Chapter 49

49

October 31, 6:45 a.m.

low tide

“Hello, Daisy,” Nana says with a smile I spent my whole life trusting.

It takes a while for me to think of anything to say, and even when I do, it isn’t terribly articulate. “I don’t understand what is happening.”

“Nana can’t see or hear you. Do you want me to tell her what you said?” Trixie offers.

“Yes. I’d like you to ask Nana if she has completely lost her bloody mind.”

“Did she swear?” Nana asks, and Trixie shrugs. “Daisy, you know I don’t like any bad language under this roof. You must remember to use your words. But I do understand why you might be feeling a bit upset,” she says.

Nana stands up from the kitchen table, careful not to disturb Poppins, asleep at her feet, and I see that she is wearing a new pink-and-purple dress covered in a pattern of birds. She starts to shuffle toward the sink in her pink-and-purple slippers. “I’ll explain everything if you’ll let me. But I might just put the kettle on first. I’m a little parched, and it is officially my birthday!” she adds. Nana still has a bit of blood and brain matter in her hair, and a big bloody gash on the side of her face. She looks like a ghoul.

“I’ll make the tea. You two have a lot to talk about,” says Trixie, going to fill the kettle.

“Well, I suppose it’s always best to begin at the beginning,” Nana says, sitting back down in her pink-and-purple chair at the table. “It began when Trixie told me that she could see and hear you a couple of years ago. At first, I presumed she was making it up. But then she started knowing things, things that she couldn’t possibly have known unless someone had told her. I thought about all the times after you were gone when books went missing from my library and then would sometimes turn up in your bedroom. Pages folded down just the way you used to when you couldn’t find a bookmark. The clues were always there. They always are.” She smiles. “One day—Halloween last year—I saw Trixie playing Scrabble, and I watched the pieces move all by themselves on the board when it was your turn! But shortly after that she told me what really happened the night that you died. You told her your secret, and she told me.” Nana’s face darkens. “That’s when we started to plan all of this.”

“What did you think happened to me that night?” I say.

“Daisy wants to know what you thought happened the night she died,” Trixie relays without waiting to be asked, then puts the kettle on the stove.

Nana looks so sad. “Your sisters came home from the Halloween beach party and went to bed without saying a word. Your parents and I didn’t even know that you were missing until the next day—we thought you were in your room the whole time, and had no idea that you had snuck out to join them. My agent was still here. Do you remember that he gave me the Scrabble board that night? It was a birthday gift, and you played a game with him after dinner. It was the last time I saw you alive. He and I found you the following morning. Your broken little body had washed up on Blacksand Bay. The tide at the time when you fell—which was what we thought had happened at first—should have dragged you out to sea and along the coast. But there you were, facedown near the causeway, almost as though you had tried to swim home to Seaglass.

“The police were called, and we were all questioned. They visited Conor and his father too … That’s why the silly fool killed himself soon afterward. Mr. Kennedy found a streak of your blood on the front right headlight of his Volvo. Conor had taken the car without his dad’s knowledge or permission, so Bradley Kennedy thought he’d accidentally hit you himself when driving home from the pub. He was too drunk to remember that he hadn’t driven anywhere the night before, and threw himself off the cliff in a tragic case of misguided guilt. His body was never found. Even the police believed that he was responsible for your death. That’s when I invited Conor to move in here for a while. His father had just committed suicide, and Rose had just dumped him—though none of us knew the real reason why—and he had nowhere else to go. I didn’t know he killed you.

“I really wasn’t sure if Conor would come when I invited him here this weekend, but I’m glad that he did. Nobody else outside of this family knows the worst things about ours, and there are some things I would prefer to take to my grave. Anyone who lives long enough starts to worry about their legacy, and I didn’t much like the look of mine. The Darker family will be remembered for the right reasons now, instead of the wrong ones. Conor arriving by boat was a surprise, but I just cut the rope attaching it to the jetty once you had all gone to bed.”

“I wondered what happened to the boat,” says Trixie. She smiles, but Nana doesn’t.

“When I first found out what really occurred the night that you died, I confided in my daughter-in-law, your mother. I invited her here to Seaglass and said there was something very important we needed to talk about. I didn’t tell Nancy how I suddenly knew the truth—she was already waiting for any excuse to call the men in white coats—I just told her that I was sure. That’s when she confessed that she already knew. Lily had told her. Years earlier. Your mother started sobbing, and revealed that one of the last doctors she took you to see in London thought you had a chance to live a longer life. It involved groundbreaking heart surgery, but she never shared that information, the choice, or the opportunity with anyone else for reasons I still don’t understand. If you’d had that surgery, everything might have been different. You might still be alive now.”

“I know,” I whisper, but Nana doesn’t hear me.

I was here at Seaglass when they had that conversation.

That’s how I knew.

I remember Nana and my mother sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, and talking about the doctor who might have changed my life. I remember Nancy crying, I remember Nana sounding so upset, and I remember how neither of them noticed me sobbing in the corner of the room.

Because they couldn’t see me.

They behaved as though I wasn’t there.

But maybe I was always here. Maybe I never left.

“It turned out everyone knew what really happened that Halloween except me,” said Nana. “Even my son, your father. They all kept quiet to protect your sisters, the Darker family reputation, and their future inheritance. Which is why none of them deserved a penny of it. I am not foolish or blind. I knew that my family were selfish and unkind. But they took you away from me, then they lied about what happened, and I could never forgive them, or Conor, for what they did. You were always my favorite, my darling girl. You inspired me to write my own stories, you gave me something to live for, and you made me want to be a better person. They had to pay for what they did to you.”

The kettle boils and it sounds like a scream.

Nana glances up at the chalk poem on the kitchen wall.

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.

“Did you like Trixie’s poem?” Nana asks, but I don’t answer. “She wrote more—one about each of you—but was too shy to share them all. When I told Trixie my plan, she agreed to help me. The two of you have a lot in common, and she loves you just as much as I do. I wanted, no, needed to make things right for you and for her before it was too late. While I still could. I killed Frank. He was a terrible son and a dreadful father. Being the only one in the family who ever touched whiskey made him surprisingly easy to poison. As soon as your dad locked himself away in the music room, I revealed that I wasn’t dead after all. I told him the whole thing with me on the kitchen floor was nothing more than a Halloween prank. We had a bit of a laugh about it, I encouraged him to drink even more of the whiskey, then I had the piano play a pretty tune while he died choking on his own blood.” Nana looks down at the floor as though avoiding eye contact, even though I know she can’t see the way I am staring at her. She wipes away a tear, and I’m relieved that telling this story is making her feel as sad as I do hearing it. “Frank was too heavy for me to move by myself, so Trixie helped me drag his body into the cupboard. Nancy was busy ransacking my studio at the time—I think she was worried I might have written about her in a new book—while you were all upstairs looking for Trixie.

“I was worried about people suspecting Trixie—she’s always been a little too clever for her own good—so the additional red herrings seemed necessary. She stole Lily’s diabetic kit, took what she needed, then left it in Nancy’s bedroom for someone else to find. She snuck out of the lounge while you were all watching old home movies and joined me in the cupboard under the stairs, locking herself inside with a spare key. Injecting herself with insulin was her own idea after Rose mentioned it at dinner, but I would never have let anything bad happen to her. We had a spare shot of glucagon if none of you found her in time.”

Trixie puts a cup of tea down on the table in front of Nana.

“The rest was easy,” Nana says, taking a sip. “Nancy was busy looking for her missing granddaughter when I called her out into the garden. When I told her the whole thing was an elaborate Halloween joke she got very upset. So I suggested a cup of tea—that was almost always her answer to everything. It was poisoned using plants that she grew herself here at Seaglass. She died a little later than she should have, but punctuality was never Nancy’s strong point.

“Everyone else died on time, and they were found once an hour, just like we planned. That part was one of Trixie’s ideas. She was full of them after reading so many murder mysteries. Lily killed herself by spraying her neck with perfume, which we had replaced with a deadlier poison than the one she preferred. Conor took an unfortunate topple down the stairs, then suffocated on his newspaper article. Trixie shot Rose with her own gun. I had no idea she would bring one this weekend, that changed our plans and we improvised—”

“Rose did nothing wrong, she was a good person,” I interrupt. “She helped animals and I don’t understand how—”

“Did Daisy say something?” Nana asks Trixie, who is frowning at me.

Trixie nods. “She thinks Aunty Rose didn’t deserve to die. Rose shot ponies on the way here. Rose only liked to help people and animals if helping them was easy. Rose only ever did good things to make herself feel less bad. Rose let Lily and Conor throw you over a cliff. She witnessed something truly terrible and did nothing to stop it. Then lied about it. That makes her just as bad as the rest of them.”

Nana nods in agreement. “In some ways, they were all killed by what they loved the most.

“Frank was killed by his desire to be alone with his music.

“Nancy was killed by her precious plants.

“Rose was killed by something to do with her work, which she always put first.

“Lily was killed by the stench of entitlement she wallowed in.

“And Conor died eating his own words. Being a journalist is a privilege. The stories they tell should always be true.”

“Have you got any idea how crazy you both sound?” I say, but Trixie doesn’t reply and Nana can’t hear me. “There is still so much I don’t understand. At midnight, when this nightmare started, Trixie found you on the kitchen floor. Rose examined you and said you were dead. The head injury … I saw the blood … the gash on the side of your head still looks serious…”

Trixie repeats what I’ve said, and Nana nods.

“The blood and brains were thanks to Amy and Ada…” I have to think for a moment, before I realize that she means her chickens. The chickens that the rest of the family ate for dinner last night. “They died naturally this week, almost as though they wanted to help with the plan, but I confess that plucking them and preparing props from their remains was horribly messy. I bought a latex gash from a joke shop in town—it peels right off, see?” she says, removing it with a smile. “And the gray skin was just makeup. I’ve always had a weak pulse, and it’s not the first time Rose thought someone in this family was dead when they weren’t. To be fair, I’ve practiced breathing very slowly when meditating—I learned from the best at a monastery in Bhutan—I can breathe so slowly that your sister thought I wasn’t breathing at all. People tend to believe what they want to, so maybe that’s why the whole family were so willing to believe I was dead.”

“But I still don’t understand why,” I say. “Why do it at all, and why like this?”

“Did she ask why again?” Nana says, and Trixie nods.

Nana takes another sip of tea, as though thinking very carefully about the answer.

“I did what I did, the way that I did it, because I wanted them all to feel the fear you must have felt before you died that night. And, if I’m going to be completely honest, because I wanted to be proud of what I was leaving behind after I’m gone. I’m proud of you and Trixie. I’m proud of all my books. But I wasn’t proud of any of them. Not dealing with them before I died … it would have been selfish and irresponsible, like leaving litter on the beach. If that silly old palm reader in Land’s End is correct, then I’ll die when I’m eighty. Today is my eightieth birthday … so I didn’t have very long to put things right.” She adds some sugar to her tea, something I’ve never seen her do before, and takes another sip. “I don’t understand why you’re still here, Daisy. Why you haven’t … moved on. After you died, I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes it felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I’ve struggled to draw, or paint, or write. Grief can change a person into someone even they can’t recognize. I haven’t published a new book since. I thought my agent had completely given up on me, but he still came to visit yesterday to wish me a happy birthday. We talked about you. I think he knew that you were always my favorite grandchild.

“I kept asking myself the same question when you were taken from my life. Where does the love go when someone dies? Their last breath disappears into the atmosphere, their body gets buried in the ground, but where does the love go? If love is real, it must go somewhere. And maybe that’s why you’re still here, because the love got trapped? I wanted to set you free … and I hoped that if I put things right, you would be. But you’re still here. I so badly wish I could see you, the way Trixie can. That’s why I asked Conor to take a picture of the whole family last night, hoping perhaps then I might be able to see your face again…”

I take a step closer to the fridge, where she stuck the Polaroid photo of us all. Everyone is there: Dad, Nancy, Rose, Lily, and Nana. But where I was sitting, all I can see is an empty chair. Nana continues, and I try my best to keep up.

“Yesterday, my agent said that the night you died, you told him that you wanted to tell your own story. Do you remember that? He said that you wanted to write a novel about the real Daisy Darker and asked if he would read it. That’s what I think you need to do.” She stares around the room for a moment, as though waiting for an answer. “Did she say anything?”

Trixie shakes her head.

Nana drains her cup of tea, then looks straight at me as though she really can see me. “Daisy?”

“Nana?”

“Oh my goodness! My darling girl, look at you! Just the same as you were before, with your plaits and your denim dungaree dress. Oh, how I’ve missed you!”

“You can see me?” I whisper, wondering how and why now.

Nana starts to weep. “Yes! I can see you and I can hear you, and this proves I was right to do what I did because here you are and now we can say goodbye. Properly this time.” She puts her cup down with trembling hands. “That last book I wanted to write, the one about a dysfunctional family not unlike ours, I’ve realized it is not my story to tell. It’s yours. You have to write your own story, that is the answer to everything.”

“I can’t write a book—”

“You can and you must. I believe that telling your own story, the truth about what happened, might set you free. I wish I could be here to help you, but that palm reader in Land’s End was right.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Your mother was always the only one to take sugar in her tea; the poison I used to kill her was in the bowl. It seems to have worked more quickly on me. I just had to see you again, and I knew this was the only way to do it. I’m so sorry I didn’t do more to protect you from this awful family when you were a child. I know I let you down. But everything I did tonight, I did for you. Forgive me, and take care of each other, my darling girls. You are the only good future this family ever had.”

“Don’t go,” I say, holding her hand. “Don’t leave me again. Not yet.”

It feels like I’m falling once more.

“I’ll always be here,” she says, gently putting her other hand over my heart. “The people who truly love us never leave us. And you were never broken. In my eyes, you were always perfect. I love you from here to the moon and back three times and once for luck.”

“I love you too,” I whisper, new tears streaming down my face.

Nana smiles at me one last time before resting her head on the kitchen table. She closes her eyes, and I know she has gone. Poppins starts to whimper, and the ocean continues to serenade every unsettled thought inside my mind, as though trying to silence them with the relentless shh of the sea.