Page 89 of Liars and Liaisons

For once, I don’t notice the shadows lurking in every corner of the estate. I don’t notice the curtains when they shift, almost proving that there is someone inside, watching every move I make. Biding their time before striking.

Later, while we all sit with our legs in the lake, sipping from a single mason jar full of some raspberry margarita that Micah whipped up in the staff wing last night, I remember what she said earlier.

“Who’s Sydney?”

They exchange an uneasy glance, and Micah leans back on her palms, tipping her face toward the sunshine.

“Depends on who you ask,” she says finally, eyes closed as the sun’s rays beam down, highlighting a few of the freckles on her cheeks. “Grayson thought she was a prodigy, but most people saw a girl who had nothing, growing up, and assumed she wanted whatever they had.”

“Shewastalented,” Willow interjects, her dark eyes swinging to mine. “Had a voice like a songbird and played the flute like it’d been made for her.”

Micah sighs. “You’re only saying that because you were in love with her.” She turns her head in my direction. “Willow falls so fast for any girl with a pretty pop-star voice.”

“Sue me.” Willow rolls up her jeans more, dipping her calves into the murky water. “I discovered I was a lesbian when all the teen shows were making their stars recording artists. It was a fundamental time for me.”

Waving her off, Micah pulls her feet up and shifts her knees beneath her chin. “Anyway, since she was my sister, I just thought she was all right.”

I grin, then remember Nate’s threat and everything before it. “What happened to her?”

“Same thing that happens to all dreamers.” Micah shrugs, reaching for a blade of grass. “She died.”

It’s really the obvious answer. Nobody talks about her, except in vague, nonspecific terms. Still, hearing Micah say it so nonchalantly feels like being drenched in a bucket of cold water. Then again, I suppose everyone grieves and heals differently.

I guess it’s just surprising that Micah, of all people, seems to have healed so callously.

She gets to her feet, and for a second, I think she’s going to leave Willow and me at the lakeside. But after she dusts her hands off on her legs, bare in her denim cutoffs, she holds out a hand for me.

“Come on,” she prompts, giving a small smile. “I’ll show you her room.”

* * *

The southern wingof the house is off-limits to me. Even though I’ve been fucking Grayson every night and morning, his strict rules about where I’m permitted access on the property haven’t changed—with the exception of the sunflower garden.

I think we obliterated any lingering fears he’d had about entering that field.

Micah has a key though. I’m not sure it’s one Grayson sanctioned since it’s a little skeleton key she digs from her front shorts pocket, but I don’t question it either way. I’m too curious to think better of this.

With one hand, she pushes the heavy wooden door open. Like the rest of the estate, the ceiling is tall, and the halls are lit by dim lights that barely provide enough visibility to step forward. The main difference is all the mirrors—the rest of the mansion, nearly every room, is outfitted with at least one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

The southern wing’s hall is lined with mirrors. They stretch from the baseboards to the crown molding, not an inch of paint or plaster in sight.

That eerie, prickly sensation I’ve had since my arrival wraps its spindly fingers around my throat. Micah steps into the hall easily, like she’s done it a million times. I hesitate at the threshold, uncertainty blanketing me like a thin film of sweat.

I don’t think we should be here. A presence looms in the dark shadows, something otherworldly and phantasmic. When I tell Micah as much, she just laughs. The sound echoes off the reflective glass, and Iswearthe lights flicker.

“Don’t be a scaredy-cat,” she whisper-shouts, stopping at the last of three doors on the right. “I come in here all the time. It’s fine.”

Arms tucked tight against my sides, I follow her into the half-dark. She pushes the smaller white door open, and slides her hand against the wall until she finds a switch, illuminating the room.

There’s a bed against the far wall with sheer green curtains draped over the frame, tied with silk ribbons at each of the four iron posts. Calendars and award certificates hang above a large white dresser, and a brown suede recliner is in the corner. On the floor beneath lies a shaggy rug, and between the two massive windows across the room is a glass door, leading to a side section of the estate’s property.

Several mugs sit on a kitty-cornered nightstand next to the bed, and there are various instruments lying around, as if abandoned mid-use—a flute, a violin, a small keyboard with missing keys. Clothes are strewn about, piled on the floor and laid out on the footboard of the bed, and the trash in one corner overflows with crumpled papers and candy wrappers.

Across from the bed, a little black wood-burning fireplace sits, untouched. A wisp of something catches my eye, like smoke diffusing from the last of the burned embers, but when I take a second look, I no longer see anything.

I frown, taking it all in as Micah walks to the dresser, picking up a diamond-studded picture frame. She shoves it my way, and I take it, studying the two girls in the photo. One is clearly a younger Micah, evidenced by the big, goofy grin on her youthful face. The other is taller, thinner, but has the same white-blonde hair and wide blue eyes.

Even the shapes of their noses are the same—buttoned at the bottom with a tiny bump in the bridge.

---