Numb is better than broken.
I make eye contact with the bartender over the rim of my glass as I drain its contents, signaling for another. The whiskey barely burns going down.
“Slow down, kid,” Harvey says, eyeing me sharply as he pours two fingers of Jack Daniels into my empty glass. “I don’t want to have to cut you off again.”
I grunt out an acknowledgment, already lifting the fresh pour to my lips. Harvey just shakes his head and walks away. He knows by now that any lecture will only fall on deaf ears. Not that he’s wrong to judge me. It’s my third refill. Deep down, somewhere beneath the buzz of Jack in my veins, I’m aware my drinking is probably a bit excessive for a Tuesday night — or any night — though I’d be lying if I said it was a rare occurrence. I’m one of Harvey’s best customers. Almost every afternoon, as soon as I’ve finished my shift on The Ebenezer, I find my way to his bar.
Biddy’s, a dark ramshackle dive on the fringes of the commercial docks, is the kind of place people go to disappear. Tourists don’t come here. Hell, locals don’t come here. The patrons are exclusively lobstermen and long-haul fisherman, reeking of mackerel, hands rough with calluses, half of them still wearing their rubber boots as they slug down cheap domestic beers and razz each other with the same jabs they’ve been trading for decades.
Tommy brought me here after my first shift. Sat me down on a weathered wooden stool, shoved a whiskey into my hands, then drained his own in one long sip. With no more than a nod to the barkeep, he slammed down a twenty-dollar bill to cover the tab and left me behind to drink alone. His version of bonding, I suppose.
Tommy never came back here after that first night, but that hasn’t stopped me from showing up on my own. I’m certain the owner, Harvey, knows I’m underage, but Biddy’s seems to operate on a strict don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. In the six months I’ve been drinking at his bar, he’s never asked for ID or hesitated to pour me a dram. To him, I’m just another dock-rat seeking liquid oblivion after a long day on the water.
“Hey,” a beer-laced voice interjects from my left. Its owner is a ruddy-cheeked man in faded flannel. He’s holding a Bud Lite that I very much doubt is his first. Or fifth. “You look familiar, kid. I know you from somewhere?”
Here we go.
“Doubtful,” I say flatly.
“No, no, I’m sure of it.” The man peers closer at my face, trying to get a better look at me. “Wait, I know! You’re that hotshot pitcher, aren’t you? From Exeter Academy.”
“You’re mistaken,” I mutter around a mouthful of whiskey.
The man is undeterred. “My son plays for Gloucester High. He’s total shit — boy can barely catch a ball — but I try to make it to all his games. Boring, mostly. Not that Exeter-Gloucester game last season, though. The way you threw… Never seen anything like it! Thought I was watching the next Roger Clemens.”
Something is beginning to bubble up inside me, fierce enough to disturb the deep waters of indifference I’ve been drowning in for the past year. Something that makes my pulse pick up speed, the breath catch in my throat. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything at all, it takes me a moment to name the emotion.
Rage.
Pure, undiluted. It ripples outward from my chest into my limbs. My fingers tighten around my glass, clenching so hard I’m worried it might shatter as I lift it to my lips and drain the rest of its contents in one large gulp.
“So what happened, huh?” The man is still peering at me, oblivious to the sudden anger stirring my blood. “You playing college ball, now?”
I cough as the alcohol slams into my stomach, eyes stinging. Setting the empty glass on the bar, I push back my stool and lurch to my feet. With a farewell nod to Harvey, I toss down a few bills and turn for the door.
“Hey! Where are you going, kid?”
I ignore the man’s slurred calls as I step outside, into the alley. Warm early evening air envelops me, thick with humidity. Squinting against the sudden brightness, I make my way down the docks toward town, trying to calm the storm inside me with each step. But the rage will not quiet — not as I climb the stairs to my crappy harborside apartment. Not as I flop down onto a creaky metal frame and listen to the sound of my neighbors screaming through the floorboards. Not as I stare at the ugly mess of my right wrist, angry red scars crisscrossing the flesh like the outlets of a river delta.
I press my eyes closed to shut out the sight. But the damage lingers even in the darkness. It swims beneath my skin, poison in my bloodstream. Some nights, I find myself wishing that poison was strong enough to put me out of my misery; to release me from the pathetic existence I eke out day after day after day.
I’m not suicidal.
I don’t seek out death with any sort of real intention.
But that’s not to say I wouldn’t welcome it with open arms.
What use is living on when all your dreams have died?
THREE
josephine
The buzz of the outer gate wakes me with a start.
Blinking, I groan as midday sunshine slants straight into my eyes through the window of my childhood bedroom. After a night of tossing and turning, I feel as if I slept only seconds before my rude awakening. Not nearly enough to stave off the jet-lag still infusing my limbs with lead. My bodily clock is six hours out of sync.
The gate alarm sounds again — an insistent buzz, demanding entry.
Who the hell is at my door? I can’t help wondering as I push back my duvet with a frustrated shove. No one even knows I’m back on this continent.
Yawning wide, I slide out of bed and make my way downstairs. The dust is so thick on the floors, I leave a trail of footprints all the way to the atrium, like bare feet in fresh snow. I’ll have to do something about the filthy state of this place once I’m thoroughly caffeinated.
When I reach the front door, I toggle on the exterior gate camera. An unfamiliar woman with gray hair pulled back in a neat bun is staring at me through the fisheye lens. I know she can’t see me, but her shrewd gaze makes my spine straighten regardless. I tug the bottom hem of my oversized sleep shirt a bit more firmly over my exposed butt-cheeks before I activate the intercom.
“Um. Yes?”
Her throat clears. “Miss Valentine, I presume?”
“Can I help you with something?”
“My name is Mrs. Agatha Weatherby Granger. I’ve been hired on by your parents as the new housekeeper at Cormorant House.”
I recoil.
Housekeeper?
Babysitter is more like it. I should’ve known Blair and Vincent wouldn’t respect my need for independence. I wonder how long after they realized I’d left Geneva they started sending inquiries to potential staff. Mere seconds, probably.
“I’ve been waiting here for some time now,” the woman informs me primly. “I was beginning to think the buzzer was broken.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear it. I was still asleep.”
“It’s past noon.” She sounds positively aghast at the thought.
“Right…” My lips press together. “I’m a bit jet-lagged. I didn’t get in until late last night.”