Take It to the Grave Part 6 of 6
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Zoe Carter
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Maisey
I blinked, startled by the rain in my face. What the...? I frowned, glancing around me. I was on the beach? How did I get here? I scrambled inside my head, looking for answers, only to come up against that black curtain. Oh, God, Lucy, what have you done?
Hey, I’ve been looking after you, Lucy responded. She flicked back the curtain, allowing me a glimpse of what we’d been up to.
Oh. My. God.
I heard a cry behind me, and I turned.
I watched as my sister ran toward me. The rain hit me with the force of a thousand tiny bullets. Just moments before, the humidity had been oppressive, suffocating, but I could feel the temperature dropping, could feel the rain getting cooler, colder, as it pelted down on my head, my shoulders. My head ached under the onslaught. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, but the rain streamed into my eyes.
Sarah ran toward me, her nightgown plastered to her skin, although some of it flapped behind her like the sodden, torn remains of a mermaid’s tail. As she neared, I could make out her features, twisted with fury, with hate. She was screaming something, and it took me a moment to decipher her words above the cacophony of the crashing surf and driving rain. I stood, my feet shoulder-width apart, as though I could brace myself against her rage.
“Where’s my baby?” Sarah screeched. “Where’s Elliot?”
Look at her. This is why I did it. She’ll talk with us now, Maisey.
You’ve been bad, Lucy. Her son, for crying out loud.
How many times have you tried to talk with her about this? She was never going to discuss this with you. We had to shake things up a bit.
Oh, you shook things up, all right. A baby, Lucy. I can’t—I don’t like this, not at all.
Which is why I had to do it. Relax, that nephew of ours is safe. But she needs to talk. You can’t take this anymore. Look at her. You’ve got her right where you want her. She’ll talk.
I could see Sarah was panicking, her eyes wide open in terror, and for a moment I couldn’t decide if I was happy or horrified that we’d caused her this genuine dread. Admittedly, a tiny little kernel was also offended that she really didn’t trust me with her son.
Hate to break it to you, but maybe she’s got just cause.
Shut up, Lucy.
Just saying.
“He’s okay, Sarah. He’s safe,” I told her, keeping my own voice calm. Lucy hovered, waiting to step in, but reticent to, as though she sensed this was something I had to handle on my own. I was horrified at what she’d done, but I realized she’d had the best of intentions, and was glad she was there as back up. I knew that if things got ugly, Lucy would be there for me. I bit my lip, meeting my sister’s furious gaze squarely. “Your son is safe.”
Her hands clawed over, as though she wanted to shred me. “Where is he? Tell me where he is right now,” Sarah hollered, low and guttural, and I thought maybe she was crying. Hard to tell, with the rain. Her hands rose to tug at the tangled mass of hair on her head, and she shook it, her expression stunned and furious.
“How could you take him, Maisey? Are you crazy? How could you do that? You’re sick, Maisey, you know that? You are sick in the head,” my sister spat, digging her perfectly manicured forefinger into her own temple to illustrate the point, her blue eyes dark with anger against her pale face. I didn’t know how to respond to that one. Maybe I was crazy. Just a little. Or maybe I was the only element of sanity in this chaotic tempest. It’s scary when you can’t figure out which.
It’s okay, Maisey. We’re not crazy.
Lucy’s support was like a soft tranquilizer, welcome and calming. All I knew was that, in the face of my sister’s panic, I felt like I was floating on a sea of serenity, with extreme patience steering my course.
Lucy gave me a thumbs-up. Atta girl.
“Is this about leaving Warwick? Do you honestly think this is the way to do it?” Sarah shook her head.
My eyes rounded. “Actually, this has nothing to do with Warwick—although I really do think you and Elliot would be safer away from him.”
“Safer? With you?” Sarah’s face twisted with scorn. “What a joke. You sent the emails. You crazy, sick bitch!” Her voice bellowed on the last word, raw and ugly. “You scared the shit out of me. You intentionally threatened me, and then acted all coy and innocent to my face. And now you bring Elliot out in this?” She indicated the storm whipping around us. “I am so angry with you right now.”
I held up my hands, trying to soothe her, trying to calm her down. She should have a Lucy. It would do her wonders.
“I had to, Sarah. I had to send you those emails. I have tried to talk to you for ages, and every single time you’ve given me the brush-off. You’ve shut me down. We need to talk.”
Oh, she’s angry. Good job, Maisey.
Don’t gloat. I still have to clean up your mess, damn it.
I was stunned at what Lucy had done. Really, though, it was genius. I finally had my sister in front of me, no more invisible walls, no more polite smiles or vacant stares. This was as real as it was ever going to be with Sarah, and sending those emails was the only way to make it happen. It was unfortunate, but at least it had worked where nothing else had.
“Relax, Sarah. Just—”
“Don’t kidnap my son and then tell me to relax,” Sarah screamed. I hesitated, then nodded. Fair point. But this wasn’t getting us anywhere, and wouldn’t give me what I wanted, what Lucy and I had worked so hard to achieve. What we needed.
“Calm down,” I snapped, using the voice I’d cultivated in the emergency room on a Saturday night when dealing with patients coming down violently from a high, and Sarah flinched. Good. I had her attention. I lowered my voice to the calm tones I used with kids and other anxious patients.
“Look, Sarah, Elliot’s safe—Mom has him, and you can have him back just as soon as you and I have had a chat, and you’ve told me the truth.”
“Oh. My. God,” Sarah yelled, gesturing wildly. “Are you serious? How. Dare. You.”
Those words were like a match to tinder, and suddenly a gale of violent fury, long pent up and ready to blow, ripped through me, knocking me to the side as Lucy stepped in. “How dare I? Are you kidding me? I know, Sarah. I know there is more to Frankie’s death than you’ve ever told me. After spending time with you, with Mom, I think you’re hiding something from me. What is it that you don’t want me to know, Sarah?”
I glared at her stricken face, and saw a glimmer of the child she used to be, the haunting vulnerability she never let me see, and something inside me crumbled at her pain, her fear, her dismay.
Lucy shook her head. No. We weren’t going to go all soft and mushy. We need answers. All those years she’s let you think the worst. All those years she let you believe you were scum, that you weren’t worthy of happiness, of peace. We have to make her pay—
For once, I overrode Lucy, unable to remain so cold and distant in the face of my sister’s pain.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” I said softly, stepping closer. “I’m sorry it’s come to this. I—I didn’t know what else to do, how I could get you to talk to me.” I brushed at the droplets on my forehead, then wondered why I bothered. The rain was teeming down. “I—I need to know, Sarah. I swear, Elliot is safe, and I promise I will take you to him, and you can hold your son...” I spoke earnestly, and tried to convey as much sincerity as I could. “I just need you to be honest with me. Did you—” I swallowed, finding it hard to finally put it into words. “Did you kill Frankie?”
I had spent my whole life trying to make up for what I thought I’d done. Just the thought that I could have killed Frankie filled me with self-loathing. The fact that she could do this to me, make me believe that I had killed my brother, make me live with the knowledge that I’d committed such a heinous act—God, no wonder Lucy and I were such good friends.
Hurt seared through me, lancing my very core at the realization that my sister could deceive me, could so heartlessly wreck my life, my soul. And piggybacking on that hurt was a whole world of rage, of fury, of disgust and contempt. How could she do that to me? How could she make me responsible for what I now believed in my heart she’d done? Didn’t she know how that affected me? How it had affected Lucy? I’d thought I’d killed a baby. How fucked up is that? How does one claw back the sanity after doing something like that? That one act had cost us Mom, sent her to prison for a crime she’d never committed but was too drunk and pained to realize. I had wallowed in the guilt. The shame. God, the shame. That regret, that remorse, had eaten away at me like a cancer, slowly consuming me.
Sarah had taken advantage of me. Of Mom. To hide what she had done. And then she’d lied to me. I wrapped my arms around my middle, hugging myself against the dark coldness surrounding us. I’d always trusted Sarah. I’d relied on her to keep me safe. I’d had faith in her. God, I was so gullible.
Nobody’s perfect.
“Did you? Kill Frankie?” I repeated.
Sarah shook her head, and backed away, her head turning from side to side as she searched the beach. “No! Now, where is my son?”
“Sarah, please...” I clasped my hands in front of me, prayer-like. Lucy rolled her eyes at the suppliant gesture.
You’re too soft, Lucy muttered. She ruined you.
But she’s my sister.
And yet, she had locked you in a prison of guilt for all these years, Lucy sneered.
“Please, tell me the truth—did you kill Frankie?” Tears slid down my face, hot in comparison to the now-chilled rain. I waited for her response, anticipating it. Dreading it.
“No,” Sarah wailed, and she started to pace in front of me, down toward the water, then back up, scanning the beach.
Doubt coursed through me. Oh, my God. What if Lucy and I were wrong? What if—oh, fuck—what if I am responsible for Frankie’s death? Sarah wouldn’t lie to me...would she?
You are giving me whiplash, with all this “did I, did she?” Lucy’s voice was annoyed. You’re a nurse. Think about it. Do you honestly think you left Frankie in the pool long enough for him to drown?
This is driving me nuts.
It’s driving you nuts? What about me?
She says she didn’t.
I call bullshit. This is your only chance, Maisey, Lucy warned.
“Sarah,” I snapped, forcing her attention back to me, meeting her wild-eyed stare. Her eyes were far from vacant. It was a roiling mess in there—anger, fear, panic, hatred...shame. “I know, Sarah,” I said coldly. “I know about your affair with Peter.” Sarah halted, shocked, as though I’d slapped her.
I pressed my lips together as pain bit at me. Caleb had left, because of that. Because of her. If he’d stayed, things could have been so different. We could have grown closer. That affair had cost me so much. It had cost me any chance of happiness with Caleb, and I hated her for it, nearly as much as I hated her for the guilt she’d let me carry around, crippling me.
“I know you killed Frankie so that you could get to Peter. I don’t know if you actually planned for Mom to go to prison, or if you thought that once she was out of the way you’d be able to step into their bed...” Oh, God, I think I’m about to puke.
Keep at it, Maisey. She has to own up to this, Lucy ordered.
I swallowed the bile, pushing past the revulsion. “But I do know that Frankie couldn’t have drowned in the time I’d left him in the pool, Sarah. I brought him to you, and you told me to go back downstairs.”
I took in a deep, shuddering breath that turned into a sob, grabbing on to the control that threatened to desert me as the storm raged around us. “You killed him, didn’t you, Sarah? You killed Frankie. Because you wanted to be with Peter, because you loved our mother’s husband.” I covered my mouth with my hands, but it was too late; I’d said those painful, horrific, dreadful words. Finally.
Sarah staggered back for a moment, her mouth open, stunned. Then she made this odd, keening kind of wail, something so unnatural, so disturbing, it chilled the blood in my veins.
She raised her hand, and it was shaking so much, like the pale flutter of a curtain caught by a gale. “I didn’t kill the baby because I loved Peter,” she rasped, and I watched as disgust chased away her shock. “I killed the baby because I hated Peter.”
