Page 48 of The Lies We Conjure
“God, that’s bleak.”
“It is but it makes sense.”
Wren shivers and immediately begins to rub furiously at fresh gooseflesh pebbling her arms. “Let me just state for the record that while this succession bullshit sounds really good in a movie or book, it blows in real life. Waiting for a loved one to die off so you can get what you want? And then putting yourself in the crosshairs because you finally got it by losing that person you loved? Bull. Shit.”
“Yes, but think about it. We know Marcos Blackgate was executed as punishment for murder—”
Wren freezes. “Wait. You think Marcos Blackgate…” I shrug and nod as she puts two and two together. When she gets there, she squeezes her eyes closed and presses her fingers to her temples. “You’re telling meour dadis amass murdererand we came to this party and had dinner with the mother and children of his victims like it was no big thing?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Wren’s eyes fly open and she watches me as I toss a hand in the general direction of the study a floor above. “It’s part of the reason everyone is so convinced Marsyas did it. Most mothers think their kids are innocent if they commit a heinous crime, I’d imagine. She probably fought tooth and nail to protect him, or exonerate him, and they—Ursula—executed him anyway.”
Wren runs a hand through her hair and flops bonelessly onto the couch. “First we’ll have to prove your theory, but if it’s true, did it take ten years for Marsyas to exact revenge, or ten years for someone to frame her?”
“Either is possible.”
“God, if I weren’t starving, I might vomit. This is so messed up.”
I punch out a deep breath. “I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse.”
CHAPTER16
AUDEN
I don’t sleep. More precisely, I don’tremembersleeping.
Everything from the past six hours runs through my mind like a flip-book. Just scenes adding up to a whole.
Finding nothing with my cousins.
Literallynothing.
Just locked drawer after locked drawer, all opening with our keys, all opening to nothing. We kept turning our keys, expecting a different result. Madness.
It’s like every scrap of paper died with Ursula.
And we have no idea if it was our grandmother or her murderer who removed everything but the will from the room.
Then it’s suddenly morning.
The birdsong filtering through the diamond-pane windows with the haunted blue of a new day.
I’d fallen asleep in the study. The mantel clock reads five thirty-eight.
And so I stumble down four flights of service stairs, into the basement kitchen, through the brewing of three pots of coffee, and haul my best approximation of a Chef Maggie breakfast spread into the solarium. Thank God the woman is a champ at making everything ahead of time. With her preparation skills, even a boarding school whelp like me can present top-quality sustenance while she lies in a Cinderella sleep, hopefully getting the kind of rest my grandmother never allowed her.
Then, croissant in hand, I decamp to my room, where I wash my face and trade the buttery flakiness of the lingering pastry for a toothbrush and paste.
As I rinse, it hits me.
Right there, in the last line of the clue.
We worship.
I swallow a gulp of water, pull on a clean Walton-Bridge lacrosse T-shirt and shorts, grab my running shoes, haul open the door to my third-floor suite—
And nearly flatten Winter, standing there, hand raised to knock.
“We worship?” I ask before it even computes that she’s basically dressed exactly like me.
