Where’s Liney?
I reach across the bed. Nothing. I sit up. The front door is closed. Moonlight falls over Liney standing near the stairs, something in her hand. My vigilance must’ve given my hearing more sensitivity in my sleep. She’s as spooked as I am when I ask her what she’s doing.
“Just checking things,” she says vaguely, then walks back to the couch. I don’t have it in me to insist on more details. Is that where Bridget’s hiding?
Liney turns back to the chesterfield, but I don’t hear her soft snores that used to help me sleep.
I lie back, my eyes traveling across patterns on the ceiling. Liney should’ve sulked. I should be thankful, but this isn’t like her. Liney’s marveling at the supplies was theatrical. Theater to appease my pride. I didn’t mean to become this to Liney. When I’m no longer under Mr.Pratterman’s contract, when I can breathe again without fearing his tricks, I’ll make it up to her. I won’t sleep again until the deed’s done.
I rise only when sunlight has filled the room. It’s breakfast time. I make Liney’s favorites. I heap a pile of sizzling bacon and perfectly fried eggs on a plate and the freshest fruit she’ll have eaten in half a year in a bowl.
Liney wakes up slowly. She takes her time getting to the table.
“It’s getting cold.” I keep my voice light. “I added maple syrup to the bacon, like—”
“Like Mother used to,” she finishes. Is it sleep that lowers her voice? “I’m not hungry.”
I don’t keep the hurt from my face. “But I made it for—”
“You promised you’d tell me anything I wanted when you got back.” Her voice is sharp as the knife I left beside her plate. This isn’t sleep. “I did what you asked. I was good.”
I change my tone to an order. “Eat. No use putting good food to waste.”
She sits down and takes a chunk out of the egg with her fork, swallowing it in a forceful gulp. Her eyes are focused, not drifting. I left her here in safety, yet she’s changed. The young woman before me seems capable of exactly what she threatened—discarding me, thus losing herself.
I grab my own portion, my bacon burnt because of my distraction, and join her at the table.
“When did they die?” she asks, stabbing her breakfast again.
I should’ve known. So many more pressing matters at hand, yet it’s our past she focuses on.
“I told you,” I say carefully. “It was a gas leak, last year.” That I started.
“Elle.”
I don’t look up. It might all come out. Tension keeps me silent. It must remain that way.
“Elle,” she repeats. When did she learn to speak like that? Like me. My yolk runs, spreading across my plate. “You can tell me. Trying to protect me from the truth hasn’t worked.”
As if it were that simple. One exposed lie would tip the first domino, and the rest would tumble, pushing our relationship into the deep. All I’ve worked for to keep her safe from me while in arms’ reach would shatter if she knew the truth. She’s been left in darkness. Is there more comfort there than in the searing light? Both hurt, but one absorbs while the other grants clarity.
“Look at me. You owe me that.”
I do. She’s never looked more like me. Eyes and jaw set in opposition. But her lip quivers, betraying her.
“It was that night, wasn’t it? When we escaped.”
I can’t hold it in anymore. Like I’ve been holding my breath for a year. I nod. I can’t give Liney our parents back, but I can give her the truth. Let it be one good mark to my name.
“What happened?” she asks, surprisingly calm.
I’ve got two paths, like my yolk’s path down the ridges of the egg. Delve deeper into the truth or retreat. I smash the middle of the egg with my fork, splattering yellow across my plate.
“I told Thomas we were leaving,” I lie. She got one truth out of me. That’s enough for now. “I believe he did something the night we left, out of revenge. But the cause of death was a gas leak.”
“How could you have talked to him when you were locked in your room?”
I fight not to grind my teeth. If I’d broached this topic months ago, perhaps she would’ve been easier to talk to. Now her curiosity has sharpened into inquiry. How do I explain without everything falling to pieces?
