Page 35 of The Only One Left

Part of me thinks, obviously, yes. This place, with its murderous past, mind-messing tilt, and general dourness, is already a lot to deal with. I suspect it would be easier if I knew what happened that night—and Lenora’s role in it. Especially because I’m the one who’ll be spending the most time with her. The one tasked with feeding her, bathing her, dressing her, keeping her alive. At the very least there’d be no more wondering, no more suspicion.

Then again, not knowing provides at least a sliver of optimism. If Lenora confesses to killing her family, that will be gone.

I’m still weighing my options as I start to unpack, beginning with the books I’d abandoned when Jessie showed up at my door. I grab a handful and take them to the bookshelf, which is already filled with paperbacks, leaving no room for my own. I grab one—Eye of the Needleby Ken Follett—and open it. Inside the front cover, written in ballpoint pen, is a message.

This book is the property of Mary Milton

Those same words are in the next book I pick up, a battered copy of John Irving’sThe Hotel New Hampshire. While it seems odd that Mary left so many books behind, I also understand. Books aren’t easy to move—and maybe Mary thought whoever replaced her would enjoy them.

Things start to make less sense when I abandon the books and try to unpack my clothes. The dresser’s top drawer is filled with pristine nurse’s uniforms exactly like my own. While I totally get why Mary left those behind—I would have done the same thing—more of her clothes fill the other drawers. Not just uniforms, but slacks, blouses, and underwear. I assume they belong to Mary because some of the tags bear initials written in Magic Marker.

MM

Sorting through the clothes, I see a pair of Jordache jeans, a pink Lacoste polo shirt, a striped blouse with the price tag still attached. Sears. Twelve dollars. All of it looks to be new and in good condition—far nicer than my own clothes.

In the closet, I find a wool coat drooping from a hanger. And boots on the floor below it. And an empty cardboard box bearing a word again written in Magic Marker:Books.

Beside it, surrounded by a thin coating of dust, is a narrow rectangle of clean floor where something else used to sit. What it was, I have no idea. Another box, presumably. Now gone.

On the closet shelf is a medical bag similar in shape and size to the one my parents gave me. I pull it down and peek inside, seeing most of the same items I keep in mine, arranged in an orderly manner. Its presence makes no sense. If there had been a family emergency, as Jessie suspects, Mary surely would have spent a minute grabbing her medical bag and at least some of her clothes.

Instead, she left almost everything behind.

I give up trying to unpack. It’s late, I’m tired, and there’s no place to put any ofmybelongings. As I turn out the lights and climb into bed, two thoughts hit me in quick succession—a fact and a question.

The fact: Mary left in a hurry.

The question: What drove her away?

After putting the snow globe in my room, I crept downstairs, hoping to gorge myself on leftover birthday cake. But there was no cake to be found. Only Berniece Mayhew, who looked none too pleased to be washing dishes at that late hour.

“Happy birthday, Miss Hope,” she muttered when she saw me, not a drop of happiness in her tone.

On my way down the hall, I noticed that the door to the billiard room was ajar. Maybe some of the servants were playing, which they sometimes did behind my father’s back. Usually, they let me join in, much to Miss Baker’s alarm.

“Ladies shouldn’t play pool,” she once told me.

“Lucky for me I’m not a lady,” I replied.

I paused at the door and peeked into the room. Indeed, there was a servant inside. I couldn’t see who it was because she was spread facedown against the billiard table, her skirt pushed up to her waist.

Behind her was my father, his trousers around his ankles and his face turning crimson as he thrust into her.

I gasped. Loud enough for them to hear. My father looked to the door as I scrambled away. But it was too late. I’d been caught. I ran anyway, down the hall, past the portraits of my family that Peterhad painted earlier. Their faces stared at me, as if I was the one who’d done something wrong.

I ran to the other side of the house and slipped into the ballroom. There, I collapsed onto the floor, my mind a jumble of thoughts, many of them wicked. I wondered how many other servants my father had screwed, in how many different rooms. I wondered who this one was, and if she was taking pleasure in it or if my father had forced himself on her. I wondered if Peter at that very moment wanted to be doing the same thing to my sister. Mostly, I wondered if anyone would ever want me in that way.

My father soon appeared in the doorway, casting a long shadow across the ballroom floor. For a moment, I thought he was about to confess his misdeeds, apologize, promise to do whatever he could to atone for them. If he did that, maybe my mother would feel fit enough to leave her bedroom. Maybe my sister and I wouldn’t be treated like prisoners. Maybe there could be some happiness again in this godforsaken house.

Instead, my father joined me on the floor and wiped away the tears that had started falling down my cheeks. It was, I realized, the first time he had touched me in months.

“Hush, my darling,” he said. “This isn’t worth getting upset about.”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

It did to me. By then, I’d known about the rumors that my father liked to seduce the servants. Berniece whispered about it so much I couldn’t help but hear. But I wanted to know who it was and why my father did it.

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