The Lost Sister

by Megan Kelley Hall

“Sure, right…milk,” she stammered, backing away from the counter, feeling the rat poison burning in her apron pocket. She couldn’t do it. Not with this little boy. No matter how much she blamed Malcolm Crane for everything that had gone wrong in her life up until this point—the lies from Rebecca, the return to Hawthorne, even the death of the man she believed to be her real father up until a few months ago, even though deep down she knew he had nothing to do with Simon LeClaire’s death—she couldn’t make this little boy, Daniel Crane, go through the pain of losing a parent. It was still too real and raw for her—too hard for someone her own age to deal with, let alone a little boy.

  She backed up into another table and practically knocked over another waitress. “Hey, watch it, CeeCee.” Cordelia steadied herself and turned to apologize to her coworker. She’d gone by CeeCee, a nickname given to her by the man she grew up thinking to be her father—the man that up until his untimely death from cancer was her true father. The man who cared for her as if she were his own flesh and blood, and who, a few horrible months ago, she discovered was not her real father. Her biological father was this man sitting in front of her. This waste of a human being. This horrible, selfish narcissist. He finally looked up at her. After months of her serving him his morning coffee and his afternoon tea, he actually made eye contact with her.

  “Are you all right, darlin’?” A look of concern crossed Malcolm Crane’s face, the lines around his eyebrows deepened. Despite his weather-beaten face, she could see why some girls in his classes hung on his every word and the waitresses at Maine Tea and Coffee Bean cooed about him looking like Robert Redford. Yet instead of the lusty feelings that his gaze seemed to evoke with everyone around her, she only felt nausea.

  “I’m fine,” she clipped. “I’ll be back with the milk for your son.”

  He winked, rolled his newspaper up, and lightly bonked the little boy’s head. “Say thank you to the pretty lady, Daniel.”

  “Thanks, pretty lady,” the little boy whispered, and then giggled.

  Cordelia knew in her heart that she couldn’t go through with it. She couldn’t take away this little boy’s father. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t stick around long enough to make Malcolm Crane wish he was dead.

  From behind the Formica counter, she saw a look of concern wash over Malcolm Crane’s face. He scrunched up his forehead and peered more closely at the newspaper. Then he sat back and stared straight ahead for a few moments, looking as though he were very far away, while little Daniel busily colored the paper place mat with the café’s crayons. Cordelia walked hesitantly back to the table, curious of what had caused this sudden shift in his mood. She placed the plastic cup in front of the young boy and tried to see what paper Malcolm had been reading.

  It was the Hawthorne Gazette . Odd that he was still receiving news from home all the way up here in the boondocks. She prayed that it wasn’t another article about her disappearance. By now she had managed to avoid the second glances and the quick looks of recognition, people trying to place her face, knowing that she looked familiar, but not quite sure from where. When she first left Hawthorne, she had chopped what was left of her hair and dyed it brown so that she could slip away easily. Redheads often commanded more attention than brunettes. But she couldn’t change her features. People often called her beautiful, ethereal, even exquisite. She wondered how they’d describe her after she’d become a murderer.

  Cordelia watched as Malcolm gathered up his son and left the coffee shop in a hurry. She rushed over to the empty table and grabbed the newspaper that was left behind in haste. Her eyes flicked down the page and a jolt of shock went through her body. There was an article about an ongoing fight between the Endicott family and the historical society of Hawthorne. Other neighboring towns of Salem, Marblehead, Beverly, and Swampscott were weighing in on the historical importance of the building. But that wasn’t what caught Cordelia’s attention. The article was written about all of the tragedies that occurred at Ravenswood Asylum throughout the years, especially the most recent one that took place only months ago.

  Cordelia’s fingers trembled as she read the story entitled “Bloody Night at Ravenswood Remembered.” She skimmed the story, picking out the most disturbing phrases.

  Rebecca LeClaire, one of the last inmates before the closing of the asylum, apprehended after apparent suicide attempt…Witnesses at the site were sister, Abigail Crane, niece, Maddie Crane, and local teen Finnegan O’Malley. Tess Martin, 82, passed away in her sleep that same night, unaware of the tragedy that had overtaken her family.

  Cordelia inhaled deeply as she continued reading about what had happened in the wake of her disappearance. Since that night, there had been an ongoing fight over the property—how the Endicotts wanted to turn it into a luxury resort, capitalizing on the fright factor of its proximity to Salem, Massachusetts, and the witch trials, as well as all of the tragic legends that surround the place. The historical society had tied up any future projects with enough red tape until they could declare it a historic property.

  Cordelia was hit by a wave of vertigo. The world spun around her, almost knocking her from her feet.

  I have to go back , she thought. Something she thought she would never do.

  “Easy there, CeeCee. Take a load off. You look like you’re going to be sick.” Her manager, Chris Markson, had come up behind her and noticed the color drained from her face. “Sit down, I’ll get you some water.”

  Cordelia was used to getting this attention from the guys in her life. She knew that the girls were probably in the back gossiping about how she was being a drama queen and how unfair it was that she got a break in the middle of her shift. But Cordelia didn’t care. All she could think about was what her family had gone through—all of the pain that she had brought upon them by running away—and all that she had missed while she was gone. How long had it been? How many months had she made them suffer in her absence? Could it really be almost a year? A year of hiding her past, her true identity, her intentions. Keeping everyone at an arm’s length, not letting anyone in and trying desperately not to think of all the people she’d left behind.

  In her attempt at starting a new life and seeking vengeance on the one person who, in her mind, was responsible for destroying all of their lives, she had done even more damage by leaving than she could ever have thought possible.

  In her attempt to cut herself off from everyone and everything in Hawthorne and create this new life, she never realized all of the destruction she caused in her wake. Why would she do that to herself and her family?

  “Water?” the voice called out. And then again, “Water?”

  Cordelia looked up and saw her coworker holding a glass of water in front of her.

  “Yes, water,” Cordelia said in a daze, remembering the ritual hazing events that took place on Misery Island—Fire, Water, Air, and Earth—the degrading and painful events that forced her to leave it all behind. The pain and humiliation she endured. The betrayal. The lies.

  “Thank you, Chris,” she said, taking the glass from his hand, ignoring his perplexed expression.

  As she gulped down the water, she allowed herself to think about what had happened that night. Since she’d moved to Maine, she had managed to put those memories aside, choosing not to think of that night, but instead to channel her anger and energy toward the man she believed was at the root of all of her suffering: Malcolm Crane.

  “Uh…CeeCee?” Chris hesitated. “You need to lie down or something? Do you need a break?” She could hear her female coworkers snickering behind the coffee bar. Cordelia was uncomfortable with this kind of attention. She had manag
ed to fly under the radar for so long, she wasn’t about to let anyone get too close to her. Not even a handsome and sweet college student like Chris Markson. When she looked at him and his perfectly sculpted features, all it did was make her miss Finn and his crooked smile even more. She couldn’t imagine facing Finn again. For all he knew she had taken off carrying his child. He must hate her for not letting him know if he was a father or not. The truth was that even though she might have been pregnant, she couldn’t even be sure that the baby was his. It could just as easily have been Trevor’s. A bastard child from a bastard rapist.

  “Yeah, I just need some fresh air,” she managed. Standing up, she tucked the newspaper under her arm and rushed past him and out into the crisp autumn air. She walked across the street to a bench and sat for a few minutes staring at the paper folded on her lap.

  What’s happening? Everything was falling into place and then that little boy came out of nowhere, and then this newspaper shows up with the article about Tess and my mother’s attempt to kill herself. What have I done? she thought miserably. She knew what Tess and her mother would say, that she should pay attention to these signs, that they were pointing her in a new direction. Maybe killing her father wasn’t the answer. Maybe she had unfinished business to deal with in Hawthorne instead. True, she had been betrayed and lied to and hurt and deceived, but her family needed her. Finn and Reed needed her. Rebecca needed her. And Maddie…she didn’t know what she felt about Maddie.

  My sister, my cousin? she thought. It didn’t matter what relationship they had—Maddie had had the chance to save her when she needed her most, and she didn’t. She was too weak and scared. But Cordelia really couldn’t blame her. Hawthorne and those girls were all she ever knew. She aimlessly thumbed through the pages until she noticed something fall out of the paper onto her lap.

  She looked at the glossy tarot card that had fallen out of the paper. It looked brand-new, right out of the pack. Suddenly she felt like someone had known all along where she was and what she was planning. Someone was trying to scare her by letting her know that there was unfinished business. Someone was out to get her.

  A man on a horse marched triumphantly over fallen bodies. He was holding a large black flag. But instead of a face, there was only a skull. And the eyes of the horse were bloodred.

  It was the Death tarot card.

  Reed Campbell lifted the brown glass bottle to his lips, letting the liquid fill and burn the back of his throat. The cool salty air rubbed his throat raw, forcing him to indulge in his preferred medication. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass window of his boat—the only place he felt at home these days.

  He was the bastard son, all right.

  While his baby brother, Trevor, had somehow become the golden child of Hawthorne, Massachusetts—the fair-haired prodigal son who could do no wrong—Reed occupied the role of town drunk, screwup, alleged murderer, and pedophile. On his sober days, he realized how the drinking was becoming a problem, which was why he’d made sure that those days were few and far between. It had already cost him his job, his dignity, and countless friends.

  But thanks to Great-grandfather Campbell and the little oil company he started decades ago, Reed no longer felt the need to be gainfully employed. His bank account remained healthy thanks to the thousands of people who needed to stay warm on shivering New England nights. Reed often reminded himself of that fact on nights when he careened down to the waterfront after last call at one of the local taverns. Even though he was personally a failure and unable to support himself, the oil company that bore his family name kept everyone in town warm, and by default, lined his own deep, albeit threadbare, pockets.

  He drowned out his sorrows in bottles and bars. He knew that his feelings for Cordelia and Maddie could be seen as inappropriate—that his actions could be called into question. Cordelia just blew him away with her love of literature and her free spirit. He knew that her time in Hawthorne would be short-lived, but he just couldn’t understand why people would think he had anything to do with her disappearance. If anything, he was more enthralled and enchanted by her than anyone else in town. Perhaps that was his downfall.

  And Maddie. Ever since she left for boarding school, he realized how deep his feelings ran for her. There were hundreds of reasons why he should stay away from her and keep her out of his mind. But he couldn’t get over the way that she looked at him—like he was a knight in shining armor. She saw past all the flaws that his family and the town of Hawthorne held over him. She made him feel like a man. And even though he was in a relationship with someone new—someone his own age, someone more appropriate—he couldn’t get Maddie out of his head. Which was why he kept the liquor flowing and the nights endless so he was never faced with the harsh light of the dawn.

  Finnegan O’Malley didn’t believe in ghosts, but he swore on his great-grandmother’s grave that he saw one. And not just any ghost. Not the random specters known to wander through the historical properties he took care of, the ones who seemed to have no awareness of their ghostly state, but just continued their daily activities in the same manner that they had done centuries before. Not Deacon Knott, who was believed to still take up residence on the top floor of the Knott Cove Inn, his heavy boots famously echoing throughout the Victorian bed-and-breakfast. Curls of smoke from his pipe hovered in the air of the grand parlor, his shadow loomed over the pretty women who dared to stay overnight as guests. Some even claimed to have been pinched rather viciously in their sleep, the purplish bruising on their backsides or upper thighs the only physical proof.

  No, this ghost was a familiar one to Finn, or at least, she had been in life. This was a girl who continued to haunt Finn equally in his dreaming and wakeful states. A girl whose voice still rang out as clear and lyrical as it had when she first swept into town. She was a misfit and an outsider, not unlike himself. Someone whom he’d admired and even loved (though he’d never admit it to anyone—hardly even to himself), and ultimately had lost. But Cordelia LeClaire hadn’t slipped away easily. He couldn’t let her go—his heart wouldn’t allow for it.

  He’d loved her from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. He loved her even more when he observed her midnight swims and watched as she danced through gardens in the early morning hours. He didn’t know why he felt the need to watch over her. It just came instinctually. It was like watching over a beautiful rainbow fish in a sea of sharks. He still remembered their first kiss. It was just as important—if not more—than the night that they first made love. He’d secretly watched her midnight swims with Maddie, and he knew that she would return on certain nights alone. He knew she would need protection, even if she didn’t believe it herself. And knowing the rough treatment she’d received upon her arrival in town, that there would be some people who would take advantage of her solitary swims if they ever found out. Which was why he was determined to never let her out of his sight on those hot, humid nights when the ocean beckoned to her like a siren’s song to a sailor.

  One stifling night at the end of August, he watched from behind a rock as she dipped in and out of the ocean like a mermaid. He was afraid to take his eyes off her for fear that she’d slip beneath the water and swim away forever—taking his heart with her.

  He watched as she cocked her head to the side and spun around in the water. She looked right over to where he was crouched and he slunk backward, afraid that he’d been caught as a sort of Peeping Tom.

  She came right out of the water—letting the heat of the night burn the water droplets off her skin, her long red hair clinging to her wet skin—and instinctively moved over to his hiding spot.

  Before he could come up with a plausible excuse, she smiled widely and put
her hand on his cheek.

  “My own personal bodyguard,” she said brightly. “My valiant knight, I know that you’ve been keeping watch over me. I can feel your eyes on me.”

  He stuttered, trying to come up with an explanation. Wanting her to believe that he wasn’t some kind of a stalker. Before he could say anything more, she quieted him with a kiss. At first it was tentative and sweet. And then he reciprocated with a longer kiss, embracing her and not minding that her wet body was soaking his clothes. It was a kiss that he’d remember until his dying day.

  He knew her intimately and he knew her secrets. He’d once heard his grandfather say that if two people shared a secret—one that nobody else knew about—it bound them together until the secret was finally revealed. He swore on his life that he’d never reveal it, not when she went missing, and not even when he’d been suspected of being involved in her vanishing. He gave his word—and his heart—to Cordelia.

  And now, with no warning, in the bright light of day, he saw her. She’d come back to him. It was only for a moment and could be blamed on the dehydrated and overtired state he was in after doing the landscaping in the Old Town Hall’s courtyard. He knew it was Cordelia because he caught her familiar scent of apples and lavender. He knew it was her from the look in her eyes. It was the same look he saw in her pale, watery blue eyes that she had the last time he saw her. Those eyes were forever etched in his memory. They were wide-set, haunted, shimmering, and most memorably, they were filled with fear.

  Kate Endicott didn’t believe in coincidences.

  She was not superstitious, and wasn’t really concerned with improving her luck, which was why Kate still wasn’t sure what had compelled to her ask her mother, Kiki, to bring in a feng shui expert to enhance the flow of their house, and ultimately, their lives.