The Housekeeper's Daughter

by Palmer, Dee

  “We have the money that bitch stole. It will be enough to get them off our backs and give you time to restore the company,” she snaps.

  “If she took it.”

  “If she didn’t, where is it?”

  “I don’t fucking know, Mother.” He roars and she freezes. Long seconds pass before she whispers.

  “You know what they’ll do to us if we—” Fear pinches each word, making them tremble on her tongue.

  “I’m aware of the shit-storm you’ve landed this company in, yes.”

  “We’ll be ruined, Atticus. If she has anything to do with it, you must find out.” She clasps her hands together in proper prayer this time and then begins to wring them anxiously. “I should’ve gotten rid of the little whore when I had the chance.” She barely finishes her malicious musing when Atticus leaps from his seat and, in a series of terrifyingly agile movements, has lifted his mother and hauled her up against the far wall. She is poised on the tip of her fine Italian shoes and is clasping her hands at Atticus’s wrist trying to ease the chokehold he has around her neck.

  “Say that again. Just whisper it, Mother, and I’ll continue to squeeze. You’re not worthy to utter her name. The lies you fed me, I will never forgive, but if you harm her now, I. Will. End. You.”

  “Atticus, I was just trying to protect you and the family fortune. Your grandfather was going to give it all away. If I hadn’t found that Will—” Her voice becomes faint, her words hanging in the air as she pleads for her life, her fingers frantically trying to pick apart his hold.

  “Just be thankful I have every intention of winning her back.” He releases his grip, and she has to steady herself on the wall to prevent falling to the floor. She sucks in some deep breaths and rubs at the mark already formed around her neck.

  “And if she has the money, if she really knows what we’ve done?”

  “What you’ve done, Mother.”

  She manages to straighten herself to her full height, visibly regaining her strength and resembling her son in every way that is chilling, calculating and cruel.

  “It was your signature on your grandfather’s Will, Atticus, I’m pretty sure she will see it as the same thing, darling.”

  “I fucking hope not, or I’m just going to have to do the one thing I’ve never done before.”

  “What?” Her mouth twists with a knowing smile, which is at odds with the question.

  “Pray Mother. I’m going to have to pray she knows nothing about any of this.”

  “How could she know? Your grandfather may have hated me, but even he wouldn’t have told her; he loved you above anyone. And I made damn sure nothing was in the copy of his Will you signed.” She is once more the confident, aloof, and arrogant woman who walked in a short while ago. Atticus narrows his eyes at her, and I can see undiluted hatred pouring off him only to bounce off of her, unaffected. She waves her hand dismissively and turns to leave.

  “You underestimate a broken woman, Mother. She’s not the same girl, not by any stretch, and she’s after something from us.”

  “She gets nothing, understand? You want to win her back, fine, but if you don’t—”

  “I will do whatever needs to be done.” He cuts her off dead, his back to the camera, and even from across the room, she visibly shivers from the glare he must be fixing on her. He turns back and I freeze the image on my screen. Tia had said that woman was pure evil, but at this moment in time, I know which one of the two I happen to fear.

  Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell has she got herself into?

  I slam the laptop shut, fury and fear racing through my veins like a wildfire. I have to check myself; she betrayed me, lied to me this whole damn time. I have to ask myself, yet again, what the hell do I care if she’s neck deep in the shit. I pinch my eyelids shut tight to try and clear my thoughts, and all I can see is the hollow reflection in Atticus’s eyes. His expression was carved with a darkness I don’t want to comprehend.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen such soulless, vacant eyes.

  I stomp my way downstairs to the kitchen and grab a fresh bottle of Jack off the shelf. Forgoing the crystal tumbler, I crack the cap and take a long, hard slug of the fiery amber liquid. It reignites the burn in my throat from not so long ago and scours a well-worn path inside until it bottoms out and swirls restlessly in the pit of my stomach.

  I switch on the TV, and it flashes to instant life with noise from the music channel, blaring loud, colourful and diverting. Still, I can’t bring myself to drop into my favourite chair and get all numb and distracted.

  This is so fucked up.

  Letting my head roll heavily from side to side, I feel the creak of weary bones and exhaustion pop along the top of my spine. My eyes squeeze closed, and I slowly drag my fingertips through my long hair, pulling it clean away from my face. I need this dark cloud to lift and ease this unbearable tension in my head. I need a clear head if I’m ever going to think this through. I need answers, and I need to know Tia’s truth.

  Was any of it ever real?

  So many damn questions, so many possible lies, and when I finally open my eyes, I can clearly see that the only reason I’m dick deep in this mess is because of one person and only one person: my sister.

  As much as I try to focus on Tia’s betrayal, doubt churns like acid inside my veins, corroding the instant shield I put up the moment Tia chose to lie to me.

  No, she didn’t lie; she just wouldn’t give up Ghost.

  I stride from the living room, fury weighing down my footsteps as I pound up the stairs and once more barge into Tia’s room. There has to be something in here, some information that will stop me from having to do the unthinkable.

  I begin to tear her room apart. I start searching for the smallest scrap of information about Tia’s relationship with my sister.

  There’s nothing, just that damn bus ticket with my address in her handwriting. It has more identifying markers than a damn fingerprint, and I can’t get rid of the unnerving feeling that my sister did that on purpose.

  Ghost doesn’t make mistakes.

  If Ghost does anything, someone, somewhere is going to suffer, but there’s no doubt every single decision and permutation has already played out a million times in her crazy psychotic head. Everything is done for a reason.

  If Ghost wants to end up in a minimum security prison for a minor crime it’s because she staged a perfect alibi to mask the real crime. It was never her intention to get sent down for life for the murder of our parents. She simply needed somewhere safe to stay for a while and to give her time to work out how to hide from me when she was released.

  If Tia thinks she can trust her, she’s toying with the devil and the deep blue sea.

  “Logan is it true?” My sister’s voice makes the hairs on my neck twitch uncomfortably, and I hate the way my stomach drops when she’s near.

  “Is what true, Lilith?” I sigh heavily and pull myself from my bed to stand. I move to close the distance and make it impossible for her to enter my room. It wasn’t always like this. Unfortunately, this isn’t some playful sibling rivalry and/or a normal brother-sister growing pains type of deal.

  I pull the door half shut and block the remaining space with my fully-grown body. My sister stands on the threshold with her bony hip jutting forward and angry fists clenched to her hips. Her face is impassive, but her eyes lose their permanent vacant expression and flash with a fiery, demonic rage.

  I’m secretly hoping this is a phase of puberty gone awry or a shit tonne of hormones that are making her this volatile, this detached from everything, everything that is, except me.

  She was always my shadow growing up, there’s just eleven months between us, and for most of my life, it felt like I had a twin.

  Since she hit her teens, however, her mere presence feels more like an oppressive cloud slowly suffocating and choking the air around me, draining the very joy of being alive.

  Her attention and focus on me are so far removed from a little
big brother idolisation I’m worried enough to reach out for some help. I’ve read up on this level of obsession, and I’m struggling to see a way through without some intervention, therapy, and some serious medicating. What Lilith feels for me veered from the path of what’s considered normal a good few months back when she slipped into my shower and tried to wash me. How I didn’t kill us both trying to get out of that damn room so quick, all wet and covered in suds, I don’t know. I left her in shocked surprise, flat against the back of the shower as I slammed the glass shower door separating us. It cracked in a spider pattern across the pane with the impact and force but didn’t shatter. The noise alone was enough to cover her stifled scream. I refused to look at her again, and dinner with our parents that night was excruciating. Perhaps it would’ve been better had my parents heard. I could’ve told them everything then, before it was too late.

  That night, she hovered outside my room, I could hear her feet shuffling along the hardwood landing, her footsteps muffled with thick socks, but even with no noise, I still felt her presence. It was a good hour before she spoke and then she attempted to brush off the shower incident as a practical joke. The words fell uncomfortably silent between her and my locked bedroom door.

  She backed off after that, and I gave it no more thought until last week when she freaked me the fuck out, enough that I finally spoke to our parents.

  It felt like a betrayal at first. We had always been so close, and for a good part of my life, she’s been the best sister and my best friend even. However, something changed, and whatever that is, it’s escalating. I’d have a better time understanding this psychotic personality shift if she was jacked up on crack or hanging with the wrong crowd. Since she only ever leaves the house for school and never mentions friends, I’m sadly confident that isn’t the case. It’s like a switch flipped inside her, and overnight, she went from cute baby sis to me waking up in a final scene in a horror movie, with Lilith staring at me like a fucking spectre at the end of my bed.

  She told me she’d been there all night, that she’d always be there for me.

  Luckily, my parents noticed. They wanted her to see a specialist and wanted me to take up the boarding option when I returned to school the following week. I was a day pupil because the school was close to home, and until their suggestion, it had never crossed my mind. I jumped at the offer.

  “You’re leaving me?” The inflection is there so I know it’s a question, only she makes it sound like a threat.

  “I’m not leaving Lilith, I’m just going back to school.” I search her face for any clue to what is actually going on inside her head. Her eyes give nothing away, and her face could be carved from granite it’s so devoid of emotion. I try to offer a placatory smile and explain a feasible alternative to the real reason I need to stay away. “I’m just staying over. It’s my final year, so it makes sense. I have a lot of work to do, and I can focus better at school.”

  “Without me, when I’m not around you mean?” She tilts her head to one side slowly, her eyes never leaving mine, and I know she can already see the lie.

  “No…well, yes.” I correct myself, and she seems pleased that I’ve stopped pretending.

  “This is their idea isn’t it?” Her tone freezes the blood in my veins, and I can feel the ice crackle and spread through my body. My heart stops. I step forward and grab her shoulders, my fingertips pressing hard to get some reaction. An ouch or fuck-off would be preferable to the smile that creeps across her lips.

  “Lilith you need to get help…this…this isn’t normal.” I keep my voice low and stern.

  “It’s completely normal.” She pulls out of my hold and rushes forward, catching me by surprise, and wrapping her arms around my waist. Her hands dive down the back of my sweatpants. I shove her hard, and she falls back, laughing maniacally and steadies herself against the wall.

  “Fuck Lilith! This is not normal; nothing about this is remotely fucking normal.”

  “They’ve poisoned you against me.” She turns her head slowly and drops her chin to look starkly at me through her long dark lashes. The warm brown colour in her eyes is gone, and vacant, inky blackness is the only thing staring right through me. Her limp hair clumps in thick strands, shielding most of her face. Her lips barely move when, in a disquieting whisper, she answers a question I never asked. “Because I love you, Logan.”

  I drag my hand roughly down my face, pulling the tiredness through the muscles and repositioning it to a tight knot at the back of my neck. My shoulders are set like concrete with tension. I take my time to look around the bedroom. I think I’ve slept more nights in here than in my own bed. Even if it is a shit tip most of the time, I take comfort just being around her stuff. The clutter is ridiculous, total chaos with piles of art supplies, stacks of sketchbooks and canvases leaning against any available wall space. The two chairs are piled high with clothes and the antique chaise against one wall looks like a seamless river of laundry spilling and melting into a floordrobe. She doesn’t even own that much clothing, but she somehow manages to take what little she has and make it look like the first day of the January sales.

  I’m not OCD, but I like everything in order, tidy, neat and exactly where it belongs. I draw the scent of the room deep into my lungs, and I know I’m projecting, but I swear I can smell the scent of her, of us, as if she were still naked on the bed.

  Was anything between us real?

  I start to pick at the pile of clothes dumped on the chair by her dresser and pretty much each item I lift and fold is mine. My t-shirt, my sweaters and jumpers, she even has a few pairs of my most colourful boxer shorts, the ones she bought for my stocking at Christmas, which she knew would be wasted on me. It’s lucky I like the butt naked approach to living because I swear she’s got half my damn wardrobe in here. How did I not notice this?

  Because you’re always butt naked, and you liked her wearing your clothes, dumbass.

  I can’t believe how much this fucking hurts. I sent her away for all the right reasons, yet looking around at all her belongings, it’s all just stuff. Excuses, lies, betrayal—all just stuff that clouds what’s real. It’s like I’m justifying what I can feel changing inside me, but the truth is, there’s too much going on that is outside of her control to really judge this fucked up mess. And there’s too much at stake to walk away without knowing the whole truth. I need to know what’s real.

  Fuck, I hope this was real for her, because it damn well is for me.

  I get the first flutter of a feeling in my chest that kick starts my heart, with what, I’m not sure, but I feel it pounding hard, like a call to arms.

  I’m not broken by what Tia has done, but I’m pretty fucking dented, and I know in my bones that none of that fucking matters. Tia matters. The only thing worse than the hurt my sister caused me in the past is that she’s able to do it all over again with someone else I love.

  The only thing that is going to ease this agony is Tia.

  I slump on to the bed and let out a deep, heavy sigh that feels as though it’s been dragged from my soul. I breathe in her scent on her bed sheets and the pillow that perfectly moulds to my head. She’s everywhere and nowhere, and I’m struggling to see straight.

  I tuck my hands under the pillow supporting my head, and my fingers slide across some sheets of paper. I feel around and grip the spiral edge of one of her many sketchbooks. Pulling it free, I can’t recall ever seeing this one before. I sit upright and make myself more comfortable before I take a closer look. She might get all kinds of embarrassed when I’m looking over her shoulder, but she’s never had a problem showing me her work, and I don’t feel like this is an intrusion, it’s not like it says Tia’s Diary ‘Keep Out’ on the front.

  The front cover has an ink doodle with a million tiny strokes forming intricate shapes and patterns, waves, teardrops, and a thousand different strokes, no one the same, and all beautifully etched. An elaborate cursive shape that resembles a half finished ‘u’ or maybe an ‘r’, at a pu
sh it could be an ‘L’. It’s impressive and I know this will just be a distracted doodle for Tia since it’s only the cover. She keeps the good stuff inside. I open the cover and take a direct hit to my chest at the image before me, which would’ve had me on my arse if I wasn’t already on the bed.

  It’s me, from when I’m not sure, a while ago I think, and I have my nose in a book; my legs are stretched and dangling over the arm of my father’s armchair. She’s captured every hair on my head. I can sense the concentration from the shading on my furrowed brow, but I can’t work out what the book in which I’m engrossed; she left the title fuzzy. It must’ve been good for me to not notice her drawing this. It’s far too detailed for her to have done it from memory. Christ, I can even see the break in the scar on my thigh, where the knife slid out for a centimetre or two before Lilith plunged it back in. The scar is so faint, I assumed Tia had never noticed, she never asked. I get a twist in my stomach; perhaps she knew already. I hate these corrosive doubts. I swallow the thought down like bad tasting tequila.

  I turn the page and there I am again, working at my desk or playing a video game. The way she has captured my image, it’s more than my face; it feels like she’s delving inside me, searching, coaxing and discovering more, the real me perhaps.

  I don’t know if that makes this worse or better, I’m fascinated, enthralled, and I have to see it all. I turn the page again and again.

  Several pages are just me, but the next few are us. Her features are blurry, most likely dismissing the time needed to detail her image as wasteful if I know her. I rebuke my ironic reflection with bitter laugh. That’s the whole fucking point; do I know her at all? I heave a heavy sigh and stare at the careful shading and sparing use of fine lines that give the faintest suggestion of her portrait compared to mine at least. Only her eyes hold any definition, and in the sketch, they are looking into mine as if there’s not another soul on Earth. Like she’s caught her breath in that pivotal moment and everything between us is held just there on that page, perfect and untouched. I’m not sure if that was the moment I knew I loved her, but judging by this picture, it’s the moment she loved me. I can feel it through the page, and that is the craziest fucking thing.