Chapter 31

31

October 31, 3:15 a.m.

less than three hours until low tide

Back in the present, I think I’m the first to hear a noise spoiling what should be silence. It’s the sound of ringing in the distance. Like an old-fashioned alarm clock.

“Can anyone else hear that?” I whisper.

“What is that?” Lily asks.

“I don’t hear anything,” says Conor.

“I can hear it,” Trixie says.

“So can I. Shh. Listen,” says Rose.

We all strain to hear the sound coming from somewhere outside the lounge, possibly outside the house. Nobody has left the room since Rose went to the bathroom.

“I’ll go,” she says.

The gun in Rose’s hand is a surreal sight to see.

Conor shakes his head and picks up the flashlight.

“No. We’ll all go. We should stay together,” he says.

Without another word we all leave the room, except for Poppins, who is fast asleep by the fire. Conor and I lead the way, with the rest following close behind, so close that Rose nearly walks right into me. Lily is holding Trixie’s hand; I doubt she’ll let her out of her sight again after what happened earlier.

We follow the sound of ringing to the kitchen. The back door is open, letting in the rain. The door bangs loudly, and the gust of wind that is battering it blows a swirl of dead leaves inside. One by one we all look up at the chalk poem on the wall and see that once again, some lines have been struck out.

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 wind outside howls like a choir of ghosts.

“Why is my name crossed out?” Trixie asks in a small voice.

“Nancy has been crossed out too,” Lily whispers.

Rose tries to reassure them both. “It might not mean anything…”

“Of course it means something!” Lily snaps. “And I think we all know what that might be. We should have looked for Nancy. We should have done something. Oh my god,” Lily says, staring at Rose and taking a step away from our sister. “It was you. You’re the only one who left that room, and now more of the poem has been crossed out. You were always making up weird rhymes when we were children. It was you, all of it. You injected Trixie and then pretended to fix her! How could you? Why would you?”

“Injected me with what?” whispers Trixie.

“It wasn’t me!” says Rose.

“Where is Nancy?” Lily shouts.

“I don’t know!”

“I don’t believe you! You were the one who said we shouldn’t look for her, and now I know why!” Lily steps in front of her daughter, who looks terrified. Rose takes a step toward them, and we all stare at the gun in her hand. “Stay. Away. From. My. Child,” says Lily.

“I didn’t do anything!” Rose replies, hiding the gun behind her back.

“Wait!” says Conor.

“You stay out of this. You’re probably helping her. I don’t trust any of you,” Lily says.

“This isn’t the time to start turning on one another,” Conor replies gently.

“Why not?” Lily snaps.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Because look at the footprints.”

We all stare down at the floor then and see what he is talking about. There are muddy footprints leading to and from the back door. It reminds me of all the times Conor’s dad forgot to take off his gardening boots when he came to visit. The dirt Bradley Kennedy dragged inside drove my mother mad. I look at Rose’s feet and the small, pristine white trainers she is wearing. Only a pair of large muddy boots could have made this mess. The sound of an alarm keeps ringing in the distance, and the open kitchen door that leads to the garden bangs on its hinges again, battered by the wind. We all watch in silence as Conor starts walking toward it.

“Please don’t go out there,” I say.

He hesitates, but then steps outside into the rain, turning on the flashlight. He picked it up when we were all still in the lounge, even though the power is back on now. Almost as though he knew he might have to go out in the dark.

My sisters and I watch from the doorway as Conor walks out onto the patio, slowly shining the flashlight around the garden. The beam is too faint to light up the sea crashing on the rocks beyond the wall, only illuminating a meter or so ahead. The rain is light but persistent now, as though the sky is spitting in Conor’s face, but he moves through the gloom until the flashlight stops on the bench in the distance. It’s where my mother always liked to sit and admire her flowers, beneath the magnolia tree she planted here with Conor’s dad. The tree that Nana thought was a symbol of hope always looks a little bit dead in winter.

The old magnolia is the only tree on our tiny tidal island, and has grown quite big over the last twenty years. Fat raindrops cling to its bare branches, giving an illusion of miniature lights, and it’s so cold I wonder if they might freeze before they will fall. I can’t quite process what I am seeing when I spot my mother sitting on her garden bench. Wearing her black silk eye mask on her face, the one she always wears to help her sleep. Outside. In the dark. In the rain.

“Nancy?” Conor calls, his voice a little strangled by the sound of the sea. He walks toward her, and the rest of us start to follow.

“What’s wrong with her? Why is she sitting in the rain wearing an eye mask?” Trixie asks.

“Go back inside,” Lily says. “Stand in the doorway where I can see you and don’t move.”

Trixie does as she is told, and the rest of us walk toward my mother. The rain is relentless now, much heavier than it was only a few moments ago, and so hard that the water seems to be falling up as well as down. Nancy’s normally perfect hair is dripping wet and clinging to her face. Her clothes are soaking too—she’s clearly been out here for a long time. The rain must have smudged the thick black eyeliner and mascara she always wears; it looks as if she has been crying black tears behind her mask. Even stranger is the sight of her red alarm clock. It is balancing between the branches of the magnolia tree just above her head, and still ringing.

Conor reaches up to turn it off. The clock says three a.m., but it’s already twenty minutes past. I can’t help wondering if that was why Nancy was never on time for anything; maybe the clocks she used were wrong. Or maybe someone just wanted to make a point. It seems my mother was late for her own murder, because I think we all know that’s what this was and that she is dead.

Nancy’s hands are by her sides, and her sleeves have been rolled up. Her left hand is holding on to her beloved copy of The Observer’s Book of Wild Flowers, the little green book that she always carried around like a Bible, and used to choose our names. Her right hand is holding what looks like a small bunch of lilies, roses, and daisies tied to her fingers with a red ribbon. A string of ivy is wrapped tightly around her neck, not quite covering the silver heart-shaped locket she always wears. It is unclasped to reveal the pictures inside. All this time, I had presumed that it contained two tiny photos of my sisters. But now that it is open, I can see only a tiny black-and-white picture of myself as a child on one side and a pressed daisy on the other.

Rose slides her gun into her jacket pocket. I find myself replaying Lily’s words in the kitchen—when she accused Rose of having something to do with all of this—and for a moment, I do wonder as my eldest sister, once again, takes charge of a situation most people would be overwhelmed by. She leans over Nancy on the bench as though she were a stranger, not our mother, and I can’t help noticing that the gun is within my reach. I could take it. Not that I’d know what to do with it. I’ve never even held a gun before.

“She’s dead,” Rose confirms, having checked for a pulse.

Lily starts to wail, staring up at the night sky. It is a level of grief and despair that none of us have seen her display before, and nobody knows what to say as a mix of tears and rainwater stream down her face. The sound of ticking is still so loud, it makes me think of a cartoon bomb. Conor is holding the red alarm clock that was in the tree, and as he shines the flashlight on its face, we can all see that something has been written on it: THERE IS ALWAYS TIME FOR TRUTH.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“I don’t understand what is happening here tonight. Who is doing this and why?” says Lily.

“I don’t know,” Rose replies. “But I think this confirms it.”

“Confirms what?”

“Someone else did this. It couldn’t have been any of us. There is someone else here at Seaglass, and they’re killing us one by one.”

Nancy

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

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

An unexpected pregnancy resulted in marriage and three girls,

But instead of loving her family, Nancy longed to see the world.

She had wanted to be an actress, but life cast her as a mum instead.

Her leading role took its toll and made her want to stay in bed.

Her favorite daughter was pretty, and the eldest one was smart,

But the youngest child was always a burden, having been born with a broken heart.

Nancy blamed herself for this tragedy, though no one understood why.

Her guilt made her lonely, bitter, and sad, but she was still unable to cry.

When the time came, no one knew who to blame when she was poisoned by her own flowers.

By the time she was found, in the rain-soaked grounds, Mrs. Darker had been dead for hours.