Thirty-Three

When I got home, Noreen was sleeping but Gram was sitting on the sofa, her memoir notebook in her hands. I rushed over to hug her.

“Hi, Oli,” she said, as if nothing was wrong.

She had hardly noticed I had been gone, but that’s just how she was now. She never had found that note I’d left her, and neither had Noreen. All this time, they must have thought I’d just gone away with my bird-watching friends or something.

I found the note where I had left it, and I reread what I had written:

IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME?.?.?.

And so much had happened.

In a way I was glad Gram didn’t know it all.

And, in another way, I knew that what had happened to me was as much a part of her story as it was mine. My grandmother had stepped up as soon as Eloise and I had needed her. She became both our mother and father—while keeping our parents’ memories alive for us. I knew she would have done anything she could to protect Eloise and me from Fitch.

Yes, Gram. A few things happened to me.

I set those thoughts aside, but I knew I would return to them soon.

***

Detective Tyrone had said that I liked to figure things out, and she was right. There was still a lot to unravel.

I texted with Iris and Hayley many times a day. They were so happy to be reunited with their parents, and all the kitties in the Cat Castle. It felt weird to have been so close, to have been through life and death with them, and to now live in separate states, over an hour away from each other.

Minerva came to visit me, and I had questions for her about the gold charms I had found attached to the panels. In those desperate moments, I had thought maybe Minerva had put the charms there, that they were part of a bizarre family ritual—like Fitch spreading gold dust over his victims.

“That’s not it at all,” Minerva said. “I’m sorry you had doubts, but I can understand it. Everything was happening so fast, and it took ages for me to get back to the Miramar.”

“What kept you?” I asked.

“That brochure,” she said. “I was racing around trying to find it. I ran into Matt outside the library, and that’s when we put everything together. I headed straight back to the hotel, following Matt. But by the time I got to the front porch, Daphne didn’t know where you’d gone.”

“Up to the attic,” I said. “Fitch drugged me and took me up there.”

“That’s where Iris thought he’d probably taken you,” Minerva said. “I managed to find both Matt and Iris, and together we started planning how to help you all. Of course Daphne had no idea what Fitch was up to, but she had lived in the Miramar so long, she knew a few secrets about it. She told us about the crack in the hurricane window, and she helped us figure out which room Fitch was most likely using to sleep in and keep his surveillance equipment. My job was to distract Fitch in the hallway once he realized Matt wasn’t on his side.”

“And that Matt and I had disabled the cameras,” I said.

She nodded.

“Sometimes I think we could have just overpowered him,” I said. “Tackled him when he came rushing through the door. With Hayley and Abigail, it would have been four against one.”

“But your instincts told you not to, right?” Minerva asked.

“They must have,” I said. “Because all I knew was that we had to break that window and get down the fire escape, away from him, as fast as we could.”

“That was good thinking,” Minerva said. “Fitch is dangerous, and there’s no telling what he would have done in response. Maybe a little of our family clairvoyance rubbed off on you,” she added with a twinkle in her eye.

Maybe I was a little clairvoyant. I didn’t really believe it was true—I was a detective, not a sibyl. Still, coming from Minerva, the idea meant a lot to me.

“So what about those gold charms?” I asked. “Attached to the paintings? What was the symbolism? Did Fitch put them there?”

“Far from it,” Minerva said. “Those panels date back to the 1930s and 1940s, when the Sibylline sisters would give their shows in theaters. They needed stage sets, so the three girls painted panels. Each one did a portrait of one of the others.”

“I love that,” I said.

“Daphne was always avant-garde, and she wanted their work to be more than just paintings. She had seen ‘assemblages’ at a museum in Boston, so she inspired the other sisters to create small charms engraved with images from their dreams, their visions.”

“But how did they create them in gold?” I asked.

“That was Daphne, too,” Minerva said. “Many admirers went to see their shows, and there was one man—Serge Gault, a wealthy jewelry maker from Providence—who imported gold for his work.”

“And he fell in love with Daphne?” I asked.

“Actually, her sister Athena,” Minerva said, with sadness in her eyes. “But Athena died of parasomnia before they could get married. So Serge wanted to make a series of gold charms in her honor. It was Daphne who urged him to enamel them with the images that the sisters, especially Athena, loved.” She paused, smiling. “And he not only did what she suggested, he taught her how to work with gold.”

“So Daphne started the shop in New London?” I asked.

“She did. And she is the one who taught me her trade.”

“But what about the panels? And the charms?” I asked.

“Like I said, Daphne was always thinking of new ways to create,” Minerva said. “She was the one who installed the charms on the panels that she and her sisters painted, as a way of honoring them. They were sea witches, mermaids, seers, sibyls. And each charm represents the most magical parts of their sisterhood.”

I smiled at that. Sisters were indeed magic.

***

As the week went on, I knew I had to see Abigail. I steeled myself to ask her questions and listen to whatever she had to say. Or maybe she would decide not to talk to me. Maybe there were answers she didn’t want me to know.

I knew from Detective Tyrone that Abigail was considered a suspect—because she had known about Fitch’s activities and not done anything.

That bothered me. Was there a point where she could have stopped him? If she had turned him in, would that have prevented him from kidnapping Eloise, Iris, and Hayley?

Abigail wasn’t in custody, but she was still at the hospital for evaluation and treatment. Her mother cut short the European leg of her lecture tour to return home and face the reality of what her children had done. Reporters and TV crews surrounded Shoreline General Hospital, wanting news about the case.

I had watched footage online, seen reporters stick microphones in Dr. Constance Martin’s face every time she walked in and out of the hospital lobby, but Dr. Martin refused to be interviewed.

When I went to visit Abigail, the press did the same to me.

“Olivia!” they called as I shouldered through the crowd standing across the sidewalk from hospital property. “Tell us how you feel about Fitch Martin being arrested! Was he your friend? Was he Eloise’s? Tell us about the attic, what happened in the attic?”

Every question they yelled was too private for me to answer, so I just put my head down and entered the hospital. They weren’t allowed inside, and it was nice and quiet in there.

When I got to Abigail’s room, Dr. Martin walked past without even saying hello to me. I stepped through the door, saw Abigail in bed. She was wearing a blue-and-white hospital gown. She was attached to a heart monitor and blood oxygen sensor. Two bags of clear fluid hung from an IV pole.

“Sorry my mother ignored you,” Abigail said. “Don’t take it personally. This just isn’t her kind of thing.”

“?‘This’?” I asked, as if I cared about her mother ignoring me.

“Yeah. Having everything come out. All our family secrets. Fitch being arrested for kidnapping and murder, me in the hospital, and our family disease splashed all over the news.”

“Right,” I said a little sarcastically. “That must be really hard.”

“Oh, Oli,” she said. “I don’t mean it that way. It’s nothing compared to what your family has gone through. And the Bigelows.”

I was silent, waiting to hear what else she would say.

“My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone.” Abigail paused. “Especially not you or any other family members of Fitch’s victims. But, Oli, you’re the one I most want to talk to. I don’t have any excuses. I know that saying I’m sorry isn’t enough, doesn’t mean anything to you?.?.?.?but it’s true. If I could go back in time, everything would be different.”

“You knew what Fitch was doing?” I asked. “The whole time?”

“I didn’t know. Not right away, not with Eloise.”

“But you were right there, in the attic,” I said. “What did you think was going on? You told me you saw her, that she talked to you, that she wanted to go home to me?.?.?.”

“I kept thinking he would let her go,” she said.

“But he didn’t. And then he took Iris and Hayley.”

“I hate myself for it,” Abigail said. “Oli, as awful as the things Fitch did were, I felt more loved by him than I do by anyone else. He cared about me so much. He did it for me. I can’t stand that. It’s unforgivable.”

“It is,” I said. But I could see the anguish in her face, hear the guilt. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be her—neglected by her mother when she was sick and scared, loved only by Fitch. Her brother who had done such terrible things.

“The police are not going to arrest me,” she said. “But I think they should.”

“Abigail?.?.?.”

“It’s true. That’s why my lawyer told me not to talk to anyone. He says I’m lucky not to be prosecuted, and he doesn’t want that to change. But I want it. You do, too, I’m sure. You want to see me punished.”

I stared at her. She was so pale, it was almost as if I could see her blood running through her veins. I saw the grief pouring off her, and I knew that she was being crushed by remorse.

“You’re already being punished,” I said. “I can tell. You’re doing it to yourself, Abigail. Arresting you won’t change anything. And?.?.?.” I thought it would be hard for me to say the next part, but it wasn’t. “I don’t want that for you.”

“You don’t?” she asked, her voice breaking.

I shook my head. “I really don’t. I want you to get help. You need it—not just because of the parasomnia, but because of what he did to you. He hurt you, too, Abigail. He manipulated you. He knew all about your condition, and he tried to make you an accomplice. But you weren’t.”

“But I?.?.?.”

I interrupted her. “You’re the reason we were able to escape. You did everything you could to help. It wouldn’t have been possible without you.”

She looked shocked for a minute, that I would say that. The remorse was still in her eyes, but I saw a little relief beginning to shine through.

“Thank you, Oli,” she said.

“You’re welcome. What’s next for you? What are the plans, now that your mother is home?”

“Not for long,” Abigail said. “She can’t wait to get away from me—and from what Fitch did. She is planning to get back out there, on the road after the trial. She had to cancel some dates in Europe, but Barcelona awaits. Geneva and Brussels, too.”

I didn’t know what made me do this, but it wasn’t hard at all. I guess you could say it came straight from my heart, because it seemed I didn’t have control over my words or actions, they just happened.

“You have me, Abigail,” I said, leaning over to hug her. “It’s not the same as family, but?.?.?.?we’re a different kind of family. We were in the attic together. We understand each other.”

“I think we do,” she said.

“You’re going to get better,” I said.

She shook her head with discouragement, but I believed that to be true.

And as time went on, it seemed that I might be right.

The news was full of stories about the case. Some reporters had delved into the Sibylline sisters. They had tried to interview Daphne, but she had seemingly disappeared. Not really, though. Minerva was hiding her in an apartment upstairs from Mermaid’s Pearls, protecting her privacy.

Other journalists focused on the medical aspects of parasomnia. They uncovered other cases, wrote about its rare and devastating effects. How no one really knew how it started, how some people died from it and others survived.

The national attention given to the Martin and Agassiz families, to the long history of parasomnia, caused several doctors to come forward. It turned out that more research than anyone in the family had previously realized was being done on the genetic factors behind the condition.

Abigail was going to be under the care of a young neurologist at Rhode Island Hospital. Dr. Melanie Aguilar was also on the faculty of Brown University, where she was overseeing a study on this rare cause of seizures. Providence wasn’t far from Black Hall; I knew that I would pitch in, driving Abigail to her appointments whenever her cousin Minerva couldn’t, and when I had the time.