by Edwin Hill
But she was Daphne now. Again. And Daphne’s story involved Hester and Morgan.
And Kate.
The bed no longer felt soft. The feathers in the pillows had compacted. A breeze blew the scent of low tide through the window. She went into the hallway and crossed to the bathroom, where she filled the tub with the hottest water she could stand. While steam filled the air, she loaded Hester’s toothbrush with toothpaste and brushed for five minutes. Daphne could have brushed for an hour and her mouth still wouldn’t have felt clean. She undressed, leaving her clothes in a pile. How long had it been since she’d changed? She examined her body. The cuts and the bruises first. Then her emaciated arms and legs, and the wounds that didn’t yet show. She lowered herself into the scalding water, feeling her skin redden from the heat. The stench from days without bathing rose up, hovering in the steamy air. She scrubbed till the dirt and dried blood lifted from her skin. She ran shampoo through her hair and sank down into the water, beneath the surface, letting the water shut out the world. But this was when the thoughts took over.
She could escape. Still.
But what about Kate? What about her little girl? She didn’t deserve Kate, she knew that much. She hadn’t been young when she’d gotten pregnant—thirty-two isn’t young, is it?—but she’d still lived in denial. She lived in the Allston apartment then, by herself, since Hester had abandoned her for Somerville and Morgan. She worked as a home health aide at twelve dollars an hour—no benefits, no fixed schedule—so when the pain began, she went to the emergency room, complaining of heartburn. The doctor had prescribed an antacid. “Unless you’re pregnant?” she said. “Is there any chance?”
“None,” Daphne said, with what she hoped sounded like confidence, because there had been many chances.
As the months went on, she wore big sweatshirts and ate brownies like a sorority girl from a bad TV movie. When she visited Hester, Morgan would whisper that he worried about her weight when he thought she couldn’t hear. She left the job as a home health aide and started another at a pharmacy, also without benefits, where, she supposed, they knew her as the fat girl. And then one afternoon her contractions started. She was alone. Her landlord had come by, asking about the rent earlier that day, but besides him, she couldn’t remember having spoken to anyone in days. She’d been fired from the pharmacy by then.
She gave birth on the bathroom floor, blood spilling across the white tiles, scrolling through her phone frantically for instructions on what to do with the umbilical cord. The baby—Kate, though she didn’t have a name yet—cried and gurgled, a fist clenched in her mouth. Daphne wrapped her in an old sweatshirt and left her outside behind the trash.
Not in it, behind it.
It was August, so it hadn’t been cold out. Or raining. And she could claim now, here, soaking in the tub, alone with her thoughts, that she’d done it without thinking, that she’d been a victim of her own confusion. Hell, she should blame hormones. But when she was completely honest with herself, she remembered that sense of relief at solving the problem. At making it disappear. And she remembered turning on the TV and watching a rerun of Bewitched, and the helplessness that had replaced that relief when she went outside and found the baby still wrapped in the sweatshirt, still hidden behind the trash, and brought her inside.
Hester came over as soon as she called.
She swaddled the baby in a towel from the closet and held her to her shoulder. “How about Katherine?” Hester said, kissing the baby’s cheek, and bouncing her as she cried. “Like Katharine Hepburn, but not spelled in a way that she’ll have to spell her name for the rest of her life. That’s annoying. We’ll call her Kate. And she’s hungry.”
“I like Caitlin better,” Daphne said.
“Okay, Caitlin it is.”
“But we’ll still call her Kate. With a K. You’re right. She shouldn’t have to spend her life spelling her own name.”
Hester had never had a child. She didn’t even have brothers or sisters, at least not any that Daphne knew of. She didn’t know how to do any of this, either, but it didn’t stop her from trying. And the moment Kate had a name, Daphne understood what she’d done, the secret that she’d carry with her till the day she died, and she wondered how much of it Hester might have managed to guess. She held out her arms, and after a moment Hester let her hold Kate while Daphne promised herself to always, always put the girl first.
Later, Morgan came to the apartment and examined Kate like a puppy, but Hester insisted that Daphne and Kate go to the hospital. When they were released the next day, everything in the Allston apartment had already been moved to Somerville. “It’s easier this way,” Hester had said.
* * *
The water in the tub had cooled. Daphne lifted the plug with her toe and listened as the quiet drained away, taking some of her torment with it. With the stink washed from her skin and hair, her clothes smelled even worse. But then she heard the voices. They drifted through the window on the breeze. She stood in the last of the draining water and craned her neck to look out the tiny bathroom window, where she saw Rory and that detective, the one who dressed like a housewife, coming up the path, unlatching the gate, walking with purpose. Rory paused to take his cap off.
Daphne toweled off and dressed quickly. She slipped into the hallway, down the back staircase, and outside.
They knew.
They knew that she was terrible and dangerous and could never be forgiven for the things she’d done. They knew that she could never be trusted, certainly not with Kate. But no one knew better than Daphne how easy it was to make mistakes. She’d seen how dangerous she could be. And she wondered whether she still was. She also believed that she could be a hero.
She could be Kate’s hero, because she already had been.
She had known what she was doing that night she’d left the Post-it. She’d known more than she ever gave herself credit. She’d written the note with tears streaming down her face, and a bathtub, like the one she’d just soaked in, filled, waiting for both of them, one where they could sink down into oblivion, into that quiet world, and never return.
And she hadn’t felt more alone in her whole life.
She’d written that note to save Kate and to save herself, because if she knew one thing to be true, she knew this: If she’d stayed in Somerville, if she hadn’t fled that life, if she hadn’t trusted Hester with every single thing that she held dear, neither she nor Kate would have survived the night.
Daphne had saved her daughter twice now. From herself.
She slipped out of the garden and ran down the road, stepping out of sight behind a house, her back pressed to the weathered shingles. She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. And she sensed his presence even before he spoke. “Don’t move, Red.”
It was Seth. He had the barrel of a gun pressed to her temple.
CHAPTER 24
Hester followed the smell of floor cleaner through the inn and into the bakery’s kitchen as Mindy tugged at her leash. Lydia knelt down, scrubbing, her hair tied in a red kerchief. Mindy woofed.
“You have her,” Lydia said, sitting back and letting the sponge fall to the floor. “I’d wondered if I’d have to go out and find her.” She took a deep breath. “I heard they arrested Vaughn. And that you had something to do with it.”
“More Daphne than me. I found her, but I bet you’ve already heard that too.”
“Most of it,” Lydia said. “I heard there were drugs. Lots of them. The ones that killed Rory’s brother. And that Vaughn installed a padlock on the cellar door, and that your friend there survived on pretzels. How could any of this be true? Vaughn wouldn’t do these things.”
“Rory told you a lot,” Hester said.
“Not me,” Lydia said. “The two of us are back to not talking.”
Right then, the front door to the bakery slammed open and shut. Oliver ran through to the kitchen, stopping to show his mother a fistful of worms. “I think they’re rattlers!” he said, running through
the inn and back into the garden.
“He just learned about rattlesnakes,” Lydia said.
“You haven’t told him about Trey, have you?”
Lydia shook her head. “I need to before someone else does.” She stood, wiping her hands on her apron, lifting the bucket, and setting it next to the sink. “I have to stay busy,” she said. “Otherwise I might lose it. I scrubbed this floor. And I’ll scrub the rest of this place till it sparkles. That’s about as much as I can focus on right now.”
The bells over the bakery door rang as someone let themselves in. “Can’t people read?” Lydia mumbled, and then added in a shout, “We’re closed. I’m in mourning.”
Mindy’s ears perked up at the sound of boots crossing the store. Rory stepped into the tiny kitchen, followed by Detective Kelley, and as soon as Lydia saw him, she tossed the sponge into the bucket and faced him. Everything on this island had changed in the past twenty-four hours, especially in Lydia’s world, and no matter what happened in the end, Hester could see that Lydia’s life would never be the same again. “I defended you all summer long, and now I wish I hadn’t. You arrested Vaughn? I bet those rumors about you taking Oliver are true.”
“I didn’t touch Oliver,” Rory said.
“Take it down a notch,” Barb said. “Both of you. Mrs. Pelletier, we need to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“I bet you can guess,” Barb said.
“Everyone in town knows about the affair,” Lydia said, untying her apron and tossing it onto the counter. “All of you can go to hell for all I care.”
She left the kitchen and slammed the bakery door behind her. Mindy woofed and wagged her tail, and Rory let the dog lick his hand.
“Where’s Vaughn?” Hester asked.
“He’s locked up,” Rory said. “At the community center.”
“Someone told me to ask him about the drugs.”
“Why don’t you let us ask the questions,” Barb said.
“Well, before you start, let me tell you something, then,” Hester said. “Lydia thinks that Oliver and Ethan are brothers. She told me earlier today. Her husband got around.”
“Did you know this?” Barb asked Rory.
From the look on his face, Hester could tell he meant it when he said, “I had no clue.”
“You could have told us earlier,” Barb said.
“I’ve been a little distracted,” Hester said.
Barb paced across the floor. “First things first,” she said. “Daphne. We need to talk to her. Now. We need to know her connections to Seth and Frankie, and why someone would lock her in Vaughn’s cellar.”
“She’s upstairs,” Hester said, leading them to the room. She knocked on the door and peeked in, only to find an empty bed where she’d last seen Daphne. She crossed the hallway and tried the bathroom door. Inside, the air was steamy, with the gray dregs of a full tub drained.
“She must have gone down the back way,” Rory said.
Out in the harbor, the ferry blew its horn as it backed away from the pier.
“Shit,” Rory said, running down the stairs, his boots pounding the floorboards.
“We need her,” Barb said. “We need both of you. Stay put. Do not move.”
She followed Rory. Hester watched out the window as Rory ran down the path, waving his hands over his head. He pulled a radio from his waist and shouted into it while Hester scanned the upper deck of the boat for a flash of Daphne’s red hair. The ferry’s engine stopped, and the boat reversed course. Hester retreated to the room, where she sat on the bed, her knees tucked in. Mindy leapt up, and she let the dog snuggle in beside her. She checked her wallet, which she’d left by the TV. Nothing was missing. Daphne wouldn’t have gone anywhere, not without money. If Daphne hadn’t taken the boat, she must have gone to Little Ef, to the Victorian. Hester could probably make it there and back before Barb and Rory had finished searching the ferry.
Outside, the air had grown cold. Leaves swirled from trees as Hester set off, letting Mindy run off the leash. Little Ef seemed abandoned. The houses she passed were empty, boarded up for the season. She rounded the last bend in the path and stepped into the darkness of the forest. The house still rose from the rhododendrons, but now, with most of the plywood removed from its windows, it looked naked and sad, and certainly uninhabitable, once the cold of winter set in. At least Hester didn’t have a four-year-old with her this time. She called to Mindy, who dashed toward her from out of the trees and sat expectantly. Hester’s pockets almost always had spare treats from her morning walks with Waffles, and today was no different. The dog accepted the biscuit and waited patiently for another.
“Daphne!” Hester shouted toward the house. “Are you here?”
A movement caught her eye. She glanced up, toward the second floor, where Frankie stood in one of the open windows staring out, her face blank. She held Ethan against her shoulder, rocking him back and forth. “Frankie!” Hester shouted. “We met yesterday. Come outside. I want to talk to you.”
She heard a groan from the forest. “Who’s there?” she said, stepping toward the brush. Beside her, Mindy whined. She heard another groan and followed it to where she found a state trooper lying on the ground, unconscious. His name tag read NATE GARDNER. She shook him, but he didn’t wake. “Frankie, come help me,” Hester shouted. “Someone’s hurt.”
As she took a step toward the house, a blast threw her to the ground. Flames erupted from the kitchen, black smoke pouring into the air. Mindy spun around, barking at the fire. Hester shouted Frankie’s name again and shoved the dog toward the road. “Run,” she said. “Get out of here. Scat!”
She hurled a stick into the trees, watching as Mindy ran to retrieve it. The flames had spread up the back of the house, engulfing the century-old wood. Hester held her hand in front of her face and squinted into the heat. Frankie was at the window, still holding Ethan to her chest. “Go toward the front!” Hester shouted, waving her arms. “Down the front stairs! The fire is in the back of the house.”
Frankie screamed as smoke engulfed her.
And Hester ran. Forward. Toward the burning building. She ran without thinking, shoving the oak door open with her shoulder and nearly falling back as a wave of scorching heat swept over her. She took her phone out and dialed 911, praying the call would go through. She covered her face with her fleece and pressed forward.
The fire had swept from the kitchen and through the front room. Hester found a path up the front stairs. Smoke burned her lungs as she shoved open the door to Daphne’s room and shouted her name. The room was empty. Back in the hall, she nearly fled. But she forced herself to keep moving, into smoke as thick as night. She fumbled with her phone. It slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Leave it! she thought. There isn’t time. “Come toward me!” she shouted. “Anyone!”
She gasped for oxygen. The heat had grown unbearable. Safety beckoned. How long could those front stairs last? She turned, crawling away. Retreating. And then she heard it. The boy. Crying. “Ethan!” she screamed.
She lay flat on her stomach, as close to the floor as possible, and moved, toward the noise, till she came to a wall. She felt along it till her hand landed on the seam of a closet door. Inside, she found Ethan, pressed into a corner. “Come,” she said, but he pushed away and refused to move.
“Where’s your mother?” Even those words hurt to say.
She crawled into the closet, where the air was clearer for the moment. She took a deep breath. Oxygen filled her lungs, and a part of her wanted to stay here. To breathe. But she lifted the squirming boy under her arm. He struggled, clawing at her as smoke seeped under the door.
What would she do if Kate were here? What world would she create to get them out of this? What would she ask Kate to count? “I need your help,” she whispered in Ethan’s ear. “I need you to be brave and to run as fast as you can when I tell you to. Like Superman. Do you like Superman?”
He pushed away from her.
&nbs
p; “Thomas!” Hester said, remembering the conversation outside the General Store. “Thomas the Train.”
“The tank engine!” Ethan said.
“The tank engine,” Hester said. “What would Thomas do?”
Ethan stopped squirming. “Bash his way out,” he said.
“Then that’s what we’ll do too,” Hester said.
He rested his head against her shoulder and wrapped his legs around her waist and mumbled, “Okay.”
“Don’t let go of me,” Hester said.
She opened the closet door and smoke poured in. The air was hot enough to melt skin. Flames had spread into the room, licking at the ceiling, and as she tried to retrace her path to the front stairs, the ceiling collapsed. “There’s another way,” she whispered.
There had to be.
She felt along the walls to where the windows should have been. They were still boarded up. “We’ll bash our way out, right?” she said to Ethan.
“Like Thomas,” Ethan said.
Hester balanced Ethan on her hip and shoved her shoulder into plywood. It barely moved. She kicked at it and kicked again and again till the wood buckled. Her head had grown light. She kicked one more time. The plywood cracked, a shaft of light shining through. She kicked again, and a chunk broke off. She lifted Ethan through the hole and lowered him to the top of a bow window on the first floor, and then followed. Black tears filled her eyes. There had to be at least fifteen feet to the ground. Flames burst from the windows around them, and she felt the burn as the flames caught her fleece. This was their chance. “Me first, then you.”
She leapt, hovering in midair for what seemed like forever before plummeting. After hitting the ground with a jolt, she rolled to the side. But she was on her feet again, reaching up. “Now!” she shouted to Ethan, her arms held wide.
He stared down at her.
“Thomas can fly,” Hester said.
“Thomas can’t fly.”
“Who can?”
“Harold,” Ethan said. “He’s a helicopter.”
“Then be Harold!” Hester said.
