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I’m not afraid my father will do me harm. I don’t think he’d go to such an extreme. Besides, other than killing me, he can’t hurt me more than he already has. It’s Virginia I’m worried about. She’s utterly helpless—and the only loose end he needs to tie up.
My plan, formed on the spot, is to make sure Virginia’s safe and then distract my father from hurting her long enough for Detective Vick to show up. As Archie drives away in my car, I push inside Hope’s End, where Virginia’s past and my present are about to collide.
Standing in the foyer, I search for signs of my father. He could be anywhere, including still outside. Nevertheless, I can feel his presence. A shadow version of himself, repeating his actions from fifty-four years ago.
Standing right where I’m standing.
Simmering with humiliation and shame and rage.
Plunging the knife into Evangeline Hope.
It’s so vivid I can almost hear it, as if the horrible sound has been echoing through the foyer since 1929.
What I don’t hear are any noises from the present day. No footsteps or floor creaks. That might be a good thing.
It could also mean I’m too late.
That thought propels me down the hall to the kitchen and the service stairs. I can’t bear the thought of taking the Grand Stairs, withtheir bloodstains that my father caused. Not that the service stairs are any better. They groan under my feet as I ascend, sounding like they could collapse at any moment. A distinct possibility. At the top of the stairs, I instantly feel the extreme pitch of the house. In the short time I’ve been away, it’s only gotten worse.
I creep down the hallway, leaning into the tilt. As I go, I reach into my pocket and pull out the corkscrew. An act that boggles my mind. This is my father. The man who raised me. I can’t imagine needing to protect myself from him. Yet, under the circumstances, it feels necessary.
Rather than head into Virginia’s room, I duck into mine, startled by how different it feels. The floor is noticeably more slanted, forcing me to think twice before each step. On my way to the adjoining door, I notice the mattress bunched at the foot of the bed. A couple of books have fallen from the shelf and the mirror hanging on the wall appears tilted when in reality it’s the rest of the room that’s askew.
The door to Virginia’s room is shut. Whether it’s the work of my father or the ever-shifting house remains to be seen. Gripping the corkscrew tight, I crack open the door and peek inside.
The room is dim, lit only by moonlight coming through windows leaning precariously closer to the sea. In that muted light, I see Virginia in her bed, awake and alert.
I rush to her side and whisper, “My father’s on his way.”
She knows I’m talking about Ricky.
She’s known since our first meeting, when she barely registered my presence until I told her my full name. That’s when she finally snapped to attention.
“I’m going to get you out of here.”
I set the corkscrew on Virginia’s nightstand and fetch her wheelchair from the corner. While it would be quicker to lift her out of bed and carry her down the stairs, I know my limitations. Wheeling her down the Grand Stairs the same way I did during our ill-fated trip outside is the only option.
Lifting her by the underarms, I manage to get her out of bed and halfway to the wheelchair before I hear a noise in the hallway. Virginia hears it, too, and flashes a startled, stricken look. We both recognize the sound.
Footsteps.
Coming up the service stairs.
Slowly.
Uncertainly.
The moment I hear them, I know they belong to my father.
For a second, I’m frozen. I don’t know what to do. Even if I get Virginia into the wheelchair before my father enters the room, he’ll surely spot us as I try to wheel her out. But staying where we are is also a bad idea. Holding Virginia upright, I can’t do anything to protect her or me. Her life is literally in my hands.
Virginia nods toward the far corner of the room, in a pitch-black space between the wall and the divan. Although barely enough space for Virginia to fit, it might be enough to hide her if my father merely peeks into the room and moves on. Also, with his footsteps getting louder on the creaking service stairs, it’s our only option.
I drag Virginia to the space by the wall and drop her into it. Then I sprint for my own hiding place—my bedroom. There I huddle in a shadow-filled corner, hoping it, too, is enough to keep me hidden. Through the open doorway, I can see Virginia on the floor next to the divan. Also in shadow, but not very hidden. Not very hidden at all.
I hear a noise from the hall, just beyond my bedroom door.
My father, passing on his way to Virginia’s room.