Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
Standing before Violet, I can’t help but note the parallels to Daisy’s diary. That final entry, its last few pages ripped away just as Mrs. Semple and the Darkness entered her cottage. Now here I am, facing my own Mrs. Semple, about to get answers.
What will happen to me after that, I have no idea.
“Let her go,” Violet says.
“She might run,” Susie says.
“She won’t.”
As Heather and Julianne release their grips, Violet gives me a sharp look, daring me to try to escape. I don’t, even though my legs shimmy, itching to flee. I’m clearly outnumbered.
“You’re confused,” Violet says in what has to be the understatement of the century. “I’m sorry for causing that.”
She doesn’t sound sorry. Her voice contains a hint of smugness, as if she’s pleased with herself for fooling me so completely. They all did. I know that without them having to say a word.
“All of it was fake,” I say, the realization leaving me breathless. “The séance. Azra. The disappearances. None of it was real.”
“Maybe it was a hundred years ago,” Violet says.
“But not now. Everything strange that’s happened on this island was done by all of you.”
Violet nods. “With an assist from Loretta and Brad, of course.”
That’s partial news to me. By this point, I’d assumed Loretta was part of whatever the hell is going on here.
It’s the only reason I could think of for why she’s been gone so long without sending word of her whereabouts or someone to check on us.
As for Brad, I truly thought his illness had been real.
“He faked that?” I say, picturing him writhing on the ground as Heather gingerly explored his abdomen.
“I’m not a doctor,” she says now. “But I’ve played one on TV.”
My head starts to spin as I realize—far too late—that all of them have been acting this whole time.
Every moment.
Every interaction.
Every fucking word.
They were never slightly spooked. Or outright scared.
Or friendly, haughty, bitchy, confiding, exhausted, suspicious, authentic.
Literally all of it was a lie. Now I stare up at them, these four utter strangers I’d mistakenly thought I’d known, feeling foolish and hurt and, yes, grudgingly impressed.
They’re all better actors than I ever expected.
Even Susie. Much of what happened, the séance and dresses and haunting, was so realistic I had started to believe it. Which, of course, was the point.
“How did you pull it off?”
“We all played a part,” Violet says.
“I staged the video,” Susie proudly adds.
Violet locks eyes with me. “And I led you right to it. We each had more than one set of clothes, of course. When one of us vanished, someone else would immediately use a pole and hook to put the clothes in the tree. Julianne and I hung Heather’s dress while you two were walking to the shore.
In Julianne’s case, it was already there before she ran out of the house. ”
And I had run right past it, not noticing it until I turned around.
I look to Heather, whose disappearance had rattled me to my core. “How did you vanish like that?”
“The tree,” she says, referring to the downed one that stretched from the woods to the lake. “We hid a camouflage sleeping bag there. I hopped in, zipped it shut, and rolled under the tree until you went back to the cottages.”
“That was it? A fucking sleeping bag?”
“You walked right past me,” Heather says, implying it’s my fault I didn’t notice. Which it is. “Once you were gone, Brad and Loretta came and picked me up in the boat.”
“But I was on the dock when you vanished,” I say. “And I could still see it when I reached the flashlight. There wasn’t any boat around.”
“That’s because they were waiting on the other side of the island.”
The small, secret cove Daisy wrote about in her diary. Of course. If it worked for bootleggers sneaking on and off the island, then it would also work for…whatever this is.
“We cut the motor a mile from here and row the rest of the way,” Heather says. “No lights. No noise. Like we’re invisible.”
“Loretta and Brad are there right now waiting for us to get back,” Susie says. “Which we should do before Ronan finds us.”
“I’m not done with my questions,” I snap. “The séance. How did that work?”
“That was mostly Brad,” Violet says. “Using tricks perfected by fake mediums a century ago.”
“Like moving the chair.”
“God, you were so pleased with yourself for noticing that,” Susie says, her clear distaste for me indicating that perhaps not everything was an act. “What you didn’t realize was that we wanted you to see it.”
“Why?”
“Because it would make what happened after that seem more real,” Violet says. “Magicians do it all the time. Showing there are no tricks up their sleeves to distract you from noticing how they’re actually hidden in their pantlegs. Our hope was that you wouldn’t realize we were fooling you twice.”
Well, shame on me, because I was absolutely duped. Especially after I’d examined the parlor myself and found nothing amiss but those letters arranged on the table just so. Clearly another trick, but one left on purpose in the hope that I’d see it.
“How’d you make the table move?” I say, thinking back to the scratches I’d found on the legs. “A lift of some sort?”
“Three lifts, actually,” Heather says. “One under each leg. Stepping on them at the same time raised and lowered the table.”
“And the whisper I heard?”
Julianne sweeps past me so subtly that, if my eyes were closed, I wouldn’t know she was there at all. “You will be first,” she says in a guttural hiss that’s so like the one I heard in the parlor it makes me shudder.
“But what about the glass?”
That one still mystifies me, knowing it was the only trick in which I inadvertently took part. My fingers were on the glass, too, and not once did I feel it being purposefully nudged or forced.
“That was easy,” Julianne says. “It didn’t take much pressure at all to move it where we wanted.
With just two people, it would have been obvious that someone was pushing.
Because there were five of us, the pressure exerted by the four of us wasn’t as noticeable and outweighed anything you did. You had no choice but to follow along.”
“But the names—”
“We told each other in advance,” Violet says. “Including Molly’s.”
I don’t need to ask how they knew. “Marin Keane” is not a common name. Especially one who had an eleven-year-old sister drown when they were four. It likely took one Google search to find out all about Molly.
“What about Elise?” I say.
The name causes Violet to flinch. Not much. Just enough to tell me that Ronan wasn’t the only one who knew her.
“She was our friend,” Violet says.
Susie gives a sad nod. “We grew close after seeing each other at the same auditions and acting classes.”
“That’s where I met her,” Julianne says. “I was her acting teacher for a time.”
“She had a small part on one of my shows,” Heather adds. “I liked her immediately. She was easy to like.”
Violet reaches out to give her hand a gentle squeeze. “We met on one of my films. She was a glorified extra. Just starting out. But I saw something in her. The same thing I see in you, Marin. Such promise. We became fast friends. Loretta, too. We both loved her very much.”
“And Brad? He knew her, too?”
“They were high school friends,” Susie says. “The two of them moved to Los Angeles together, determined to make it in the movies, Brad in special effects and Elise in acting. And then—” Her voice cracks, streaked with sorrow. “She died.”
“What happened to her?”
“Ronan Peters happened,” Violet says. “They met when he was prepping Shred of Doubt. He got her cast in a major part.”
“Ronan doted on her,” Heather adds, giving me an unnecessarily pointed look. I get how familiar it all sounds. “Created a rapport. Built up trust.”
“My God, she wouldn’t stop talking about him,” Violet says. “She was smitten. And I could see why. Ronan is charming and good-looking and so talented. I will absolutely admit that, even after what he did.”
“What, exactly, did he do?” I say.
Violet’s features harden. “He used her.”
“They started hooking up,” Susie says. “Elise claimed it was mutual. That they both decided to have a fun, casual relationship. But I know he’s the one who instigated it. Ronan’s your basic fuckboi. Everybody in Hollywood knows it.”
And at least one person who’s never set foot in Hollywood—me.
All those moments with Ronan click into place like the tumblers of a combination lock suddenly springing free.
The too-long hug upon my arrival. The ingratiating talk of trust, of being a team, of being his favorite.
The way he shed his shirt to dab my bloody knee even though his neckerchief was the obvious choice.
All of that paving the way for what happened an hour or so ago.
Him in his underwear, forcing himself on me.
Some would call that grooming. I’m sure Ronan would refer to it as seduction.
And maybe, with one or two additional moves, under very different circumstances, he would have succeeded.
Which is why it’s easy to understand how Elise could have fallen under his spell.
“They were a thing for a few weeks before Ronan ended it,” Susie says.
They tell me everything that happened, step by step.
Elise being fired from the movie, allegedly because she didn’t have enough experience.
Cast in her place was a megastar. Someone as big as Violet, though not as talented.
Shred of Doubt became a hit while Elise struggled to get cast in anything. It’s a tale as old as Hollywood.
“One night, Elise checked into the Chateau Marmont with no luggage and two bottles of pills,” Violet says solemnly. “The hotel maid found her dead the next morning.”
Sorrow squeezes my heart. That poor, wounded girl.
“Few people noticed or cared,” Julianne says.
Heather nods. “In Hollywood, it happens all the time.”
“To most, Elise was just another nameless, faceless actress,” Susie says.