A wave of nausea has me thinking I’ll throw up, but I don’t. How could we not know? How could that go on for a full year and we didn’t fucking know?
I get to the part about us. About myself.
He’s the most like our father and sometimes that side of him scares me.
Carlton Bishop’s taunt comes back to me. Something about history repeating itself. Did he mean the suicides? Or did he mean something else? I think about my own daughter.
Jesus.
I feel sick.
How can a father do that to his own child? How twisted must you be to do that to your own flesh and blood?
With a roar I smash the bottle against his marker on the mausoleum wall. I’m standing too close though and feel a cut on my forehead from a splintering of glass that ricochets off. I don’t care. I welcome the pain. But it’s not enough. So I draw my fist back and smash it against the stone protecting the space where his bones rest. Where the pieces recovered after the accident Zeke arranged lie too close to my little sister even in death. I beat my fist against it again and again and think about how I’ll remove his corpse. Burn what’s left of it. Let the ashes scatter where they may. I will get him away from her. Away for my baby sister. Even if it’s too late to change anything.
“Brother.”
I turn to find Zeke standing a few feet from me. My hand throbs at my side. I look back to the blood and whiskey-stained stone and crash my fist against it again. I hear my own scream. It’s loud enough to wake the dead.
“Jericho!” Zeke’s hand closes over my fist when I draw it back. We stand staring at each other for a long minute.
“You knew?”
He studies me, eyes narrowing once his gaze shifts to my other hand clutching Zoë’s crumpled letter.
“Did you fucking know?” I ask, drawing his attention back to my face. His has lost some of its color.
He nods a single, solemn nod. “I found the letter exactly as she meant for me to.” He drops his arm. I draw mine back and punch him.
“You fucking asshole! You knew all along. You fucking knew what he did. Why she did it. Why she fucking died.”
He touches his jaw. He’ll have a bruise, but he barely stumbled.
“Did you know before she died?”
“Fuck no.”
“She tried to tell you.” I wave the letter in front of his face. “Where the fuck were you when she tried to fucking tell you?”
“Where the fuck were you?” he yells back, the step he takes toward me angry. “Huh? Where the fuck were you, brother? Oh yeah. Gone most of the fucking time leaving us here with that monster.”
I stumble back at his accusation. Although he’s right. Every single word fits. I was gone. When things got bad, I left.
“What? No answer for that, big brother?”
I look down at my bleeding fist. It’s raw and fucking throbbing. But I need more. I deserve more. And so, I turn back to that bastard’s name and beat the stone wall until I can’t anymore. Until Zeke finally manages to pull me from it. To take me down to the ground. Into the dirt and mud, my baby sister’s letter, her final, terrible words ruined in the dirt.
“How could I not know?” I ask, my voice breaking. “How could I not fucking know? Not see.” I lean against the nearest gravestone.
“I was her twin. If anyone should have known, it was me. Hell. She tried to tell me. I remember when she tried. She’d gotten so skinny, remember? Didn’t sleep anymore. Didn’t eat. Didn’t do much but go through the motions.”
I push my hand into my hair and look up at Zoë’s name, notice the flowers that are dying. Time for new ones. I turn to my brother.
“Mom?”
He nods once.
“How long?”
“I told her before I left for Austria. Told her why I was going. What I was going to do.”
I don’t want to know how she took it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It doesn’t matter, Jericho. Not anymore.” He sounds tired suddenly. Exhausted. And that darkness I’ve glimpsed a handful of times, that shadow, it settles over his features. Aging him before my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her. For you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to kill that bastard myself. Not leave it to you.”
“I would soak my hands in his blood over and over again if I could. You have nothing to apologize for.”
We sit in silence for a long time. I study my hand.
“When did you find the letter?” Zeke asks.
I turn to him. “I didn’t. Isabelle did.”
“Isabelle?”
I nod once, thinking of her in my bed. God. Could this night get any worse? Could it go farther off the rails?
“Let’s go back to the house. Get some sleep.”
“I’ll be there soon. Go ahead.”
“Jericho, there’s nothing you can do out here. Breaking your hand isn’t going to change anything.”
“I just need a little time.” I open the letter again, clean off the mud and read. After a while, Zeke leaves me alone. I’m not done punishing myself. Not yet.
28
Isabelle
When I wake up it’s mid-morning and someone is pulling the curtains back. I half-expect Leontine or Catherine but it’s a man. For a moment I think it’s Jericho. He’s dressed in a dark sweater and black jeans which is unusual for him. Then he turns, and I realize it’s not him. It’s Ezekiel.
I sit up, my mouth feeling dry. I’m still wearing the sweater I’d worn yesterday but I can see my leggings on the floor where Jericho must have dropped them after undressing me.
“Good morning,” Zeke says. “I’m sorry to come in here and wake you.”
I look up at him trying to work through the memory of last night, of what Jericho told me. What he did to me.
I push the blanket off and cross the room to the dresser, not caring that I’m only wearing underwear and the sweater. It’s oversized so it hopefully covers enough of me, but I just don’t care. I pull the drawer open where he got that damn syringe and rifle through it, finding two more. I grab them, stalk into the bathroom and empty the barrels into the toilet before throwing them away. When I turn, I see my reflection in the mirror. See how haggard I look. I wash my face, rinse my mouth, and step into the doorway to ask Ezekiel what he wants. What message Jericho sent him to deliver. I fold my arms across my chest.
“What do you want?”
“You shouldn’t have given it to him,” he says. His arms are crossed over his chest too.
I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”
“The letter, Isabelle. It’s not how he should have found out.”
I look on the floor to my leggings. Zoë’s letter. It must have fallen out of my pocket when he took them off to tuck me into the bed. As if my comfort matters to him.
But my forehead furrows when I think about what was in that letter. I look up at Zeke.
“It was Zoë’s suicide note.”
He nods although it’s not a question. “How did you find it?”
“Jericho was in that room down in the cellar a few nights ago. He was looking for something and when he didn’t find it, he threw a box at the wall. He knocked the picture askew. I saw the beads of the rosary and went down to investigate later when I was alone.”