MARGARET ONCE TOLD me that our mothers hated each other.

She said that when our grandfather died, he left the entire estate to my mother, Eva, instead of dividing it up equally between her and Penelope. My aunt had been furious and would pick fights about it whenever she came over to let baby Margaret and me waddle together through the rows of rosebushes in the courtyard, the sun warm on our backs and chubby little legs.

Penelope wanted to move herself and Margaret out of their cramped apartment in town and into the enormous house along with the rest of us. There was more than enough space and several empty rooms, but still my mother repeatedly turned her sister down. She wanted the whole house to herself.

Something told me it wasn’t as black-and-white as Margaret made it out to be, but I still feel an uncomfortable sort of shame when I think about it. This place was Penelope’s childhood home. It couldn’t have felt good to be turned away from it.

I leave the library after two agonizing hours, swearing to myself once again that I won’t be returning anymore to just sit around and wait for nothing. I also can’t be running to my room to find solace in my bejeweled cigar box as often as I have been lately. The number of scratches and scars on the tops of my legs and hips has risen too much. It’s starting to feel like my skin can’t breathe, like I can’t breathe. I need to prove to myself that I am a true Acosta—show some control, get a grip.

I remember what I said to Margaret when we were younger and feel sick. If I take it too far, I guess that means I get to stop counting. I can’t remember the last time I felt like I was the one choosing to use those razors. The previously comforting sheen of the box is almost antagonizing now. What have I done to myself?

I wander around the estate until lunchtime, where I eat in the grand dining hall alone. I dip my bread into my soup and look around the empty room of pillars and portraits nervously, stopping myself whenever I begin to wonder if Margaret has eaten yet.

No more, I think. If she wants to stay away from me, I shouldn’t push. Clearly, she’s chosen to go through all of this alone. Maybe I just need to accept that and give her the space right back.

There is a dark place inside me that wonders if Margaret is shutting me out because of how things were between her and her mother. Penelope and I were always closer, sharing more of the same interests and acting with similar attitudes that were so different than Margaret’s, who didn’t care as much about things like order or rules or tradition. Penelope rarely grew angry with me, or my father, but she was more often than not snipping back and forth with Margaret over this or that.

My father and Penelope never kissed or hugged or touched in front of Margaret and me, but between the curl of his half smile and the twinkle in my aunt’s eye whenever we caught them chatting over lunch or tea in the courtyard, it was clear that neither of them was feeling too lonely.

The chemistry was practically electric, although Margaret and I almost never spoke of it to each other anymore, as I think we were both afraid of getting into an argument over it. Every time it would end with Margaret saying the same thing: cousins are not supposed to be sisters.

I spend the afternoon reading in my bedroom, where I accidentally fall asleep until it’s dark. When I wake up, I expect to feel refreshed, but I’m somehow more tired than I was before I lay down. I go back downstairs to the dining room, where dinner has been served and my father and Margaret are eating in silence. It’s a good thing I woke up on my own, because apparently neither of them were planning on coming to get me.

The candles in the middle of the table are lit, and a slow jazz record plays from out of the record player in the corner. Margaret’s black hair is wet and combed back, and she’s wearing a long-sleeved pajama set made of gold satin. Even though I’m still upset about what happened in the attic, I’m at least relieved to see her clean and comfortable.

Without meeting my cousin’s eye, I sit in front of the empty plate at the end of the table and serve myself from the platter nearest to me, which is loaded with thick slices of roast beef and a small mountain of roasted potatoes and carrots. I take some salad and bread before pouring gravy from a tiny silver pitcher all over my meat and potatoes.

“Now that you’re both here,” my father says in between a bite of roast, “I can remind you that Miranda’s daughter is going to be moving in tomorrow morning, in order to help with preparations for the upcoming annual holiday party for the club. She’ll be staying in the spare room at the end of the hall on the second floor, the one just past Margaret’s.”

Neither my cousin nor I say anything. Miranda is the new cook who replaced Walter—her food pales in comparison, although I can’t claim not to be biased. Still, I couldn’t care less about her daughter, just as long as she leaves me and Margaret alone. I hope she doesn’t think that just because our rooms are close that we’ll all be friends.

“There is also a smaller dinner party to be scheduled between now and then. Miranda won’t be able to keep up in the kitchen with the demand for so much food, especially with Penelope gone. So that’s where the cook’s daughter comes in.”

Of course! Walter is dead and aunt Penelope is missing, so obviously the task of utmost importance would be to make sure that the precious country club isn’t inconvenienced at all. My dislike for all of those stupid old men just keeps on increasing. Can’t they all just go out and get real jobs? How do they even make all that money to waste, anyway?

Margaret pours herself a glass of milk from the pitcher next to the bread but doesn’t take a drink from it. I bet she’s thinking the same thing that I am.

“There’s also a more serious matter to discuss,” my father says, clearing his throat. My heart skips a beat—has he learned something about my aunt?

“I need to know who ruined all of the photos in Penelope’s room.”

My mouth slacks open in shock, but Margaret keeps her eyes on her plate.

“What do you mean, ruined?” I ask. “What happened in Penelope’s room?”

“Someone went into her desk and personal drawers and went wild with a permanent marker,” my father says. “Priceless items have been ruined with scribbles and curse words.”

I swallow my half-chewed bite of roast. “What?”

“I’m curious about something, Uncle Felix,” Margaret says calmly, tearing soft white tufts of bread away from the crust and rolling them into balls between her fingers. “Why were you in her room, looking through her drawers?”

My stomach grows heavy with dread. If it really was Margaret who ruined Penelope’s photos, she is starting to go off the deep end for sure.

My father’s cheeks flush red. “Was it you who ruined her things, then, Margaret? Scribbled her face out in every picture she owned?”

Every picture she owned? I look at Margaret’s stoic face, bewildered. What was she thinking?

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says, her voice steady. “So I don’t see why I should have to answer yours.”

“Did you do that?” I ask, unable to hold it in any longer. In addition to the worry I’ve felt over how she’s been withdrawing and hanging out in the attic, now there’s anger, too. Penelope doesn’t belong just to Margaret. Those weren’t her pictures to ruin, no matter how she was feeling.

“I never said I did it,” she says to me, popping a piece of the bread in her mouth. “But thanks for assuming.”

“Your mother loved you.” My father stands from the table, apparently finished even though his dinner is only half-eaten. “I can’t believe you’d do something so cold out of pure resentment. What are you mad at her for? You act like she left us on purpose!”

“You don’t know the first thing about my mother,” Margaret replies, her voice flat. “Neither of you do, and that’s the problem.”

“So you did it for attention?” I ask. “You’re proving your point by ruining stuff that we can never get back?”

“You will not be allowed to act this way,” my father cuts in. He’s never had to take a parental tone with Margaret, and it shows in the clumsiness of how he talks. Despite his red face, he looks determined. “I would never dream of sending you to live elsewhere, but—”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Margaret interjects. “But you still had to bring it up, right, Uncle Felix? To keep me in my place?”

Will every dinner be this way from now on? A sad little group of people at an enormous table who, it turns out, don’t really know each other at all? It’s not until now that I notice how heavily Penelope directed the tone during times like these. She was the one to calmly translate things between Margaret and my father, but I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even understand Margaret right now, let alone feel equipped enough to step into this.

“You will stay out of her room,” my father commands. “You will keep your hands off her things and you will respect me as your guardian.”

“Are you my guardian?” Margaret asks, her tone almost challenging. “I feel like that’s something that should have been worked out with the law by now. What did the police say, by the way? About my mother’s disappearance? I certainly haven’t talked to any officers, and you’d think that they’d want to question everyone to make sure nothing fishy was going on.”

My father doesn’t reply. I have to admit the question is legitimate, even if Margaret has been out of her mind between the attic and the photographs in Penelope’s room.

“The police came and took the report the day after she disappeared,” he insists after a moment, throwing his hands into the air. “What is it with you two and your suspicions? They didn’t need to question either of you because there wasn’t anything fishy about the situation. Clearly, she went for a walk and endured some sort of horrible accident. She may have been drunk, lost her way somehow...”

His voice wavers with emotion, causing his cheeks to instantly redden in embarrassment. I think about how he and Penelope used to look at each other, and feel a sick mix of sadness for my father and secondhand embarrassment from his quivering chin.

“Clearly,” my cousin repeats, rolling her eyes. “Wow, you sure do seem to know everything, Uncle Felix.”

“That’s enough,” he says, his face still red. “That’s about as much as I can handle for one day. If there is just one thing I could ask of you girls for the next two weeks, it’s that you’ll stay out of my and Miranda’s way while we learn how to continue with the party planning in Penelope’s absence.”

Then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing and fading throughout the dining room and parlor as he makes his way to his study. Since my aunt disappeared, it’s been startling, almost pitiful, how intensely my father is distracting himself with the country club. It’s like the parties are suddenly the most important thing in the entire world, even more important than getting to the root of why Margaret ruined the photographs. I stare at my cousin through wide eyes.

“What the hell is going on with you?” I ask once she makes it clear that she intends to remain silent. “Why would you do that stuff to all of Penelope’s photos? She’s your mother...”

“You mean, she was,” Margaret says. “She’s gone now.”

A lump forms in my throat. “I’m starting to worry about you,” I say. “You never talk to me about anything anymore, you’re acting different, and earlier in the attic—”

“Earlier in the attic I was trying to scare you,” Margaret says dismissively. She stops chewing for a moment and reaches over for my father’s glass of unfinished wine. I think back to when Margaret told me she had something to show me in the attic. She was so serious about the knocking on the wall, desperate even. I don’t know if I believe that she was only trying to scare me.

After Margaret chugs the wine, she sets the glass down and goes back to her roast beef. “The truth is that I’ve been thinking a whole lot about my mom,” she says. “And it’s stuff I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want to hear. That’s why I’m not talking to you.”

“What do you mean, stuff I wouldn’t want to hear?”

“Well,” Margaret says. “You act as if she just vanished into thin air, instead of dying painfully, scared and alone.”

Her comment is like a slap to the face, especially after all of the torture my mind has been putting itself through over this very topic. “How do you know she died painfully?” I ask, my voice nearly a whisper. Why would she say that?

Margaret does something startling then: she smiles, an unsettling and icy smirk that, for a brief moment, makes me feel as though I am looking into the face of madness. Suddenly my head feels light.

“Let’s just say I have my ways,” she says after the pause. She wipes her mouth with a napkin and stands, smoothing the back of her satin pajama pants before facing me. “I’m going to bed now. Maybe we can...hang out tomorrow or something.”

She hasn’t suggested such a thing in days. I might be happy about the idea if it wasn’t for the dreadful pit growing heavy in my stomach. Underneath the table, my feet are tucked nervously against one another. My chest tightens at the sight of her still-present smirk.

“Sure,” I say quietly, desperate for the conversation to end. “Whatever you say, Margaret.”

“Cool.” She gives the top of my head a rough kiss before heading out toward the staircase. “Go to sleep, Lucy. And stop thinking about what happened to my mother. One way or another, death is painful for us all.”

For five full minutes I sit alone at the table, too scared to move, too worried. The notion that Margaret had anything to do with my aunt’s disappearance makes me physically ill. There is no way it could be real. At first I thought she was just acting strange because of grief, but certain things, like the attic and the ruined photographs and that icy smirk, make me feel like there’s something that she’s hiding. Something beyond the disappearance and bigger than her jealousy over how well Penelope and I got along.

I sift through memories in my head, looking for clues suggesting that my cousin is capable of anything sinister: Margaret glaring on as my aunt and I fawned over a gardening book together that my cousin had deemed dull, or Penelope praising me over my studies during dinner, while hardly acknowledging that Margaret had done just as well—if not better—with hers.

There were many instances like that, I know deep down. At the time I was always too happy to notice or care how Margaret felt—whenever I felt bad about it, the same bitter thought would come back to me, sour in my mind: at least she’s got a real mother.

Still, the memories feel stranger now, darker. Is it because there’s truth to my suspicions, or is it because I’m completely overcome with paranoia? No, I decide, this is silly. I am just under a considerable amount of stress, and so is Margaret. There’s an explanation for everything that’s happened.

Margaret could never kill anybody.

Maybe just one small cut, my mind whispers frantically as the panic fails to dissipate. Go up to your room and let the pressure bleed out of you, just a little bit, just until your hands stop shaking...

I nearly jump out of my skin when somebody enters the room from behind me. I turn with a gasp, only to see the cook standing beside a similarly featured girl who looks to be around my age. They are both wearing coats that are streaked with rain.

“I’m so sorry to startle you, honey,” Miranda says. “I was just bringing Vanessa through to her room. She arrived earlier than planned.”

Despite my already-growing resentment for Vanessa, I’m at least grateful for the abrupt interruption of silence. It almost feels like someone caught me in the act of something unspeakable, even though there’s no way for them to tell what was going through my head. The leftover shame simmers away slowly inside—nothing happened, you did it, you stopped yourself.

I know deep down that I just got lucky.

I take the girl in, the first peer besides Margaret whom I’ve seen in a few years, since we started doing our schooling at home. We hated school and the people in it, but not as much as they hated us. Whenever I started coming close to making a friend, Margaret would get jealous and ruin it somehow, earning herself a reputation for being weird and rude. I soon learned it was easier for everybody if I blocked people out from the start. Eventually we just stopped going altogether. It was better for us, Margaret insisted, and I agreed.

“Hi,” the girl says and smiles at me. “You must be Lucy, or Margaret. Either way, I’ve heard all about you.”

The girl is stupidly cheerful, causing me to feel validated in my preconceived notions about her. Does she not know the circumstances, the entire reason she’s here in the first place? Why would she grin at me like she’s on fucking vacation?

“It’s raining outside?” I ask blankly, staring at the droplets of water falling from the ends of her dark blond hair.

“Yeah,” Vanessa says, uncertainty evident in her voice as she takes in my bitter disposition. “It’s been coming down pretty hard for the past hour. The drive was a nightmare.”

I try not to imagine Penelope’s body out there in the rain and take a minute to stare into the new girl’s face, not caring too much that it might seem rude. “Oh,” I say after a moment. She shifts her weight uncomfortably. “Well, I’m Lucy. Margaret’s gone to bed already. I’m just about to turn in myself.”

“You go on ahead, honey,” Miranda says softly and steps up to pat Vanessa’s hand. I think she can tell how on edge I am. “I can show Vanessa in just fine. You girls chitchat later.”

Not on your life.

I nod and walk past them, grateful when I realize that Miranda is purposefully lingering behind so that they can walk separately. Knowing I have a minute before they follow, I quickly make my way up to the second floor, past my bedroom to Margaret’s.

“Marg?” I say softly and knock on the door. No answer.

“I saw the new girl,” I say through the door. “She came early, apparently. She’s way too happy to be here and I’m pretty sure you won’t like her.” I pause, my insides turning when I remember the things my cousin said earlier. “Anyway, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Still no answer.

“Are you asleep already?” I open the door just a crack and peer in. The fireplace in her room is lit, but the bed is empty. I hear footsteps approaching and realize I don’t have enough time to make it back to my room before running into Miranda and Vanessa again. Instead, I keep going down the hall, past the empty room where the hallway curves back to go past the library and around to the main staircase again. While waiting for the new girl to get into her room, I glance up the dark stairs to the third floor. No way, I think, shivering. Margaret’s just in the bathroom, most likely.

But curiosity gets the best of me. I make my way to the top of the staircase, my blood already starting to run cold at the silence. My father’s room as well as the cook’s quarters are both down on the first floor. Nobody lives up here.

Still, there are tiny plug-in lights lining the halls, and by their glow I make my way to the back hallway. The carpet is freshly vacuumed as always, and the stillness and silence coming from the dark, empty spare rooms is looming. Vivid wallpaper surrounds me, its Victorian pattern strangely eerie in the shadows, reaching, as if I’m making my way through a tangle of invisible vines that are trying to keep me away from the back end of the house. With every step, it becomes harder to continue forward.

From somewhere in the dark ahead, I hear a sharp, short giggle—Margaret. I take a deep breath and turn the last corner, my heart leaping at the sight before me.

The small opening in the ceiling that leads to the attic is lit up, the glow from the single bulb inside shining down onto the miniature staircase positioned below.

After a moment of shocked silence, I hear footsteps circling the opening, slowly, cautiously, as if she knows that I’m standing down here in the dark.

She giggles again, and I turn on my heel and race back down to my room.