Chapter 19

19

October 31, 2 a.m.

four hours until low tide

“Why were you with us that Christmas?” Lily asks Conor when the film comes to an end.

He answers without looking at her. “My father was in rehab, again, and Nana offered to look after me.”

The silence that follows is smashed by the sound of the clocks in the hallway. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and we all look exhausted, especially my mother. She takes a sip of cold tea.

“Is there a way to turn off the clocks? I don’t want them to wake Trixie,” Lily says.

My niece has been so quiet, sleeping on the window seat at the back of the room, I’d almost forgotten that she was here. I’m surprised that the sound of the TV didn’t wake her, never mind the clocks, but then I remember the sedative they put in Trixie’s drink earlier. My mother’s sleeping pills are strong enough to take out an elephant. Lily gets up from the sofa to check on her daughter.

“Where is she?” Lily asks.

We’re all up and out of our chairs within a matter of seconds. We stand and stare at the empty window seat and the blanket on the floor.

“Where is Trixie?” Lily shrieks, asking the question a second time, but still nobody replies. She stares at each of our faces, looking for an answer. In the absence of one, we start searching the room—checking behind the sofas and curtains—but Trixie isn’t here.

“She’s gone,” Lily says. “I don’t understand.”

Rose comes to her side, the protective-older-sister autopilot kicking in, their earlier squabble forgotten. “Try to stay calm. She can’t have gone far. You know what teenagers are like, you used to be one.”

“I thought we put a sleeping pill in Trixie’s tea?” Nancy says.

Lily turns on her. “We did.”

“But that would have knocked her out for hours. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Lily snaps.

“Someone moved her…” Nancy whispers.

I don’t understand how anyone could have moved Trixie without one of us seeing. But the window seat is in the far corner of the room, and we were all staring in the opposite direction at the TV. Plus, it’s the middle of the night now, and we are exhausted with grief and tiredness. We all left the room earlier. Was Trixie here when we came back? Did anyone check? Despite her mother’s constant digs about her dress size, Trixie is a normal weight for a girl her age. If anything, I’d describe her as petite. Easy enough for an adult to lift. I think it is possible that someone could have taken her, and knowing that makes me feel even worse because at least one of us should have been keeping an eye on her.

The clocks stop ringing in the hallway. Nobody speaks, but we all follow Lily as she rushes out of the lounge, through the hall, and into the kitchen. She stands in front of the chalk wall, and when I see Nana’s poem, I understand why.

Daisy Darker’s family were as dark as dark can be.

When one of them died, all of them lied, and pretended not to see.

Daisy Darker’s nana was the oldest but least wise.

The woman’s will made them all feel ill, which was why she had to die.

Daisy Darker’s father lived life dancing to his own tune.

His self-centered ways, and the pianos he played, danced him to his doom.

Daisy Darker’s mother was an actress with the coldest heart.

She didn’t love all her children, and deserved to lose her part.

Daisy Darker’s sister Rose was the eldest of the three.

She was clever and quiet and beautiful, but destined to die lonely.

Daisy Darker’s sister Lily was the vainest of the lot.

She was a selfish, spoiled, entitled witch, one who deserved to get shot.

Daisy Darker’s niece was a precocious little child.

Like all abandoned ducklings, she would not fare well in the wild.

Daisy Darker’s secret story was one someone sadly had to tell.

But her broken heart was just the start of what will be her last farewell.

Daisy Darker’s family wasted far too many years lying.

They spent their final hours together learning lessons before dying.

The part about Trixie has been crossed out.

“Oh my god,” Lily whispers, staring at the chalk words and covering her nose and mouth with her hands, as though praying to a God I know she does not believe in. “It’s coming true,” she says quietly, then turns to look at us all. “It’s. Coming. True.”

“What’s coming true?” my mother asks.

Lily is shaking now. She points up at the poem, searches the faces of our family for any sign of understanding, and finds none. But I know exactly what she means, even if I’m too scared to say it out loud. There is a low rumble of thunder in the distance outside. I hadn’t noticed how hard it was raining until now; the storm is getting closer, and the house feels bitterly cold. Lily’s words tumble too quickly out of her mouth for the rest of the family to keep up.

“Nana’s poem on the wall. Can you not read it? Am I not making sense? It’s a poem about us. Dying. One by one. Nana is dead, Dad is dead, and now Trixie is—”

“Missing. She’s just missing. We’ll find her,” says Rose.

“It’s just one of Nana’s silly poems,” says my mother.

“How do you know that she wrote it? I don’t think it looks like her handwriting. Anyone could have snuck down here in the night and written a poem on the wall,” Conor says unhelpfully, as though thinking out loud. I remember the chalk I saw on his jeans earlier, and the way he quickly dusted it off. He’s been quiet for a long time, and everyone turns to stare at him.

“You’re right,” says Lily. “Your name isn’t up there. Maybe you wrote it.”

“Maybe we should stop wasting time and look for Trixie,” I say.

Before anyone can answer, there is another rumble of thunder, but this one is so much louder than the last. Nancy sways a little and grabs the side of the kitchen table to steady herself.

“Are you okay?” Rose asks.

“I’m fine. Honestly,” Nancy says. “It’s a headache and I’m just tired, like all of us. We need to find Trixie. Why don’t you lot check upstairs, and I’ll carry on looking down here?”

“Good idea,” says Lily. She never listens to anyone except our mother.

Rose, Lily, Conor, and I run upstairs, calling Trixie’s name, before each disappearing into a different bedroom to search. I start in the one Lily and Trixie shared last night.

This used to be my sisters’ bedroom when we were children whenever they stayed at Seaglass. It’s bigger than mine, but I suppose there were two of them. Everything is very much the same as it was then, with ghastly pink carpet, pink curtains, and floral wallpaper. My sisters were girly girls. I can still see the dark rectangles where they used to stick their posters when we were here for the summer holidays—always boy bands for Lily, cute animals for Rose. There are two beds on opposite sides of the room, two little tables, two windows, and a wall of built-in wardrobes.

“Trixie?” I whisper, but there’s no reply. All I can hear is the rain lashing the window, and the sea crashing against the rocks outside. This is still a room of two sides. Lily’s bed is unmade with clothes on the floor around it, and her bedside table is a mess of magazines and makeup, even though she’s only been here for a few hours. On the other side of the room, and in stark contrast, Trixie’s bed is neatly made. All I can see on her bedside table is an old book she must have borrowed from Nana’s library, and a glass of water.

I get down on the floor and look beneath the beds, but there is nothing there. I hear another deep rumble of thunder in the distance and have an overwhelming urge to hide. Storms at Seaglass seemed to be a regular occurrence when we were little girls, the emotional and literal varieties. I remember being so scared by the sound of thunder outside—or shouting downstairs—that I would often run in here at night. Fear was one of the few things that seemed to unite me and my sisters when we were children.

A storm at Seaglass is not the same as a storm in London, or anywhere else that I have lived. Being in a storm here, on this tiny island, feels like being on a rickety old ship in the middle of the sea, one that will surely sink if the waves get too high. We used to hide together under the beds in this room when life got too loud—Lily under one, Rose and I huddled under the other. Then we would count the number of seconds between the lightning and the inevitable thunder that followed, to know how many miles away it would strike. I find myself counting again now.

One Mississippi … Two Mississippi … Three Mississippi …

There were other times, when a storm snuck up on us in the night, when I would have to hide alone, under my own bed in my room. But we could always hear one another counting through the walls in the darkness. The closer the storm got, the more frightened we became, as a flash of light lit up whichever room we were hiding in. I’m sure my sisters are probably sharing the same silent memories now.

One Mississippi … Two Mississippi …

The doors on the built-in wardrobes that line one wall of the room all have wooden slats. As I take one last look around, I’m convinced I see one of them move out of the corner of my eye. I stop and stand perfectly still, listening.

“Trixie?” I whisper.

I hear something.

“Trixie, are you in there?”

The silence that follows suggests I must have imagined it. But then I hear what sounds like someone breathing very quietly.

I want to fling the doors open, but I’m scared of what I might find.

A flash of lightning lights up the sky outside the window for a second time, and I think I hear something move behind the wardrobe doors again. It’s impossible to ignore now, and I force my feet to take a step closer. I pretend that there is nothing to be afraid of, even though events so far tonight suggest otherwise. The wardrobe is within touching distance, and I slowly reach for the handle. Then there is another flash of lightning.

One Mississippi …

I don’t get to two.

The thunder claps as though eagerly applauding the show before it is over. The noise is almost instant and so loud that it seems to shake the house. The lights go out and I am a child again, terrified in the darkness, too scared to move or make a sound. I tell myself it’s just a power outage and try to stay calm.

But then lightning strikes again.

It illuminates everything, including the wardrobe doors, and I see two eyes between the slats staring right at me before the room goes black.

Then the doors start to shake and rattle.

Someone is trapped inside, and they want to get out.