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Lizbeth
Lucy. Lucy. Lucy.
Why is he calling my sister? She doesn’t care about me.
Frasier needs to go find my story.Thatwill bring Oliver home, if he’s so worried about that. Then they’ll both discover the truth about Lucy and they’ll finally love me for everything I ever had to put up with. They’ll never love Lucy. That will show her.
Even this last thing can’t be all about me. How fitting. My first memory isn’t even my own. It’s abouther.I remember sitting alone in the back of a strange classroom while Lucy was up front with our parents by the blackboard. The teacher was expressing concern about Lucy’s unruly behavior. Our father was rubbing Lucy’s back with a single finger, almost seductively, like he was spelling out letters on her skin. He’d always loved her best. But she was ignoring him and staring out the open windows, a look of practiced boredom on her pale, lovely face. I remember watching closely, highly suspicious of her calm demeanor (having fallen for it before with bruises as the consequence), and seeing that she was surreptitiously heel-kicking her chair leg withsuch force that her shoe fell off. She kept kicking until tiny drops of crimson appeared on her white sock.
When you grow up with a sister like Lucy, so beautiful and so troubled, you desperately try to find ways to shine by comparison. She was bad in school. So I excelled. She crawled out her bedroom window at night to meet boys. I never dated until Oliver’s father. My entire life became defined by Lucy, like when you can’t remember the real meaning of a word so you explain its opposite. But even though I succeeded at the things she failed at, includingbeing a mother,I never got the same attention. After Oliver was born, I think my own mother even wanted me to begratefulto Lucy, as if she nobly walked the path in front of me like a warrior and took all of life’s nasty arrows to her chest, just so I would know when to duck.
But there was nothing noble about Lucy. I have alwaysdespisedher, despised the way her problems seemed so much bigger than everyone else’s. I had problems. What about me?
Anyone who has led a life like Lucy’s would be dead by now.Sheshould have been the first to go. But, no. My beautiful blond sister inherited our father’s hearty genes, capable of withstanding almost anything. Me, I inherited our mother’s fatal curse for unhappiness, doomed to be attracted to things that never loved us back.
And now look what’s happening. Frasier is worried abouther.
I’mthe dead one.
I wish I could touch my things. That always brought me comfort. But I can’t touch anything now. What am I supposed to do? Just wait here?
There are two other ghosts here. I see them peering out the windows. One of them used to live here at the Dellawisp, but I never liked her. The other one is an old woman who used to live down the street from me in my old neighborhood on the island. Her, I liked. She usedto feed me corn bread on her porch. How odd that she’s here. She’s trying to get my attention to tell me something, but I’m ignoring her. I’m not here to make friends.
But it looks like I’m going to have to put up with both of them for a while, because I can’t seem to go anywhere except where Frasier is right now. It’s the only connection I feel. But I’m sure when my story is finally found and Oliver comes home, he’ll want me. He and Frasier were always so close, in their own little club, leaving me out. But once they know everything, they’ll regret not feeling sorrier for me.
And they’ll hate Lucy for every reason I never told them.
Chapter Three
That night, her second at the Dellawisp, Zoey lay in bed in the dark, unable to sleep again. She was scrolling through Instagram, her face illuminated by the light of her phone.
Her stepmother had posted an update. Tina was one of those people who lived on social media, and everything she posted was beautiful. She had a certain reputation for it. Her Instagram profile read:Tina Hennessey. Wife to Alrick. Mother to twins Casey and Douglas. Former Miss Oklahoma. Philanthropist. Amateur Decorator.
Suddenly, Zoey put her phone down and stared into the darkness. Great lumps that were her mother’s couch and chairs stared back at her. She thought she’d heard something outside. Silent seconds ticked by. Had she imagined it?
She got out of bed and walked across the studio. Pigeon rustled in her cage on the refrigerator, cooing sleepily like an exhausted nanny for Zoey to go back to sleep. Zoey ignored her and went to the balcony doors and opened them. Sea mist, briny and heavy, wascovering the garden, smothering her view. It was so thick she almost missed it, the brief flicker of light.
If she’d been a cat, her tail would have twitched.
She stepped forward and leaned over the railing. The shine of a flashlight beam was breaking through the mist, moving around the periphery of the garden. It disappeared underneath Zoey’s balcony, and Zoey held herself still. It reappeared on the other side, walking toward Lizbeth’s condo.
Someone was sneaking around, just one night after Lizbeth Lime died!
Her bare feet were moving down the metal staircase before she was even aware of it. Once she reached the ground, she skirted along the wall where the mailboxes and Frasier’s office door were located, following the light as it shone back and forth over Charlotte’s and Lizbeth’s doors. But then the flashlight clicked off and Zoey stopped. There was the sound of hurried footsteps coming near. She barely had time to take a few steps back and flatten herself into Frasier’s office doorway before someone walked right by her, so close Zoey could smell the cigarette smoke. She sensed the person stop just feet from her, and Zoey held her breath. Finally, the person ran away.
Zoey waited to hear the squeak of the garden gate or the closing of a patio door, some further indication of retreating movement. She heard neither.
Was the person waiting for her from some short distance?
She finally decided to make a run for her studio. She took the steps two at a time, then shut and locked the doors behind her. Pigeon rustled in her cage, still asleep.
“Theone timeyou don’t wake up,” she whispered to Pigeon.
She lifted the curtains and looked out.
The mist was moving like someone taking a deep breath and blowing it away. It cleared enough for her to see that Lucy Lime was smoking inside by her doors, the orange ember of her cigarette glowing then dimming like a pulse with each drag she took.
“Frasier! I think someone was trying to break into Lizbeth’s condo last night.”
