Chapter 77
“Oh my god,” I say, standing up. “I think I know how to find them.”
I gesture for her to follow me upstairs. Joan looks as though she can’t believe what I’m saying. As she stands, I catch a glint of something under her coat, tucked by her waist. My breath leaves me.
What was that? What did I see? My brain is slower than my eyes, but it gets there finally. Then things begin to feel like they are happening in slow motion. I move toward the stairs, but then walk to the mudroom instead.
“Just grabbing something,” I say, my voice wavering ever so slightly.
Then, “All set.”
We start to walk up the stairs. My brain is working furiously to replay moments in my mind.
I remember Joan saying I hate guns. I’d never hold one at the Brook dinner.
But these are extreme circumstances, I counter, trying to make this gut feeling not true.
Then I remember Julian telling me with amusement that he knows about the black slip in my underwear drawer.
I remember Gina telling me there’d be a betrayal.
But it’s not an affair. It feels like my brain is one of those elaborate vaults and someone has turned the lock and a thousand moving pieces slide into place.
But I have to be certain. But I can’t be certain.
Right before we enter The Forest of the Dead, I hesitate.
“Actually, let me just grab some water,” I say, looking back at Joan.
I can see the moment she knows that I know. Her face shifts, ever so slightly. And then she pulls the revolver on me.
“Into the room,” she says, her voice level.
“Why?” I ask. I put my left hand reflexively over my belly, as though this would do anything.
“I would do anything for Julian,” Joan says simply. She holds the gun in her right hand.
“But . . . but he’s evil. You said so yourself, the whole family is evil.” I’m casting about, trying to make sense of it.
“His family has been on that land for hundreds of years. They’ve done great things. We can’t risk you jeopardizing all that. Digging up things that happened centuries ago. I’m preserving what we built. What we’ve earned.”
“Was any of it real?” I think back to my conversations with Joan. My conversations with Madeline. Joan is touchy. Joan had a series of miscarriages.
She pauses. For a moment, she looks sorry, but her face hardens again. “No.”
“The miscarriages?”
“No.”
Anger flares up inside of me. My right hand clenches.
“Why were you helping me then?” I know it’s a stupid question and I should get there sooner, but my mind is swimming.
“There’s no proof without the bodies,” Joan says simply. “Your family knows where they are. We need to find them and finally be done with this.”
I think about the letter she’d allegedly found from Ezra to Julian.
“The letter from Ezra. It didn’t say ‘You have to come clean.’ It said, ‘We have to come clean,’ didn’t it?”
Joan nods. “I wasn’t sure what you would do if you knew your family was involved too,” she says.
“I would still have wanted to help!” I spit, shocked and devastated by this betrayal. Shocked and devastated, too, that she thought I’d try and cover up the history, like the Brooks did.
“Don’t be all high and mighty,” she says. “I don’t have the luxury of turning on them. Without them, I have nothing.”
“You have your firm; you don’t need them.”
She laughs. “What a silly, naive girl you are. Their money is behind everything. That’s how they always get what they want. Now tell me.”
“You’ll kill me anyway,” I say. If all this is to keep the secret safe, I can’t possibly be allowed to live.
Again, the tiniest flicker of sadness passes over her gray eyes. “I am sorry,” she says. “Now tell me.” The revolver moves an inch closer to my face.
“But I won’t tell anyone,” I begin to beg, grasping around the maze inside my head, trying to find the outlet. “My family is guilty too. The Bishops were in on it—”
“But you’re not really a Bishop, are you?” I’m momentarily stunned at how cutting her words are. Not because I care about the legacy or belonging. But because it was a sham, all of it with all of them.
My heart is leaping from my chest. It feels like there is not an ounce of air in the room anymore. The painted trees start to tremble and groan, stretch, and contract.
“It’s there,” I say, pointing to the floor beneath my dresser. “I think there’s another hidden compartment there. The nail rises there too.”
She keeps the revolver raised, eyes not leaving me. “Downstairs. We’ll get the hammer.”
“I’ve already got it,” I whisper.
Her eyes widen slightly in confusion and flicker down to my hands.
I let the hammer slide from where it’s been hidden in my right sleeve. The metal head passes over my palm, then the wooden handle. My fingers grasp it before it starts to fall to the floor.
I tighten my grip and then swing. The bone crunches as I shatter her kneecap. Her face snaps up to look at me, surprise registering before the pain. Then Joan drops the gun, and she collapses to the ground, howling in anguish.
The slow motion seems to snap off, and suddenly, I’m aware that I have to act and fast. I go to reach for the revolver but it’s too close to Joan.
So, I run. I run through the bedroom door, leaving Joan on the floor of the room of painted trees.
I run down the hall and when I cast one last look at The Forest of the Dead, I swear I see a branch reaching out toward Joan who is crawling toward the door, gun in hand, its branches like hungry claws.
Then I’m down the stairs and out the front door.
It’s snowing. I’d forgotten about that. I make to run to the road, but from up on Cold Brook Drive, I see a set of headlights barreling down the driveway.
The woods are safer.
I hear Lydia in my head. Are you helping me? Or leading me out to die in the blizzard, finally enacting your revenge?
I trust her, God help me.
I take off across the field to the backwoods. There’s about six inches of snow on the ground. It’s hard to move but not impossible. I don’t have any shoes on but thankfully am wearing thick socks. The snow is powdery enough that the socks don’t immediately get soaked through.
From across the field, back toward the road, I hear a car door slam, and then I hear a male voice calling my name.
“Elinor!! Get back here, you fucking bitch!” And I see the faint beam of a flashlight pass over me from behind.
Shit, shit, shit. He’s going to be faster than me.
I slip into the woods and begin to make my way diagonally back toward the river.
I realize that I’m making little yelps and cries as I move and then grit my mouth shut to make as little noise as possible.
Not that it will help, I’m leaving tracks, clear as day.
The woods are safer. I hear the voice, coaxing me, spiriting me along.
“Elinor!” I hear a shot fired from behind and the crashing of a man moving through the woods at great speed, breaking through whatever branches cross his path.
I’m crying as I run, I can feel the warm tears roll down my frozen cheeks. Please help me, Lydia, I think. Please, please help me.
The snow is getting thicker and falling faster. It’s getting even harder to see. The scene in front of me is almost all white punctuated with black. Like static on an old television.
It’s all so white that I almost don’t realize that I’ve come to the river until it’s too late.
I come to a halt, looking down, quickly calculating my options.
“Stop,” the voice commands me from behind.
I look briefly over my shoulder. Julian is standing, looking like a black bear against the white snow. He’s holding a hunting rifle, pointed right at me. The snow is swirling in front of him, making him squint, and I can tell he’s having trouble seeing.
“There’s nowhere to go,” he says.
But he’s wrong. He doesn’t know these woods like I do.
And so I close my eyes and jump, and as I do, the last thing I see is a pair of glowing eyes behind him, ready for vengeance, and a low, guttural growl.
* * *
As I fall, I hear the sound of the rifle as Julian takes one futile shot after I surprised him by disappearing over the riverbank.
The water is like a million knives cutting into my skin, injecting ice throughout my body.
I go under and it feels like my head is going to explode.
I fight my way to the surface, gasping as I break through into the night air.
The current begins to swiftly carry me along.
He wouldn’t have thought I’d do this. Normally the river is too shallow to jump in, especially this time of year. But Julian doesn’t know about the plunge pool. Wasn’t accounting for the rain.
My feet bump over the rocks. My head slips under the water, and I claw my way to the surface. I swallow big mouthfuls of water, coughing and sputtering. I try desperately to propel myself over to the edge. If I can just grab onto a tree root, then maybe, just maybe I can get out.
I grab a few times, but my hand slips on the cold wet bark, and in the darkness, it’s impossible to get a good grip. I’m going farther and farther downriver. Eventually, I know I’ll end up in the Connecticut. If the cold doesn’t get me first.
But then, I pass one low, looping root. I scream as I reach and grab the root with every ounce of strength left in my body.
I manage to hold on, but the water is beating past me, smashing my body against the rocky, ice-covered riverbed.
I can’t possibly let go with one hand to try and pull myself up.
If I let go with one hand, I’ll be carried away.
“Help!” I scream. I know it’s futile. I’m all alone out here.
Then I hear something echoing in the darkness. I must be delirious. It’s a sound that I’ve been hoping to hear for days. Hugo’s call. But it couldn’t be. Hugo is dead.
And then I feel a set of strong hands grabbing my shoulders. The person hauls me up and over the riverbed. We both collapse into the snow.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Elinor,” Alice says. “I told you Joan was a bitch.”
As I lay there panting, holding on to Alice, I could swear I sense Hugo whimpering and pacing beside me.