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Daisy Darker’s family were as dark as dark can be.
When one of them died, all of them lied, and pretended not to see.
Daisy Darker’s nana was the oldest but least wise.
The woman’s will made them all feel ill, which was why she had to die.
Daisy Darker’s father lived life dancing to his own tune.
His self-centered ways, and the pianos he played, danced him to his doom.
Daisy Darker’s mother was an actress with the coldest heart.
She didn’t love all her children, and deserved to lose her part.
Daisy Darker’s sister Rose was the eldest of the three.
She was clever and quiet and beautiful, but destined to die lonely.
Daisy Darker’s sister Lily was the vainest of the lot.
She was a selfish, spoiled, entitled witch, one who deserved to get shot.
Daisy Darker’s niece was a precocious little child.
Like all abandoned ducklings, she would not fare well in the wild.
Daisy Darker’s secret story was one someone sadly had to tell.
But her broken heart was just the start of what will be her last farewell.
Daisy Darker’s family wasted far too many years lying.
They spent their final hours together learning lessons before dying.
The part about Trixie has been crossed out.
“Oh my god,” Lily whispers, staring at the chalk words and covering her nose and mouth with her hands, as though praying to a God I know she does not believe in. “It’s coming true,” she says quietly, then turns to look at us all. “It’s. Coming. True.”
“What’s coming true?” my mother asks.
Lily is shaking now. She points up at the poem, searches the faces of our family for any sign of understanding, and finds none. But I know exactly what she means, even if I’m too scared to say itout loud. There is a low rumble of thunder in the distance outside. I hadn’t noticed how hard it was raining until now; the storm is getting closer, and the house feels bitterly cold. Lily’s words tumble too quickly out of her mouth for the rest of the family to keep up.
“Nana’s poem on the wall. Can you not read it? Am I not making sense? It’s a poem aboutus.Dying. One by one. Nana isdead,Dad isdead,and now Trixie is—”
“Missing. She’s just missing. We’ll find her,” says Rose.
“It’s just one of Nana’s silly poems,” says my mother.
“How do you know that she wrote it? I don’t think it looks like her handwriting. Anyone could have snuck down here in the night and written a poem on the wall,” Conor says unhelpfully, as though thinking out loud. I remember the chalk I saw on his jeans earlier, and the way he quickly dusted it off. He’s been quiet for a long time, and everyone turns to stare at him.
“You’re right,” says Lily. “Yourname isn’t up there. Maybeyouwrote it.”
“Maybe we should stop wasting time and look for Trixie,” I say.
Before anyone can answer, there is another rumble of thunder, but this one is so much louder than the last. Nancy sways a little and grabs the side of the kitchen table to steady herself.
“Are you okay?” Rose asks.
