Page 116 of The Vanished

“That’s not how it works. Mr. Lefferts said so.”

“So, you think your father should hand over everything, including his daughter, to some confidence trickster? I’m going to march down there right now and confront that man,” Rose said. “In front of everyone.” Her eyes glowed with manic excitement. “I will be written about in the papers, credited with solving a murder. I will be famous.”

“Wait,” Honor cried, and grabbed Rose by the arm as she turned towards the door. “Rose, you can’t.”

“Why not? The man pretending to be Jesse is a murderer.”

“You don’t know that,” Honor protested. “The police thought Heller died of natural causes. Anaphylactic shock.”

“They’re a bunch of stupid clodhoppers who don’t know their arse from their elbow.”

“And you do?” Honor exclaimed.

“The evidence is staring you in the face, you little fool,” Rose cried. “How much more proof do you need? That man down there gave the real Jesseph something he was deathly allergic to and waited for him to die. Then he stole his identity.”

“You can’t confront him in front of everyone.”

“So, what do you propose we do?” Rose demanded.

“I don’t know, but you can’t go down there. The scandal will kill Father, and Geneva will be humiliated in front of all our guests. We can speak to Jesse tomorrow. In private. It’s not as if he’s going anywhere. And maybe he had nothing to do with that man’s death. It could have been an accident.”

“You know, you always were a simpleton,” Rose snarled. “That’s why you will be forever overlooked. I have no intention of relying on some hick from America or begging my dried-up, bitter mother for every farthing. I mean to be independent.”

“By doing what?” Honor asked. She had never seen Rose so determined, and so obsessed.

“I’m going to be a writer, like Dorothy L. Sayers. I’m going to make a name for myself.”

“Rose, please, let’s talk about this,” Honor pleaded.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Now get out of my way.”

Rose was already marching towards the door, a look of cold, hard intent in her eyes.

“No,” Honor cried. She couldn’t allow Rose to do this. She would destroy everyone Honor loved, including Jesse, who, even if he wasn’t who he said he was, still seemed better than the man in the photo.

The evidence against him was concerning, but there was no proof that he’d murdered the real Jesseph Bellamy. Neither the ship’s surgeon nor the police were confident that his death had been the result of foul play. Perhaps Jesse, or whoever he was, had seen an opportunity and grabbed it. And he could still save them. She needed to speak to her father and Geneva. To tell them what Rose had discovered and decide on a course of action that would cause them the least amount of embarrassment and harm.

But Rose would not be deterred. Her hand was around the knob, and she yanked open the door with unnecessary force. Honor lurched towards her cousin and grabbed her arm.

“Rose, please,” she cried. “Think what this will do my father and Geneva. And your mother will be destitute.”

“I don’t care,” Rose snarled. “I despise her.”

“My father has always been good to you.”

“Yes, the awkward poor relation no one really likes but is forced to tolerate.”

“I won’t let you go down there,” Honor hissed.

“You don’t have a say in what happens.”

Rose tore free of Honor’s grasp with surprising strength. Before Honor could recover, Rose planted both hands against her cousin’s chest and shoved her with all her might. The force of it shocked Honor, and she stumbled back, arms flailing as she fought for balance, but Rose had pushed her far too hard.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the edges of the room blurring as her body pitched backward. She hit the floor with brutal force, the side of her head striking the corner of the trunk at the foot of Rose’s bed. A white-hot burst of pain exploded in her temple. Her stomach lurched. The ceiling spun in dizzying circles above her. Honor tried to draw breath, tried to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a strangled, rasping cough. She lifted a trembling hand, reaching towards Rose—pleading, signaling for help—but her arm felt heavy and unresponsive, her hand curled into a claw. Rose stood frozen, her wide eyes reflecting terror rather than satisfaction.

A warm metallic taste flooded Honor’s mouth. The blood was thick on her tongue and then trickled down her chin and slid down her neck. Her vision dimmed at the edges, as though a dark curtain were being slowly drawn across her sight. Thoughts flickered and died before she could catch hold of them. The room narrowed to a black tunnel, Rose’s face drifting in and out of focus.

And then everything slipped away into impenetrable darkness.