I shudder as she talks, picturing flapping wings and downy feathers floating in the air like snow.
“You can’t blame that mother falcon,” Franny says matter-of-factly. “She was simply doing what she needed to do. Taking care of her children. That was her job. But it broke Chet’s heart. He watched those squawking little eyesses too closely, and they showed their true natures. Some of his innocence was taken away that day. Not much. Just the tiniest bit. But it was a part of him he would never be able to get back. And although we don’t talk about those falcons, I’m certain that he’d say he regrets watching them closely. I think he’d say that he wished he hadn’t looked so much.”
Franny climbs to her feet, struggling slightly, the effort leaving her body quivering. The blanket slips, and I get a peek at her rail-thin arms. Pulling the blanket around herself, she says, “You have a good morning, Emma.”
She shuffles away, leaving me alone to contemplate the story of Chet and the falcons. While it didn’t sound like a lie, it also didn’t quite have the ring of truth.
It might have been, I realize with another robe-tightening chill, a threat.
24
The morning painting class is spent in a state of distraction. The girls arrange their easels in a circle around the usual still-life fodder. Table. Vase. Flowers. I monitor their progress with disinterest, more concerned with the bracelet that’s once again around my wrist. I’d managed to fix the clasp with some colored string from Casey’s craft station—a stopgap measure I suspect won’t last until the end of the day, let alone the rest of the summer. Not the way I’m constantly twisting it.
I’m made nervous by all the activity drifting through the building like a tide. Becca and her budding photographers marching in from the woods. Casey and her crafters stringing slim leather necklaces with beads. All these girls. All these prying eyes.
And one of them knows what I did fifteen years ago. A fact I’m sure I’ll be reminded of sooner rather than later.
I give the bracelet another tug as I stand next to Miranda, examining her work in progress. When her gaze lingers on my wrist, I pull my hand away from the bracelet and look out the window.
From the arts and crafts building, I have an angled view of the Lodge, where various members of the Harris-White family come and go. I see Mindy and Chet bickering about something as they head to the mess hall, followed by Theo trotting past on a morning jog. A minute later I spot Lottie gingerly guiding Franny toward the lake.
Right now, the Lodge is empty.
Franny’s story returns to me, whispering in my ear.
He watched them too closely, and they showed their true natures.
I know I should heed her warning. This won’t end well. Even if I do get answers, there’s no guarantee my conscience will rid itself of guilt. But I’ll never know if I don’t try. Not knowing is what brought me here. Not knowing is why I kept seeing Vivian all those years ago. It’s why I saw her last night. This is my only chance.
“I need to take care of something,” I tell the class. “I’ll be right back. Keep painting.”
Outside, I slip away to Dogwood and retrieve my phone and charger. I then make my way to the Lodge, moving at an awkward half run, torn between being inconspicuous and being speedy. In truth, I need to be both.
At the Lodge, I knock on the red front door, just in case someone returned during my jaunt to the cabin and back. When seconds tick by and no one answers, I give the doorknob a twist. It’s unlocked. I check to see if anyone is nearby and possibly watching. No one is. Quickly, I tiptoe inside and close the door behind me. Then it’s through the entrance hall and living room before veering left into the study.
The room is roughly the same size as Dogwood, with a desk in the center and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where our bunk beds would be. The wall behind the desk is covered with framed photographs. There’s an air of neglect about the place—like a museum that’s not very good at upkeep. A thin layer of dust covers the Tiffany lampshade on the desk. There’s a thicker coat of it on the rotary phone, which looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.
I lower myself onto my hands and knees, searching the walls for an outlet. I find one behind the desk and plug in the phone charger. Then I stand in the middle of the study, wondering where to look first. It’s hard to decide without Vivian’s diary to guide me. I recall her writing about how she managed to sneak something out of the study, which means there could be multiple possible clues here.
I head to the bookshelf on my left, which holds dozens of thick, musty volumes about nature. Darwin’s On the Origin of Species. Audubon’s Birds of America. Walden by Thoreau. I grab a thick purple book and examine its cover. Poisonous Plants of North America. A quick flip through its pages reveals pictures of lacy white flowers, red berries, mushrooms colored a sickly green. I doubt these books are what Vivian was referring to.
I turn next to the desk, giving its phone, lamp, and blotter calendar a cursory glance before reaching for the three drawers stacked from floor to desktop. The first drawer is the usual menagerie of pen caps and paper clips. I close it and move to the middle one. Inside is a stack of folders. They bulge with documents, their edges brittle with age. I flip through them. Most appear to be receipts, financial statements, invoices for long-ago work on the property. None contain a hint of scandal. At least nothing that Vivian could suss out during a brief bit of snooping.
In the bottom drawer, I find a wooden box. It’s just like the one Vivian showed me during our outing to the other side of the lake, only better preserved. Same size. Same surprising heft. Even the initials carved into the lid are the same.
CC
Charles Cutler.
The name slips into my head without warning or effort. One look at those initials and it’s right there, summoned at will. I lift the box from its hiding place and carefully turn it over. On the bottom are four familiar words.
Property of Peaceful Valley.
I turn the box back over and open it, revealing a green velvet interior. Nestled inside are photographs.
Old ones.
Of women in gray with long hair draped down their backs.
Each one assumes the same pose as Eleanor Auburn, minus the clutched hairbrush.
This is where Vivian got that picture. I’m certain of it. It’s merely one of what appears to be two dozen. I sort through them, unnerved by their uniformity. Same clothes. Same bare-wall background. Same eyes made dark by despair and hopelessness.
Just like the one of Eleanor, the back of each photo has been marked with a name.
Henrietta Golden. Lucille Tawny. Anya Flaxen.
These women were patients at Peaceful Valley. The unfortunates whom Charles Cutler rescued from squalid, crowded asylums and brought to Peaceful Valley. Only I have a gnawing suspicion his intentions weren’t so noble. A chill settles over me, increasing with every name I read until I’m practically numb.