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“Really?” Jess said. “I know you think she’s Daddy’s little girl and can do no wrong, but she’s not as innocent as she looks. I’m pretty sure half of this imaginary-friend stuff is just to get your attention.”
I barked out a laugh so bitter it surprised even me. “Is that your excuse for this record-player bullshit?”
By then, I knew the fight was about more than just a record player. It was about everything that had happened since we moved to Baneberry Hall. Ten days of headaches and regrets and tension that had gone unaddressed until that moment. Now it was out, flaring up with the heat and speed of a wildfire.
“I didn’t touch your record player!” Jess shouted. “And if I did, it would have been justified, considering you’re the one who forced us to move into this godforsaken house.”
“I didn’t force you!” I yelled back. “You loved this house, too.”
“Not as much as you. I saw it on your face the moment we stepped inside. That this was the house you wanted.”
“You could have said—”
“No?” Jess said, cutting me off. “I tried, Ewan. It didn’t work. It never works. You debate and cajole until you get your way. Always.And Maggie and I have no choice but to go along with it. Now we’re in a house with a fucking graveyard out back and our daughter acting weirder than she’s ever acted before and then this goddamn ceiling—”
She stopped, red-faced and sobbing. Tears streamed down her cheeks—a sight I couldn’t bear under any circumstances. I was about to pull her into my arms, hug her as tight as I could, and tell her everything would be okay. But then she spoke again, and it stopped me cold.
“And don’t even get me started on Petra.”
My spine stiffened. “What about her?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her, Ewan. I saw you take her picture yesterday.”
“You were in the picture, too.”
“Only because I happened to be standing there.”
I was incredulous. I had as much sexual interest in Petra Ditmer as I did in Hibbs.
“She’s a child, Jess. The idea that I have the hots for her is ridiculous.”
“Almost as ridiculous as me getting up in the middle of the night to turn on a record player I’ve never even seen.”
Jess wiped her eyes and left the kitchen. I followed, chasing her up the steps to the first floor.
“Jess, wait!”
She continued up the servants’ steps just outside the dining room, storming upstairs. I stopped, caught short by the sight of someone standing in the great room, framed by the doorway that separated it from the dining room.
Petra Ditmer.
“I rang the doorbell,” she said. “Maggie let me in.”
“How long have you been here?” I said.
“Not long,” Petra said, even though the flush on her cheeksmade it clear she’d heard, if not everything, then at least a big chunk of our argument.
“This isn’t a good time, Petra.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” She looked at the floor, nervous. “But I read the letters last night. The ones that were in the ceiling.”
Petra dug into the backpack she was carrying and removed the envelopes, now individually sealed in plastic bags. Pressing them into my hands, she said, “You’ll want to read these, Mr. Holt.”
I dropped the letters onto the dining room table. At that moment, they were the least of my concerns. “I will, but—”
Petra scooped them up and pushed them back into my hands. “Now,” she said. “Trust me.”
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