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The kind of thing kids whisper about at sleepovers and adults don’t like to whisper about at all.
Lenora, the only one left, claimed to have had nothing to do with it. She told investigators that she was asleep during the murders and only knew about them after she woke up, went downstairs, and discovered the rest of her family dead.
What she couldn’t tell the police was who else could have done it.
Or how.
Or why.
Nor could Lenora explain why she wasn’t targeted by the killer, which led the police to suspect she was the one who did it, even though no one could prove it. All the servants had conveniently been given the night off, eliminating any possible witnesses. With no evidence physically linking her to the crimes, Lenora was never charged. But one need only look to that schoolyard chant to see what the public thought. The rhyme’s first line—At seventeen, Lenora Hope—fully establishes that she’s to blame for everything.
I’m not surprised. There’s no such thing as presumed innocence.
I know that from experience.
When the town passed judgment on Lenora Hope, she hid away in her family’s house, never to be seen again. But that didn’t stop people from trying. When I was in high school, it was common for groups of boys to dare each other to sneak onto the property and peek into windows, angling for a glimpse of Lenora. As far as I know, none of them ever got one, which earns Miss Hope some grudging respect in my book. I would love to be able to disappear.
Up ahead, the land rises even higher, and the road inclines to meet it. The Escort does another shimmy as I spot a brick wall in the sun-streaked distance. It’s tall enough to block out any hint of what’s behind it and old enough that the road curves around it, as if in deference.
I follow the curve, driving slowly until I see spray-painted words on the wall. The graffiti, neon blue on stately red brick, tells me I’m in the right place.
ROT IN HELL LENORA HOPE
I blink at the words, wondering if I should press ahead or drive away as fast as I can. I know the answer. It’s the one I can’t afford.
So I continue on, nudging the Escort closer to the ornate gate covering a gap in the vandalized wall. On the other side, the driveway slices across an emerald lawn toward the Hope house itself.
Looking at it now, I wonder why anyone ever called it that.
This is not a house.
It’s a mansion.
Something I haven’t seen in person since my parents took me on a day trip to Bar Harbor when I was fourteen. I remember how my father spent the whole day complaining about the rich bastards who’d built the palatial homes there. God knows what he’d say about Hope’s End, which eclipses those stately mansions in that snooty town. It’s bigger. Grander. This wouldn’t be out of place onDallasorDynastyor any of those other silly primetime soaps my mother used to watch.
Three stories tall and seemingly as wide as a cruise ship, the mansion is a marvel of Gilded Age excess. The walls are redbrick. Around the front double doors and all the windows is marble detailing that serves no purpose except to show how much money the Hope family once had. A ton of it, to judge by the amount of sculpted curves and curlicues on display. The windows of the third floor retain the marble but jut from the pitched roof, which is topped by a dozen narrow chimneys that look like candles atop an ornate birthday cake.
At the gate is a small intercom system. I roll down my window and stretch to press it. Thirty seconds pass before it crackles to life in a burst of static, followed by a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
It’s not a question. In fact, the way she says it is packed with as much impatience as three letters can hold.
“Hi. I’m Kit McDeere.” I pause to allow the source of the voice to also introduce herself. She doesn’t, prompting me to add, “I’m with Gurlain Home Health Aides. I’m the new care—”
The woman interrupts me with a terse “Come up to the house” before the intercom goes silent.
In front of the car, the gate starts to open, giving off a nervous shimmy, as if spooked by my presence. It creaks as it slowly swings wider, making me wonder how often Hope’s End welcomes guests. Not a lot, I assume, when the gate rattles to a stop even though it’s only halfway open. I inch the car forward, trying to gauge if there’s enough room to pass by. There isn’t. Not if I want to keep both of my side mirrors, which I very much do. My budget, such as it is, doesn’t include car repairs.
I’m about to get out of the car and push on the gate myself when a man’s voice calls out in the distance.
“Is it stuck again?”
The source of the voice comes closer, pushing a wheelbarrow heaped with fallen leaves. He’s handsome, I notice. Mid-thirties. Inverygood shape, as far as I can tell, under his flannel shirt and dirt-streaked jeans.He has a full beard and hair grown a little too long so that it curls slightly at the back of his neck. I’d be interested under different circumstances. Completely different. Living-another-existence different. Just like car repairs, my life doesn’t have room for romantic entanglements. And no, Kenny doesn’t count.
“I don’t know about the other time,” I say through the open window, “but it’s certainly stuck now.”
“You should have saidtimes,” the man replies, flashing a smile that’s endearingly crooked. “This is, like, the tenth. I keep forgetting to add it to the list of the hundred other things I need to do around here. Are you the new nurse?”