Page 9 of The Family Plot
I didn’t know, then, that “ghost” was not a metaphor. That whatever slip of energy that made himhimhad already detached from his skin, or that his skin itself was a disintegrating thing, a feast for grubs and worms. But how could I not have known? For ten years, I’ve watched for him, searched for him, worn out the letters of his name on my laptop keys—certain that he was out there, his heart still beating insync with mine. I always thought that, if he died, I’d feel it, like a coffin snapping shut on my own body. But all this time, I’ve been breathing just fine; all this time, I’ve been wrong.
I’m sitting on my old beanbag chair, the twin to one in Andy’s room, and as I shift, I brace myself for pain. I had no idea how demanding grief is of the body. My eyes feel like they’ve been used as punching bags. I’m thirstier than I can ever remember being, but there’s a hundred-pound weight in my stomach, my chest, my throat, and I don’t know if I can make it to the kitchen for water. I hear footsteps down there, heavy ones that seem to shake the walls. For a moment, I think they must be Dad’s, but then I pause, and I remember. And though his loss is not the one that’s crushing me now, I wince about it anyway. It’s a terrible thing, forgetting someone is dead.
I should check on Mom. Even though she never looked for Andy, the way she gripped my hand last night, the way hope bled from her mouth as she insisted I knew where he’s been—that meant something to me. It meant she lost a piece of herself when she let him go, and all these years she’s been wishing he’d bring it back. But now she’s lost even more: Andy, for good, and her husband, too—a man she always seemed in awe of, a man whose mild attention was enough to make her blush.
As I stand up, I find I’m still in yesterday’s clothes: oversize sweater, dark gray leggings. My bag is in the corner of my room, but I don’t care enough to reach inside it and dig for another outfit. I step into the hall, legs shaky and sore, but I barely make it ten feet before Charlie, holding a large box, rounds a corner and crashes into me.
“Dolls,” he says as I stumble back. He sets the box on the floor and stands there, one shoulder lower than the other, dragged down by his usual slouch. I can smell the alcohol wafting off him, but it smells old, the residue of whatever was in his mug last night.
“What are you—” I try to ask, but he leaps forward, engulfing me in a hug so tight I gasp.
“You must be dying,” he says. “God, if anything ever happened to Tate, I’d just… I know she’s not my twin, but still. It always felt like it was me and her, and you and Andy, and now it’s just… you.”
I can’t breathe; my lungs feel pinned to my ribs. Then Charlie takes a step back, gripping my shoulders and shaking me in a way that jump-starts my breath.
“You’re going to get through this,” he says. He scans the hallway. “We all are. I’m making sure of that.”
I look at the box near my feet. “What is this?”
“It’s from the attic. Our old murder reports. We’re going to include them in the memorial.”
“In… Dad’s memorial?”
“Dad’sandAndy’s. We’re doing a joint one, I’ve decided.”
And there it is again, that pinned-lung feeling. Memorials are for saying goodbye, but I’ve only just discovered Andy’s gone. Really gone, I mean, not a runaway, not anonymous in some city—but gone. In the ground.
“But not only that!” Charlie adds. “We’re going to make it a museum of sorts. The Lighthouse Memorial Museum.” He splays his hands in the air, palms out, spreading them farther apart with each word, as if he’s seeing the name lit up on some theater marquee.
I manage a syllable: “What?”
He drops his hands. “The vultures are circling. The rest of the islanders—they know something’s happened. I got up early this morning, went for a walk into town to clear my head, and a mother accosted me with her baby. ‘Is it true?’ she asked. ‘TwoLighthouses are dead?’ I don’t even know how she knew who I was. Maybe she’s asking everyone. But the way she said our name… It was like we’re thesedangerous, blood-sucking freaks, living in Murder Mansion, plotting our next move. But I’ve played Biff inDeath of a Salesman, Dolls!”
He shakes his head, indignant. “My instinct was to get away from her,” he adds, “just like we always did.”
Mom encouraged us to steer clear of the islanders. She said they wouldn’t understand our way of life, and with their murmurs of “Murder Mansion,” their gazes that followed us whenever we left the house, it was clear she was right.
“But look where that division got us,” Charlie says. “Andy was axed to death!”
“You think one of the islanders did it?” I ask, even thoughaxed to deathmakes the hallway spin around me.
Charlie stares at me, his eyes opaque. Unreadable. “Yes,” he says. “Someone on this island did it.”
“The Blackburn Killer?”
Charlie hesitates before he shakes his head again, this time like a dog shaking off rain. “They don’t— Nobody knows, Dahlia. But my point is: I’m not hiding anymore.We’renot hiding anymore. The idea came to me this morning like a lightning strike. In five days, we’re going to open our doors to everyone, for one day only—limited viewings draw the best crowds—and we’re going to let them witness it all. I’m collecting artifacts—papers, candles, items from the victim room—anything that tells the story of who we’ve been. It’s time for everyone to see we’re not some freaks on top of the hill. We’repeople. We were brought up differently, sure, but we’re human beings, for fuck’s sake.”
He picks up the box and stomps toward the stairs—as if that’s the end of it. As if it’s his decision alone as to who can enter our house or snoop through our things.
“Wait.” I follow him downstairs. Our footsteps rattle the frames along the staircase, and I glance at Mom’s parents—smiling in birthday hats, blowing smoke rings at each other in lieu of a kiss, oblivious to the guns that were coming for their heads.
Charlie carries his box to the living room, dumping it on a stack of others teetering on top of the coffee table. “Find anything, Tate?” he asks, and now I see our sister crouched in the corner, rummaging through the bottom shelf of a cabinet. She’s pointedlynotin yesterday’s clothes. Her sweater is a too-cheerful yellow, and her hair, freshly showered, cascades down her back in glossy waves.
“Sort of,” she says, words muffled. She jolts when she sees me. Clamped between her teeth is a paintbrush, but she yanks it out to say my name, her lips an unnatural red.
“How are you doing?” she asks, walking toward me, arms outstretched—and again, what is with these hugs? Doesn’t she remember how, as kids, she literally shooed me and Andy—Shoo, little ones, shoo!—whenever we’d ask what she and Charlie were whispering about? Doesn’t she remember how, the last time I saw her, she read Andy’s note like it might accuse her of something, her eyes squinty with caution but not concern?
As she pulls me in, the end of her paintbrush stabs my shoulder blade. “Oops,” she says. “I’ve been gathering supplies.” She turns back to Charlie but keeps her hand on my arm. “There’s not much here; I’ll have to go into town. I can pick up whatever you need while I’m there.”
