Chapter 42

42

October 31, 4:20 a.m.

less than two hours until low tide

“So what you’re saying is that the killer has a gun?” Conor whispers.

“It’s possible,” says Rose.

“Great. What now?” he asks.

She shrugs. “We barricade ourselves in here and wait?”

“Wait for what? There is no way to call for help. Nobody is coming to save us!” I say, feeling just as hysterical as I’m starting to sound.

Rose ignores me and checks that all three doors in the library are locked again—the one that leads to the lounge, the one to the music room, and the main one leading out to the hall—until she is sure that we are safe—or trapped—inside. Trixie looks exhausted and a little out of it. Her eyes are half closed. I remember that she’s been drugged with sleeping pills, injected with insulin, and witnessed the horror of her mother, grandparents, and great-grandmother being murdered tonight. I’m amazed she’s lasted this long. Her knees buckle as if she can’t stand any longer, and she slides down against the wall before I can catch her. I sit next to her on the floor and try to hold her hand, but Trixie pulls it away. Her fingers form two little fists, and she wraps her arms across her chest as though hugging herself. I suppose if I were her, I wouldn’t trust anyone left here either.

Three of the four walls in Nana’s library are covered in shelves crammed full of books, but the one at the far end of the room, which has an old sash window, is what she liked to call the “Wall of Achievements.” It makes sense that Rose chose to sleep in this room this weekend because most of the achievements are hers. There is a picture of Rose—the clever one—winning an award at school, some of her prizes and certificates for best this and best that, and a photo of her wearing a graduation gown and cap at Cambridge. Nana was always so proud of Rose for going to university and pursuing her dreams. Unlike Lily, who she described as devoid of ambition. “Your dreams can’t come true if you don’t have any”—Nana used to say that to me and my sisters all the time. But she did frame a newspaper clipping of Lily winning a beauty pageant when she was ten, probably to keep my mother happy. “It’s important to celebrate life’s small successes; like most things, they need to see the light in order to grow into something bigger.”

There is a framed picture of Dad conducting his orchestra at the Albert Hall in London. Next to it, there is a childhood picture of me sitting with my father in the music room here at Seaglass. I’m holding up my fifth grade piano certificate, and we’re wearing matching smiles. Nana also framed a poem I wrote when I was eleven, perhaps because writing was her passion, and she secretly wanted someone in the family to follow in her footsteps.

Here’s what I think

About people who drink

Then say mean things to others

Without even a blink

Of an eye

Make them cry

Or worse, wonder why

They exist in this death we call life.

I think those who tittle and tattle

Or give the fears of others a good rattle

Should be wary of making smiles fade.

For what goes around comes around

And kills you without a sound

Leaving you dead in the bed that you made.

I confess it is rather dark, but I was a child living with a death sentence at the time. Perhaps if I’d known back then that I’d still be around now, I might have had a more cheerful disposition.

But I didn’t know I was living in a family full of liars.

My mother lied to me—and everyone else—about how long I had left to live. The doctor who made her cry at the hospital hadn’t given her bad news about my life expectancy. It was the opposite. Thanks to medical advances, that doctor thought I could go on to live a lot longer than everyone previously believed. He was right. My death sentence had effectively been revoked thanks to science. I just needed one more operation. But my mother didn’t tell me at the time. She didn’t tell anyone at all at first. And she didn’t sign the consent form. It was as though she wanted me to be broken forever.

Some secrets really shouldn’t be shared.

There are no other Daisy-shaped achievements to see on the wall. Maybe some members of this family didn’t think I amounted to much—volunteering at a care home for the elderly might not seem like an accomplishment to people who have spent their lives reaching for the stars—but I was always happy to keep my feet firmly on the ground and watch the stars sparkle in the sky where they belong. I’m proud of what I do, helping and caring for people who can no longer care for themselves. Being there when it matters most.

Framed book covers decorate the rest of the library wall—some of Nana’s own favorites, including Daisy Darker’s Little Secret. Nana had Conor’s first cover story on the front of the Cornish Times framed too. His father disappeared the day after the Halloween beach party in 1988, and Nana let Conor move in with her at Seaglass for a while. The start of Conor’s career in journalism did not go well—he seemed to spend more time making tea than writing stories—so Nana let him do a rare interview with her, which made the front page. Then she framed it so that he would know that she considered him one of the family, and that she was proud of him.

Conor has worked so hard to get where he is today. He’s done more working than living for the last decade. I imagine an exclusive story about the murder of the celebrated children’s author Beatrice Darker and her family in an eccentric house on a remote tidal island would be good for his career. Making the jump from a local newspaper, to local TV, to London, to network news, before finally achieving his dream of becoming a BBC crime correspondent was not easy. I think his success has exceeded even his own expectations. But success is a drug: the more people have, the more they want. And Conor has always been a man with something to prove, if only to himself. Sometimes when people try too hard to be more than they are, they end up being less than they were.

The frame on the Wall of Achievements that belonged to Conor is still there, but the faded newspaper article that had been inside it for over a decade is gone. I’m not the only one to notice.

“Someone stole my front page,” he says, taking a closer look.

The frame isn’t empty. Rose and I step forward to read the piece of paper that has taken the newspaper’s place. It’s an official-looking typed letter, with only a handful of words. But those words change everything.

Dear Ms. Darker,

Test report for case ref: DAR2004TD

Your supplied samples have been analyzed and our results can be summarized as follows:

Alleged father:Conor Kennedy

Mother:Lily Darker

Child:Trixie Darker

Based on our analysis, we can conclude without reasonable doubt that Conor Kennedy is the biological father of Trixie Darker. Please call us for further details if you would like to discuss these results.

I stare at the words printed on the paper for a long time, trying to make sense of them. Then I remember Conor and Lily on the beach in 1988 and do the math. I’m sure I’m the only person in the family who knew that they’d slept together, but I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been never to have put the pieces of the puzzle together before. Lily was always very casual about sex. I thought Trixie’s father could be just about anyone. It never, ever occurred to me that it was Conor. We all have to compromise between the ideas we can afford to live inside and the ones we hope to inhabit.

Rose stares at Conor. So do I. He stares at the framed letter for a very long time before turning to look at Trixie, who is still sitting on the floor staring into space. She hasn’t said a word since Lily died.

Having a niece is as close as I’ll ever get to having a child of my own. Most doctors I met over the years said that people with my condition should never risk getting pregnant; that if I did, a pregnancy would put so much pressure on my heart that it would almost certainly kill me. Trixie is my world in some ways. I’ve never felt anything but love for the child since the first time I saw her. I think some people might presume that she was my daughter if they saw us side by side, we look enough alike, but now I turn to stare at her as though she were a stranger.

“Why are you all looking at me like that? What does it say?” Trixie asks, a new frown forming on her tearstained face. Nobody answers, because we can hear someone walking around upstairs again. Someone who shouldn’t be.