Page 88 of The Family Plot
He doesn’t see me watching at him—doesn’t seem to see at all, really. He walks off, out of the frame of the living room doorway, and now the people approach the credenza. I hear only chatter at first, indistinct words overlapping one another, but as I separate myself from the too-close reporter, move from the living room into the foyer, I pick out threads of sentences, register a whispered “Oh my god.”
I’m standing behind a couple girls whose bodies block the new display. One of them glances back at me, then grabs her friend’s arm, pulling her aside to make room. I take a final step forward, fear cementing in my stomach at those girls’ expressions. Whether they know who I am or not, they’re expecting a reaction.
Cautiously, my gaze drifts onto the credenza, but it takes a moment for my mind to catch up with my eyes. When it does, I suck in air so sharply, it feels like I’m inhaling broken glass.
The only way out is to never come back.
The last time I saw this note, a cry clawed out of my throat, alerting the whole house that everything was different now; everything was infinitely worse. Only days ago, I asked Charlie if he knew where it was, and I accepted it as truth when he told me he didn’t.
Was he lying? Or did he find it somewhere while digging for artifacts from our past?
Looking at it again, I register for the first time that it was written in pencil. Whenever I’ve pictured it over the years, I’ve always seen the words in bold, black ink, unforgettable and permanent, but here, the graphite’s been smudged by someone’s touch. And in front of the paper is a white card, covered in Charlie’s scrawl:Note forged by Andy Lighthouse’s killer.
Sweat beads on my forehead, my body sweltering. I don’t hear voices anymore, or whispered conversations. I hear waves, I hear wind, I hear the forces of this island trying to push in.
And now I’m leaning down, squinting at the runaway note, missing for all these years.
In a second, my eyes catch on something beneath its words. I can’t tell if it’s been erased, or if it’s just faded over time, but it’s a line underscoring the sentence.
No. It isn’t just a line.
It’s a sideways lowercasei. A twin to the one in Sharpie on my hand.
In a single motion, I snatch the note and label, snapping back up. Tears warp my vision as I whip around in search of Charlie. I find him in the living room—already staring at me. I blink until my cheeks arewet, until I see him more clearly. I shake my head through the fog of my thoughts. Is this note a reproduction, one Charlie wrote, just now, with his “trademark flair”?
But no. My thumping heart goes silent. No.
I don’t want to believe it, don’t even want to think it, but the way he’s looking at me now…
Did he write it back then, the night of our birthday? Did he phrase it so we’d believe that Andy ran away? Did Charlie…
He keeps on staring. From across the room, he will not break my gaze. His is as glassy as the eyes of Dad’s deer: pained but defeated, a dark knowledge trapped in the pupils. And now, reading the question that twists across my face, Charlie hangs his head, and he nods.
twenty-two
“GET OUT!”
Everyone goes still when I scream. The only sound is a baby’s wail.
My hand, closed around the note and label, shakes at my side. The papers scratch against my palm until I shove them into my pocket.
“GET OUT! Get out of here now!”
Two roomfuls of people stare at me like fish. The only one who moves is Charlie. He sinks onto the couch in the living room, arms slack at his sides.
Footsteps rush from the back hallway, marching up behind me. “What’s going on?” Elijah asks, his notebook already out.
“Get out!” I yell in his face. Then I turn to the dozen visitors still gaping at me. “All of you! Leave! Get out of here! Go!”
I stomp toward the front door, yank it open to reveal more people dotting our lawn. Their heads all turn to me at once, alert and expectant.
“What is wrong with you?” I scream at them. “Get off our property! The museum is closed!” I whirl around to the people in the house. “Get the fuck out!”
For a few seconds, nothing happens. The baby keeps howling; theeyes keep watching. Finally, Elijah steps forward. “Come on, everyone,” he says, voice deep with authority. “Time to go.” He waves his hands, ushering bodies toward the door.
They listen to him, confused but indignant looks plastered to their faces. One by one they walk past me into the dimming light outside, shooting me glances that drip with judgment. The reporter tries to appeal to Elijah. “Press, too?” she asks. He nods and gestures for her to leave. As the last person files out, Elijah flips a page in his notepad and pulls his pen from his pocket.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” he asks me.
