Page 61

As long as Hope’s End still stands, my sister will remain.
TWENTY
The third floor of Hope’s End surprises me. Although everything looks the same, save for the top of the Grand Stairs in the center, it feels completely different. Up here, the mansion’s tilt is more pronounced. Something seen and not merely felt. Staring down the hallway from the top of the service stairs is akin to being in the hold of a listing ship.
No wonder Carter chooses to stay in the cottage. I have no idea how Jessie and Archie can live up here. I start off down the hall, slightly woozy. The floorboards rasp beneath my feet while from above comes the sound of driving rain hitting the roof. Up ahead, an open door spills out light and music.
Jessie’s room, I presume.
I doubt Archie listens to the Talking Heads.
I’m proven correct when I peek inside and see her sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a stack of Polaroids.
“Hey,” I say. “How are you holding up?”
A pointless question. It’s obvious to anyone with a set of eyes that Jessie’s not doing well at all. She looks up from the photos, revealing streaks in her makeup left by recent tears.
“Shitty,” she says.
I step into the room, struck by how different it is from mine. While almost identical in shape and size. Jessie has truly made it her own. The walls are covered with posters of bands, some I’m familiar with, most I’ve never heard of. A silk scarf has been thrown over one of the lampshades, giving the room a muted red glow that reminds me of Lenora’s call button. Near the door, the ceiling is standard height. On the other side of the room, it slants dramatically to the dormer windows, one of which is open, letting in the sound of pouring rain—a fitting companion to Jessie’s tears.
“I can’t believe Mary’s gone,” she says, holding up one of the Polaroids.
I join her on the floor and take the photo from her hand. It shows her and Mary on the terrace, with puffy clouds hanging in the sky behind them and the wind tossing their hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen Mary—what was mostly buried under sand at the base of the cliff doesn’t count—and I’m struck by how young she was. Still in her twenties, from the looks of it. And so familiar to me it squeezes my heart. Bright smile, sensible haircut, gold studs in her ears because anything more elaborate would get in the way of the job. A caregiver through and through. I can see why everyone seemed to like her. I think I would have liked her, too.
“I knew she couldn’t have left like that,” Jessie says. “Not without saying goodbye or telling me where she was going.”
“Why did you think she left in the first place?”
“Because that’s what Mrs. Baker told us.”
“Why didshethink that?”
“I guess because that’s what it looked like,” Jessie says. “I should have known not to believe it. Leaving like that wasn’t Mary’s style. Neither is suicide. I don’t care what that detective says. Mary didn’t kill herself.”
“Sometimes people do things you don’t expect,” I say, thinking about my mother and the way she ended things. No goodbye. No note. No closure. I miss her, but I’m also furious at her for leaving me and myfather alone to pick up the pieces. Something, it turns out, we couldn’t do. “Maybe there was something wrong that no one knew about.”
“Like what?”
Like being tormented by the ghost of Virginia Hope, for starters. But I don’t want to go there just yet. It’s best to ease into the topic. If such a thing is possible.
“How did Mary act the last time you saw her?”
Jessie sniffs and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, turning the mascara streaking her face into a sideways smear. “You sound just like that detective.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Mary seemed fine.” Jessie picks up another Polaroid and stares at it while adding a small, quiet, “Even though it wasn’t entirely true.”
“Something seemed wrong?”
She nods, drops the Polaroid onto the floor, picks up another one, and shows it to me. It’s Mary in the second-floor hallway, the white of her uniform—possibly the same one I’m now wearing—a stark contrast to her dark surroundings.
“Why didn’t you tell the detective?”
“I don’t know,” Jessie says with a shrug. “I guess I was trying to protect Mary.”
An urge I understand well. Even after her death, I felt the need to protect my mother. It’s why, in the beginning, I floated the idea that she had no idea how many pills she was taking. That her overdose was accidental, even though everyone knew it wasn’t. I eventually came to realize that instead of protecting her, I was clinging to the idea that she wouldn’t leave my father and me the way she did. Not by choice.