Chapter 38 – Ariane - The Hollow House
The house is silent without her heels. That’s how I know she’s really gone. The persistent, rhythmic click of Eleanor Wagner is gone, replaced by a silence that feels like it’s mocking me. The walls still hold her perfume, faint, too-sweet, and ghostly, which clings to everything.
The staff has mastered the art of pretending not to see me. The maid who found me and Finn that night, Lydia, won’t even make eye contact anymore, probably afraid I might fire her. I don’t blame her. I can’t stand the sight of myself either.
Richard says it this morning, his voice too calm, too steady for something that big. “Your mother’s gone,” he muttered over tea, not even looking at me. “But you’re still my daughter.”
I look at him, not trusting myself with words. This is it. She just left? I sent her a message this morning, but the bubble was green instead of blue. All the calls I’ve made have gone straight to voicemail. No when, no where, no goodbye note tucked under a teacup. She’s just gone.
The teapot steams quietly between us. The clock ticking slowly, reminding us of every passing moment. He stirs his tea even though there isn’t any sugar in it. How the hell is the world going to keep pretending everything’s normal.
Even though Richard barely speaks anymore, I know it’ll get better.
I’ve noticed him wander the halls like he’s looking for something he misplaced— his heart, maybe.
I look up at him and give him a tight smile even though he’s lost in his thoughts.
He looks older, frailer, like someone deflated him overnight.
“Do you want something to go with your tea?” I ask, trying to pretend our world hasn’t shattered.
He waves his hand at me.
I don’t push. It feels cruel to force food into a body full of grief.
I sigh, my mind going back to the one person I can’t stop obsessing over.
Finn. He’s gone. Again. He didn’t tell me where he was going and given everything that’s happened recently, I consider that a blessing in disguise.
When I woke up today, his car was gone, his room stripped of anything that looked personal except for the anklet.
Like the fool that I am, I put it on until it clicked shut.
It’s been a week since the explosion. A week since the slap, the shouting, the truth that ripped through us like a bomb. Nothing will ever be the same again.
I get up, leaving Richard to his thoughts and walk towards my room. I just want to rot in my bed and do nothing all day long. Instead, I find myself outside Mom’s room without meaning to. I stand there for a full minute, hand on the door, trying to decide if I’m brave or stupid. Probably both.
I take in a deep breath and open it anyway.
The room is cold. The bed is half-made, her vanity still cluttered with lipsticks and powders, her favorite mirror streaked with fingerprints. She must’ve left in a hurry. The pearls she always wore sit on the dresser, a neat little pile of memories she didn’t bother taking.
I walk towards it and touch her necklace. God, I hate how familiar it feels. I take a step back but my eyes catch something unfamiliar. A folded note under the jewelry box. Without hesitating I reach for it and open it. Her handwriting, edgy, elegant, and cruelly precise: I had no choice.
No signature. No goodbye. Just another one of her statements.
“Fucking hell, mom.” I laugh. Actually laugh.
Because that is so her. Cold, cryptic, and smug even in absence.
She doesn’t leave apologies; she leaves reminders that she was always right.
I am angry for myself. For everything she has done.
But mostly, I’m angry for Richard and Finn.
They lost the light of their lives because of my mom.
My mom murdered someone. Someone innocent.
I can’t even let my mind go there. But I know I have to.
I know I’ve been avoiding even thinking about it.
“Eleanor, my mother is a murder.” I say out loud. I say it because it needs to be said. Tears prickle in my eyes but I refuse to shed any for her. All my life I’ve cried enough because of her. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction anymore.
I turn around and notice the half-empty closet.
Her scent still clings to the silk blouses that remain.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the space where her shoes used to be, wondering if she took the red heels or the black ones.
Wondering if she planned this, if she’d been waiting for the perfect scandal to make her grand exit. She always liked an audience.
“I hope you’re happy,” I say out loud. “You finally got to be the victim and the villain.”
The silence that answer feels like her smirk.
XXX
Later, I bring Richard his dinner, a tray with soup, bread, and tea. He doesn’t touch any of it. Just sits there in his armchair, staring at the empty spot on the wall where her portrait used to hang.
“Did you take it down?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He blinks slowly, eyes tired. “Finn did. Yesterday.”
Of course he did. Finn, with his talent for finishing what no one else has the courage to. I stand there for a while, not sure if I want to thank him or scream.
Richard sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I thought she was my redemption,” he says quietly. “Maybe I just traded one illusion for another.”
I crouch beside his chair, resting a hand on his arm. His skin is cold. “She fooled everyone, Richard.”
He turns to me then, eyes suddenly alert. “Not you.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“You always saw her,” he says softly. “You just kept forgiving her for being what she was.”
The words cut deep because they were true. I’d spent my whole life defending her, inventing reasons for her cruelty. I thought that was loyalty and she was just being a mom. I never thought this is what she would do.
Tears well in my eyes before I can stop them, and a broken gasp rips out of me. An ugly, raw sound I didn’t even know I could make.
“I’m sorry… Richard. I’m so sorry…”
His eyes go wide— at least I think they do. Everything is a blur. I can barely see, barely breathe. Rage and sorrow twist together until I’m drowning in both.
Why would she do this? How am I supposed to go on like nothing happened?
“Ari…” he murmurs.
“No… please.” My voice cracks as the words tumble out.
“Please, Richard. I didn’t know. I knew she wasn’t a good person but I didn’t know she was this.
I didn’t know she was capable of the worst.” My hands shake.
“I’m so sorry. I know apologizing won’t change anything…
I know it won’t fix a damn thing. But I don’t know what else to do. ”
“Just keep being my daughter like always…”
I go in to hug him. He’s my father. Nothing can change that. Not my mother or her actions. We hug for what feels like an eternity until his head lulls and he falls asleep. I sit there, staring at the empty wall, which looks naked.
Days blur together after that. The staff move quieter.
The clock ticks louder. The whole estate feels like a museum dedicated to denial.
I try to fill the hours, sorting papers, clearing out drawers, and pretending to read.
But everything I touch has fingerprints of the past on it.
Receipts from Rhode Island. Letters written in Mom’s looping hand.
When I’m clearing out her things, I find a shoebox of half-burned letters under her bed.
Receipts tucked between them, dates from before I was born.
A photograph of her standing outside a small bar in Rhode Island, smiling that fake, perfect smile.
I remember Finn mentioning that place. My stomach turns.
I don’t need to look further. I’ve already seen enough truth for one lifetime.
That night, I light a fire in the sitting room. I hold one of her pearl necklaces over the flames. It catches the light beautifully, each bead glowing like a small moon.
“They don’t burn,” I whisper, but I drop it anyway. The string slowly blackens, the pearls cracking with faint pops as they hit the embers. It’s petty, but satisfying. It is the only kind of closure I can afford.
The next morning, Richard asks me to help organize some old files. We work in silence until he says, “Finn came by.”
My heart trips. “When?”
“This morning. You were walking by the lake. He dropped off documents for me. Didn’t stay.”
“Did he say where he’s going?” I ask too fast.
“No.” Richard leans back, studying me. “You two… things are complicated, aren’t they?”
That’s putting it mildly. “You could say that.”
He smiles faintly. “I know more than you think, Ariane.”
My pulse stutters. “About what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sighs, eyes soft. “He’s a difficult man. But he’s been good to me. Don’t hate him too easily.”
The words hit like a slap. “I don’t—” My throat goes dry. “I don’t hate him.”
How could I hate him? He’s probably the one who hates me.
“Good.” His smile is sad. “Hate’s too heavy to carry.”
After that, we go back to sorting papers, the silence suddenly full of things neither of us dare to say.
By evening, I can’t stand being inside anymore.
The walls feel like they were closing in.
I step out onto the back porch, breathing in the faint smell of rain and lake water.
The hydrangeas Mom planted last spring have starting to wilt, their petals bruising and curling inward.
She used to fuss over them like they were proof of her perfection. Now, they just looked abandoned.
I sit on the steps, staring at the water until Julia appears behind me, hands clasped in that nervous way she has. “You should come inside, Miss Ariane. It’s getting late.”
“I will,” I say, but don’t move.
She hesitates, then adds softly, “He asked about you.”
My head snaps up. “Finn?”
She nods. “Said to make sure you’re eating.”
Of course he did. I laugh, small and almost shy . “He burns my world down and still worries if I’ve had lunch.”
Julia gives me a confused little smile, not sure if I’m joking. “He’s not like your mother, you know,” she says finally.
I know what she means by that. He’s not a murderer, which is the worst thing you could possibly be.
“No,” I agree quietly. “He’s nothing like her. He’s better. Which makes it harder.”
She nods and slips back inside, leaving me alone with the night.
I stay there until the moon comes up, the water gleaming like smooth metal.
Somewhere out there, I imagine Mom— a train station, a hotel, a bottle of wine and no conscience left to drink it with.
Maybe she’s fine. Maybe she’s not. I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
Eventually, the cold gets to me, forcing me to go back inside. The house is dark, the kind of dark that feels like it’s listening. I walk down the hallway, past Richard’s room, past the study. My steps slow near the end — near his door.
Finn’s room.
The wood looks darker in the half-light.
I stand there, one hand hovering above the handle.
I can almost feel him on the other side — restless, dangerous, familiar.
I want to knock. God, I want to knock. But what would I say?
That I was acting up because it was a way for me to stall acknowledging the truth.
How do I even act in front of him now? Knowing what my mother has done to his?
How do you move on from something like this?
My fingers brush the door. My chest aches with regret because he didn’t deserve losing his mom.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My voice cracks. “I’m so sorry.”
The words hang there, fragile and true. I press my palm flat against the door, feeling the faint warmth of the wood.
Then, I turn away, leaving the house to its ghosts, the mother who left, the man who destroyed everything to save it, and the girl still figuring out who she is in the ruins.
The house feels hollow now, but not empty.