Page 81 of Wildwood

“Joan, what is it?”

She’s not looking at me, but her eyes move back and forth rapidly, like she’s trying furiously to remember something very important.

“It wasn’t even their land.”

I place a hand on hers.

“We don’t know for certain—” I try futilely.

“No, you don’t understand,” Joan grips my hand now, so tight I can feel my bones crack. “Edward had said that one night to Madeline.”

“Who is Edward?” I can’t keep up with the conversation, with the names, the dates, the facts that keep coming dislodged and tangling together in some new macabre web.

“Madeline’s first husband. Julian and I had just gotten married. I wandered over to ask Madeline for something and she and Edward were in the middle of an argument. He was saying ‘it wasn’t even their land’ and Madeline, she just shut him down as soon as she saw me. I can’t believe I never connected that before . . .”

“Okay,” I say, brain working furiously. “So he knew . . .”

“And he’s dead,” says Joan, face as white as snow.

“He’s dead?” I think of the shining white tombstone I’d seen and wondered about. Edward Brook. He obviously took Madeline’s last name, just as John, her current husband, said he himself did. The headstone was dated just six years ago.

“He died and they said it was an accident. He fell while he and Julian were working on the roof of one of the barns.”

“Oh god.”

My stomach is starting to swim, and I shake my head forcefully, trying to convince myself as well as Joan.

“What if Ezra had sent other notes to the Brooks? What if Edward found them? Wouldn’t let it go?” Joan asks, her eyes darting around wildly.

“No. I mean, that’s a huge leap. Murdering her husband? Just to keep this a secret? It’s too risky.”

“Don’t you get it? Everything they have is tied to the land. It’s their legacy, it’s their home, it’s their empire!” Joan is hysterical now, the words coming out fast and furious. “The company is going public soon. A scandal like this would destroy them!”

“Calm down, Joan, we need to stay calm and think.” I’ve wrenched my hands free and I’m gripping her face now, imploring her to look at me. “We need to think.”

Joan gulps and nods, then continues. “Julian had me start seeing a psychologist. To help me deal with the miscarriages. What if—”

“What if what?” But I think I already know.

“What if he’s trying to build a case. To make me look unstable . . .” Joan trails off, knowing she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. We both know what she means. Unstable enough to take her own life.

“That’s not possible, right?” She’s looking at me, wildly again, rambling. “I mean, people investigate these things. And my doctor thinks I’m doing fine. The doctors would have to be in collusion, right?”

“Yes, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say, with exaggerated calm that takes great effort. “That’s a big stretch. He wouldn’t. They wouldn’t.” But I know what we are both thinking. John Brook. Managing director of Green Mountain Medical. Kyle, his new recruit, head of psychiatry, carefully brought into the Brook fold.

I stare at the floor, trying to think of reasons why Joan is overreacting, why what she’s suggesting is irrational. I need it to be irrational for more than one reason. I don’t want anything to happen to Joan. But also, more selfishly, if Joan is in danger, then so am I.

* * *

Joan has gone home. I watched her walk up Cold Brook Drive, hunched over into the pelting rain. Julian was at the mill today, but he’ll be back soon. I told Joan to text me if anything seems off. When I see her disappear inside her modern fortress, I close my door and set the alarm. Next, I venture out into the toolshed, with an old coffee container full of nails and my trusty hammer. There’s some old two-by-fours in the toolshed. I grab a couple, awkwardly holding them above my belly. I hammer three of them across the door that leads to the basement. If Joan knows about this passage, I have to assume others do too. The boards won’t keep a strong man out, but they’ll take some work to dislodge and hopefully create some noise if anyone tries to remove them. Next, I head into the basement. There’s so much junk down here, I have a lot to work with. I pile the shelves with anything I can find. Then I grab plates and glasses from the china cabinet and add these, too, placing them precariously along the edges of the shelves. I choose anything that will make noise if it clatters to the ground. Then, I drag boxes and large plastic storage bins to form a barricade around the shelf. None of this will keep a person out, but it will make it harder for them to maneuver quietly. I laugh, in a crazed sort of way, when I realize I am booby-trapping my basement.

* * *

Finally satisfied, I go back to the main floor. I triple-check the alarm system, and then I go up and automatically walk into The Forest of the Dead. As I lie in bed, I stare at the fragile pages again. The pages that have given us the answer. Or at least, part of the answer.

I realize that I had been holding on to hope that the Brooks from long ago made a mistake. That they were afraid, they were hallucinating, they were mentally ill, they truly believed Lydia was a witch. Any of the countless theories there are for how the Salem witch trials came to pass. Any but one. That it was deliberate. That it was diabolical. That it was driven by motive.

And it’s the oldest motive in the book. Land. And by the looks of this map, it seems like it wasn’t just the Brooks who were after someone else’s land, it looks like the Bishops might have been too. And this fact makes me want to vomit.