Page 35 of The Locked Ward

Memories of Colby drift through your mind while you lie in bed, staring into the smoke-gray darkness.

You played Candy Land together as little kids: You both wanted to be the green gingerbread man pawn, but Colby let you have it and took blue instead. He had a gap between his front teeth that he tried to cover by putting his hand over his mouth whenever he spoke.

You played other games, too. Like hide-and-seek while your parents sat in the living room, drinking and talking, the smoke from the men’s cigars turning the air acrid.

Your parents spent a lot of time together, with the dads and moms pairing off along gender lines, which you and Colby figured was because none of them seemed to particularly like their spouse.

And one spring break, while you were still in elementary school, your two families took a ski trip to Aspen.

You watched his father, who was then the junior US senator from North Carolina, berate Colby for being too scared to try a black diamond before skiing off and leaving his son hanging his head.

Colby was skinny and sensitive and awkward, the antithesis of an alpha male. He never fought back, even when his father cracked him across the face with the back of his hand because Colby refused to kill a buck on a hunting trip he was forced to attend as a twelve-year-old.

Colby was never the son his father wanted. And you were most definitely not the daughter your mother wanted.

You and Colby went out a few times, but the gossips got it wrong—he was a co-conspirator, not a love interest.

Besides, Colby’s father didn’t want him to date you.

You were the troubled Cartwright sister who knocked little Annabelle down on the church stage during the Christmas pageant and jumped in front of her, reciting the line Annabelle had been practicing: “Good tidings for Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!”

Everyone made such a big deal about that. You were sent to your room without supper, even though it was Christmas Eve. Annabelle was barely hurt; she only had a little bump on her head. But you learned from that. You couldn’t take on Annabelle directly. You needed to be more subtle.

The big surprise was that Senator Dawson didn’t want Colby to date Annabelle, either.

It took you a long time to figure out why.

A union between two of the most powerful families in North Carolina would seem like a desirable thing.

It didn’t start to make sense until last Christmas Eve.

Your parents had invited the Dawsons over for eggnog and singing around the piano, another tradition your families shared.

A few other guests, all members of the same exclusive country club your parents frequented, came, too.

Annabelle played, because naturally she was an accomplished pianist. Your parents didn’t want you around any more than you wanted to be there, but they had to extend an invitation for appearances’ sake: What would their neighbors think if they barred the door to one of their children on Christmas Eve?

You decided to stick it to them by actually showing up.

But when the first notes of “Deck the Halls” rang out, you slipped upstairs to the guest room your old bedroom had been converted into long ago.

You lay down on the bed and wondered why you’d ever thought it would be a good idea to come here.

Annabelle’s voice, faint yet bright as a silver bell, drifted into the room. She sang like an angel. Your sister’s singing lulled you to sleep.

When you awoke a few hours later, your stomach rumbled from hunger. You crept downstairs and made your way past the empty living room.

You thought about going into the kitchen to make some pasta or a sandwich, but you didn’t feel like putting in that much effort.

So you turned toward the butler’s pantry instead, the antechamber between the kitchen and dining room.

The room was designed to muffle the clangs and conversation of the cooking staff and to give servers a place to stage dishes before serving them.

There were always delicious snacks in the cabinets and on the counters lining the pantry, especially during the holidays—tins of sugared gingerbread, bowls of roasted almonds and cashews, platters of bright tangerines and red grapes.

You pushed open the swinging door a few inches and automatically began to feel for the light switch, just as you’d done countless times in the past when you’d snuck down here for a late-night snack.

But the room was already faintly glowing. A corner lamp was on, but turned down very low.

And the antechamber wasn’t empty. Senator Dawson was there with Annabelle.

He was holding her upturned face in both of his hands, her cheeks in his palms, staring down at her. The expression on his face was rapturous.

Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling.

“You are so beautiful,” you heard him whisper. As he began to lower his lips to hers, you silently eased out the door.