for a wisp of what it’s worth, if it can be sold at all after this new tragic development.
But I look at the project through a more human lens. Petra Ditmer had spent more than two decades rotting inside Baneberry Hall. A horrible fate. When I think about it that way, it’s easy to agree with Chief Alcott. Baneberry Hall should be reduced to rubble.
“I came here to learn the truth,” I tell Dane. “That’s still my goal. Even if I might not like what that truth turns out to be.”
“And the house?”
“I’ll be back there tomorrow.” I throw my arms open, gesturing to the sun-bleached wall and stained ceiling and shag carpet that smells of mildew. “But tonight, I get to live in the lap of luxury.”
Dane shifts on the edge of his bed until we’re facing each other, our knees almost touching. The mood in the room has changed. An electricity passes between us, tinged with heat. Only then do I realize my arms-wide gesture has thrown the blanket from my shoulders, leaving me sitting in just a towel.
“I can stay here with you,” Dane says, his voice husky. “If you want me to.”
God, it’s tempting. Especially with a quarter bottle of bourbon in me and Dane looking the way he does. My gaze keeps returning to that hole in his shirt and its tantalizing glimpse of flesh. It makes me want to see what he looks like without the shirt. It would be easy to make that happen. One tug of this towel is all it would take.
And then what? All my conflicting emotions and confusion will still be there in the morning, this time complicated further by the mixing of work and pleasure. Once you tie the two of them together, it’s nearly impossible to untangle them again.
“You should go,” I say as I pull the blanket back around my shoulders.
Dane nods once. No asking me if I’m absolutely, positively sure. No turning on the charm in the hope I’ll change my mind.
“See you tomorrow, then,” he says.
He takes the beer but leaves the bourbon. Another unwise companion to spend the night with. I want to finish off the bottle and pass out into sweet, drunken oblivion. Like sleeping with Dane, it would hurt more than help. So, with great reluctance, I tighten the blanket around me and take the bottle to the bathroom to pour the rest down the sink.
JULY 5
Day 10
“Are you fucking with me?”
Even though I knew it was the worst possible way to greet my wife in the morning, I couldn’t help it. Discovering the record player back on the desk and playing that infernal song had put me in mood so dark that I’d spent the night tossing and turning, worried that as soon as I drifted off, the music would return.
When the thud from upstairs arrived at exactly 4:54, I knew sleep would never arrive.
My agitation was only heightened when I went down to the first floor and found the chandelier glowing as bright as the sun.
By the time Jess entered the kitchen, I couldn’t help but confront her.
“What are you talking about?” she said, her expression a mix of hurt and confusion.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. The record player was on again last night.”
“In your study?”
I huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Yes, in my study. I put it in the closet, but last night there it was, back on my desk and playing that stupid song. So, if this is some sort of prank, I need you to know it’s not funny. Not anymore.”
Jess backed against the counter, shrinking into herself. “I don’t know why you think I had anything to do with it.”
“Because you’re the only person who could have done it.”
“You’re forgetting about our daughter.”
Upstairs, the doorbell chimed. I ignored it. Whoever it was could wait.
“Maggie’s not that crafty.”
“Really?” Jess said. “I know you think she’s Daddy’s little girl and can do no wrong, but she’s not as innocent as she looks. I’m pretty sure half of this imaginary-friend stuff is just to get your attention.”
I barked out a laugh so bitter it surprised even me. “Is that your excuse for this record-player bullshit?”
By then, I knew the fight was about more than just a record player. It was about everything that had happened since we moved to Baneberry Hall. Ten days of headaches and regrets and tension that had gone unaddressed until that moment. Now it was out, flaring up with the heat and speed of a wildfire.
“I didn’t touch your record player!” Jess shouted. “And if I did, it would have been justified, considering you’re the one who forced us to move into this godforsaken house.”
“I didn’t force you!” I yelled back. “You loved this house, too.”
“Not as much as you. I saw it on your face the moment we stepped inside. That this was the house you wanted.”
“You could have said—”
“No?” Jess said, cutting me off. “I tried, Ewan. It didn’t work. It never works. You debate and cajole until you get your way. Always. And Maggie and I have no choice but to go along with it. Now we’re in a house with a fucking graveyard out back and our daughter acting weirder than she’s ever acted before and then this goddamn ceiling—”
She stopped, red-faced and sobbing. Tears streamed down her cheeks—a sight I couldn’t bear under any circumstances. I was about to pull her into my arms, hug her as tight as I could, and tell her everything would be okay. But then she spoke again, and it stopped me cold.
“And don’t even get me started on Petra.”
My spine stiffened. “What about her?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her, Ewan. I saw you take her picture yesterday.”
“You were in the picture, too.”
“Only because I happened to be standing there.”
I was incredulous. I had as much sexual interest in Petra Ditmer as I did in Hibbs.
“She’s a child, Jess. The idea that I have the hots for her is ridiculous.”
“Almost as ridiculous as me getting up in the middle of the night to turn on a record player I’ve never even seen.”
Jess wiped her eyes and left the kitchen. I followed, chasing her up the steps to the first floor.
“Jess, wait!”
She continued up the servants’ steps just outside the dining room, storming upstairs. I stopped, caught short by the sight of someone standing in the great room, framed by the doorway that separated it from the dining room.
Petra Ditmer.
“I rang the doorbell,” she said. “Maggie let me in.”
“How long have you been here?” I said.
“Not long,” Petra said, even though the flush on her cheeks made it clear she’d heard, if not everything, then at least a big chunk of our argument.
“This isn’t a good time, Petra.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” She looked at the floor, nervous. “But I read the letters last night. The ones that were in the ceiling.”
Petra dug into the backpack she was carrying and removed the envelopes, now individually sealed in plastic bags. Pressing them into my hands, she said, “You’ll want to read these, Mr. Holt.”
I dropped the letters onto the dining room table. At that moment, they were the least of my concerns. “I will, but—”
Petra scooped them up and pushed them back into my hands. “Now,” she said. “Trust me.”
* * *
• • •
The letters sat open on the floor of the Indigo Room, where Petra and I had retreated after she demanded I read them. There were four of them, handwritten in a swooping, elegant script.
“All of them were written by someone named Callum,” Petra said. “They’re addressed to Indigo, which makes me think she hid them in the floorboards after she read them. You know, for safekeeping.”
“Why would she need to hide them?”
Petra pointed to the first letter. “The answer’s right there.”
I picked it up, the paper as rigid as parchment, and began to read.
July 3, 1889
My dearest Indigo,
I write these words with a heavy heart, having just spoken to your father. As we both feared, my darling, he has unconditionally refused to give me permission to ask for your hand in marriage. The reasons for his decision were exactly the ones we had anticipated—that I lack the means to provide you with the lifestyle to which you are accustomed and that I have proven myself not a whit in the world of business or finance. Although I pleaded with him to change his thinking, assuring him that if you become my wife you will want for nothing, he refused to entertain the matter. Our plan to join our lives as husband and wife the proper way—with your father’s blessing, before the eyes of God, and witnessed by those closest to us—has come to a shattering end.
