Chapter 36
The scandal-soaked excitement is finally over.
Once again the street is empty, the bystanders tucked away in their homes, and the solitude is returned to Hemlock Drive.
I stand on the sidewalk gripping my arms, pretending I’m not two seconds from passing out or going on the run. Or both. I’m a multitasker like that.
I can’t shake the sensation of his slippery voice in my ear: I know what you’re hiding. But what’s most terrifying is that Marshall Szabo is getting bolder and more confrontational, just like his father. And as Gillian Szabo’s son, I have a terrible premonition that they plan to kill me.
The way the words slithered from his lips is burned into my memory.
In fact, every detail about him is, from our first video chat up through his news interview when he found Janet’s body.
He and Gillian have become a parasite in my brain chewing its way into every thought.
He thought a baseball cap pulled down low and his five o’clock shadow could hide him amid the crowd, but that arrogant, self-satisfied curve of his mouth sets off a fire of hatred inside me.
I’m completely immobile in self-defeat and self-loathing as I step inside my house.
Mamma stands near the dining table, her purse still on her arm, keys clenched in her fist. Luca is by the window with his arms crossed and jaw tight.
They both look at me the same way. Stern, wary, and braced for some horrible truth.
“What?” I nudge the front door shut behind me and engage the triple lock that still doesn’t feel like enough. “Why are you both staring at me like that?”
Neither of them answers. They share a silent exchange, then their eyes shift to the bookshelf. It’s not fully open—just a crack. An inch, maybe two. Enough to reveal the dark seam where the wall shouldn’t give way. It’s enough to tell me I’m screwed.
Heat rushes up my neck, and my cheeks sting with mortification. “Mamma,” I say, my words carefully chosen, “why is the bookshelf open?”
Her mouth tightens. She steps toward it, her heels sharp clicks against the hardwood. “I was dusting. When I saw your Nancy Drew book, it brought back memories, so I went to pick it up. Instead of bringing me delightful childhood nostalgia, it opened up a horror story, Shari. Care to explain?”
My lungs forget how to work. Silence slams my lips shut. I look at Luca, but he doesn’t look surprised. In fact, he looks resigned to whatever wrath our mother is about to dish out.
“Oh my goodness,” Mamma gapes at Luca, then me, “Luca, you knew about this?”
Luca exhales through his nose, and it makes a little whistle. “Yes.”
“And you let your sister do this?” Her voice jumps an octave.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” She gestures wildly at the bookshelf, at the open wound in my hallway wall. “There is a room back there, Luca. A hidden room in your sister’s house with—” She shudders, because there is no way to explain what’s back there or make any sense of it.
“I know.”
“And you’ve both been leaving it there like this is normal?” Mamma’s gaze snaps back to me. “Explain. Right now.”
I open my mouth but the words feel flimsy. Anything I say to justify it would be like trying to dam a flood with paper.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” I say finally.
Her laugh is humorless. “Oh, you think?”
She walks to the bookshelf and yanks it open the rest of the way. Dust and unventilated air spill out, tinged with a dank stench that’s impossible to pinpoint. Mamma stops short of stepping inside.
I plant my feet between her and the doorway. “Mamma, listen to me. Please.”
Her shoulders sag just a fraction, and her anger cracks, revealing something raw and sad underneath. “Why?” she begs. “Why would you do this, Shari? Is it my fault? Because you felt abandoned by me?”
I meet her gaze and don’t look away. I’ve spent too much of my life deflecting. “There was no other way.”
“There is always another way.”
“No.” My voice is steady, even if my insides aren’t. “There isn’t, not for me.”
“And your brother supported this?”
“Yes,” Luca says without hesitation.
“Why, Luca?”
I know my brother’s answer, and I know why he won’t tell her. It’s because he has always and will always choose to believe in my goodness, no matter how many nights I’ve spent in prison or what the courts rule against me. Especially when my own mother chose to instead give up on me.
Mamma sinks into a chair like her legs have finally given out. She presses her fingers to her temple. “Madonna mia, I raised you both better than this.”
“I know, and I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Then I add without hesitation, “But I’d do it again.”
The admission shocks even me. She studies my face like she’s searching for the daughter she knows, the one who cried over broken cameras and believed the world could be beautiful if you just took the right picture.
“You’re in danger,” she concludes.
“I already was.”
At last she straightens her back and squares her shoulders decisively. “I won’t tell anyone. But I will warn you that secrets rot. They poison everything around them.”
“I know.”
“So then tell me, to what end do you plan to keep this one?”
I don’t answer because I don’t know. And somehow, that’s the most terrifying revelation of all.