At some point, Aaron and Grace wandered into the kitchen after Aaron decided to add another dish to the food he’d cooked earlier, which we’d then have for dinner later on in the evening. With the hot drinks and cookies already eaten, no one was hungry for a meal.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the coffee,” Kaea said from the sofa, “but how about we get some real drinks going? Seems like the kind of night for it.”
I groaned. “I’m getting flashbacks to many a night at the flat. I’ll only drink if you swear not to strip and start doing the ‘Y.M.C.A.’ dance.”
“I’m injured!” Kaea protested even as the room filled with laughter once more. “Your innocent little peepers are safe.”
We scattered to carry down the bottles of alcohol we’d brought so that Ash and Darcie wouldn’t have to bear that cost on top of what they’d already paid to get the place cleaned up for habitation. Despite their protests, we’d all chipped in on the money for the groceries, too. Everyone except for Aaron—oh, he’d tried, but we’d refused to accept.
We’d known he’d end up doing more than his share of the cooking. Because Aaron could cook the rest of us under the table any day of the week—and he liked having a group that he knew was game to try his more experimental creations.
The least we could do was pay for the ingredients.
After all, our accommodation was free and none of us were on the breadline. Of the entire group, I surely earned the least, but I’d also done barely any discretionary spending since my diagnosis. My bank account was healthier than it had been for a while. One positive, at least.
“I’ll get yours,” I told Kaea. “Where is it?”
“Closet. Thanks, Lunes.”
I grabbed my own two bottles of wine first, passing Phoenix in the hall as he emerged from his and Vansi’s room with the makings for a cocktail. I knew that without asking about the bottles in his hands, the labels of which I couldn’t clearly see. Cocktails were Vansi’s jam, and Phoenix was incredible at creating them.
“I’ll wait for you,” he said as I ducked into Kaea’s room. “Ash and Darcie brought stuff, too, and already put it downstairs, and Grace is helping Aaron in the kitchen, so it’s just us up here.”
“Thanks.” I made quick work of getting Kaea’s whiskey, my gaze falling once again on the old green pack as I left Kaea’s room. “That must’ve been scary when he slipped,” I commented as we began to walk downstairs.
“Just between us, I have to admit I was worried he’d broken his leg,” he said in that deliberate way of his. “With the lack of reception here, and the distance from any significant help . . .” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t have been life-threatening, but the delay might’ve ended up causing an infection.”
I hadn’t considered what it might mean if one of us got injured all the way out here, but of course he was right. Even a surgeon-in-training could only do so much without equipment. “What do you think happened to his boot? It looked bad when I saw it.”
A shrug. “Manufacturers are cutting corners these days, making things at lower quality. Just bad luck, I’m guessing.”
The glib response was not what I would’ve expected from Phoenix, and I was frowning when we entered the living room. Ash waved at us from a corner that held a curving wall of wood that I belatedly realized was meant to be a bar.
“Darcie’s ancestors were lushes!” he called out.
“Truth,” Darcie confirmed. “Cellar is full of wine. I should’ve told you that, Luna. Since I have zero liking for the stuff, I’m not sure whether it tastes like vinegar at this point, or how old it can get until it’s no longer drinkable, but you game to try one of the oldies?”
Startled at the friendly comment after the way she’d blown up at me, I decided to accept the olive branch. “Are you kidding?” I dumped my bottles on Ash’s bar; all the alcohol was to be shared anyway. “Let’s go!” Who knew what treasures lay dusty and forgotten under the house. “Wait, let me grab my camera. Will there be enough light to take photos?”
She waved her hand in that way that meant maybe, maybe not.
“Should we grab a flashlight?”
“Jim told us he stocked up the flashlights, but I haven’t found them yet. Cleaners must’ve moved them from the usual spot. Probably thought they were being helpful.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “There’s a lightbulb in the cellar, so we should be okay for a first look.”
“Sounds good.” Dim lighting could work for mood, too. It might well be perfect for shooting an old wine cellar that—hopefully—hadn’t seen a cleaner’s brush for years. I knew exactly the corporate client to which I could pitch those images.
I mentally crossed my fingers.
Darcie didn’t say much as she led me out of the living room and down the endless hallway to the left of the staircase. I busied myself taking in the surroundings, snapping the odd pic. More mounted animal heads, a preserved fish or two that seemed to be from her grandfather’s time, a yellowed cross-stitch that was the most wholesome thing on the walls so far.
After that came a painted family portrait that I knew at once was of Blake and Clara Shepherd and their children. He was all clean lines and thick blond mustache, his hair cut sharp and neat, and his suit fitted to his athletic frame.
Blake Shepherd had been handsome.
Clara, however, was painted nowhere near as well as Blake; the only reason I recognized it as her was the dress she wore—the same one as from the portrait of her by the entrance to the house. Three of her children’s faces, too, were smudged blurs. The sole child with a defined face was a teenage girl with blond hair and blue eyes. She stared at me with a faint smirk on her face.
Wondering if the artist had suffered a stroke midpainting to have done such a divided piece of work, I took another, closer look. My eyes widened. The faces of Clara and the three children had been smudged on purpose, extra paint used to wipe out their features.
Blake Shepherd destroying their images as he’d ended their existence?
Shivering, I turned away from the eerie painting that generations of Shepherds had left hanging, and caught up to Darcie. We were thankfully long past the portrait when she spoke. “Sorry about screaming at you.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “I know you didn’t do it. You were always the nicest of the group.”
“Nope, that’s definitely Aaron.”
Snorting out a laugh that then made us both giggle, she dropped her hands to her sides. “I meant of us girls. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a mean thing in my life.”
I said plenty of bitchy things, but usually only to Vansi. Darcie and I weren’t close enough that I’d ever vent to her. I’d never vented to Bea, either. That wasn’t how our relationship had worked. I’d been content to just be near her, listen to her. If anyone else had realized how I felt about her, there was a good chance they’d have thought I wanted more, that she was leading me on.
Those people would’ve been wrong.
Bea’s joy had been mine. Nothing had made me happier than seeing her shine and laugh and live a life glorious. I’d loved her beyond breath itself, but it wasn’t the kind of love most people understood. It had no need for the physical, and no desire to possess.
All I’d ever needed was for her to see me, trust me . . . and never leave me behind.
“I should’ve hidden the doll better,” I said now, to the sister of the girl who’d broken me when she broke herself. “I honestly didn’t think anyone would go into the closet to grab her. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’ve been racking my brain to figure out who it could’ve been.” Darcie stared into nothingness. “Kaea used to play stupid pranks back when we were at uni.”
“No, he wouldn’t do this.” Kaea’s worst pranks had still only been about mischief. “He told us how bad it was with your break-in. He feels awful about it, would’ve never tried to ruin your week here.”
Darcie’s expression softened. “He was amazing that night, stayed with us until after the cops had come, even booked us into a suite at a nice hotel for a couple of days. You’re right. He wouldn’t try to hurt me.”
Her chest rose and fell on deep, conscious breaths. “Whoever it was, I think I have to let it go. Someone probably thought they were being funny and setting up a jump scare, had no idea how I’d react.”
Since she’d brought up the subject, I said, “Why does it affect you that way? You loved Bea.”
A whispered darkness passed over Darcie’s face. “The authorities don’t make you identify bodies like they do in the TV shows,” she said, her voice distant. “They knew who she was by the time I arrived, had identified her by dental records. But I wanted to say goodbye.” Pressing her lips together when they trembled, she swallowed hard as she hugged her arms around her rib cage.
I didn’t interrupt, didn’t comfort. I needed to understand what had happened that long-ago midwinter when Darcie had vanished for a weekend and come back to tell us that Bea was gone, dead and cremated, her ashes scattered in the ocean.
“I should’ve listened to the undertaker when he told me it would be better if I didn’t look at my sister, that they hadn’t been able to do much. I’d asked the ho—” She swallowed again, the movement convulsive. “I’d asked that her body be transferred directly to the funeral home, and I went there to say my goodbyes.
“I should’ve listened. But I didn’t, and now all I see when I think of my sister is the way she looked in that box. Her face all bloated up, and the marks from the thin rope she used cutting into her neck, the deep gouges in her skin from where she tried to struggle and tear it off at the end.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I can’t remember my baby sister as she was, Luna. I remember her only as the mangled thing she became.”
My heart thundered. I’d always imagined that Beatrice must’ve taken an overdose. But to commit suicide by hanging? For the girl I’d known, that was an act of violence, of rage. Especially when she had to have known that Darcie was likely to end up viewing her body and the damage she’d done to it.
“I’m so sorry.” My fingers trembled as I stroked her upper arm. “Why didn’t you bring even one of us with you? Why did you try to do everything on your own?”
“My therapist says it was shock and anger.” Flat tone, flatter gaze. “I’m such a bad person that I wanted to obliterate all reminders of my sister and carry on as if nothing had happened.”
Even though I’d blamed Darcie for her actions since that horrible weekend, I couldn’t help but hurt for the naked depth of her grief. “I’m sure that’s not what your therapist meant.”
When she didn’t respond, I said, “Come on. Let’s go get this vintage wine so we can get drunk and weepy, and probably watch Kaea do the naked limbo under a broomstick.”
Bursting into a wet laugh at the reminder of one particular night at the flat, she nodded, and led me to a right turn into another hallway. The cellar door proved to be the one at the very end—far away from the single weak wall lamp that lit up the windowless internal hall. Shadows converged thickly around the door through which we were to enter.
“No horror movie vibes at all,” I muttered.
Darcie’s laugh was forced as she opened the door and pushed the switch on the inside wall. And got a big fat nothing. “Bulb must’ve blown.” She wiped her face on her sweater. “You were right. We should’ve looked for a flashlight.”
“I have my phone.” I turned on the flashlight icon, the resulting light revealing a set of narrow and dusty stairs that vanished into nothingness.