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I’d always wondered if Harlan insisted on the hideous green wallpaper during the initial revamp because the walls became a green screen and he wanted to torment me with supernatural phenomena somehow, but I’d never been more grateful for it when I first hatched my plan to make Lucy stick around.
I doctored old videos of Ava growing up and projected them into Lucy’s room some nights; I used an old projector to superimpose lights on the orchard one night, I even made a bold move and projected during our meditation session when Craig and Demi left the room.
With every trick I employed that didn’t scare Lucy away, I knew she was becoming invested in solving the mysteries of Arcania. Offering her a chance to research the history was my finishing touch because I knew she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to learn more about Arcania and Ava’s links to it.
A genius move, one I hope will lead to us spending a lot of time together and solidifying our tenuous bond. Ava may have betrayed me by faking her death and running away. I won’t let Lucy disappoint me.
“I did it because as long as Lucy is curious about her mom and how much Arcania meant to Ava, she will stay.”
He’s appalled, his face twisted in disgust. “You honestly think that by duping your granddaughter into thinking this house has magical qualities she’ll stick around?”
I tilt my chin up and stare him down. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
When he continues to glare at me with disgust, I say, “Don’t pretend like you’re innocent. If you knew about the spiked punch, is that why you gave me some the night Ava was conceived?”
He reddens. “I didn’t know until years later what the Medvilles were doing. I’m not a monster who drugs unsuspecting people.”
Unlike me, he wants to say. I see the condemnation in his glare, but before I can say anything else, the first slap of icy water submerges my ankle. I look down, not computing why the ocean is lapping at my feet.
When the reality sinks in, I scream.
Chapter43
Lucy
I’m sitting in the foyer when Spencer finds me.
I didn’t want to be anywhere near that tunnel and that creepy underground chamber while he puts his plan into action.
When he first told me about trapping Cora in the chamber to get her to confess to murdering my mother, I thought he was as crazy as my grandmother. What would a confession achieve? Even if she admitted the truth, would I have the emotional fortitude to press charges? To prosecute one of the few family members I have? And where’s the proof unless Spencer records their conversation? A recording that could be questioned in court because the confession was coerced under duress.
But Spencer was adamant about learning the truth and after much deliberation, I gave in. Not because I believe Cora is guilty of murdering my mom, but if I learn the truth and she’s innocent, I may foster a relationship with her. It will take time, because I don’t like how she’s lied to me from the start, pretending she didn’t know me, but I’m willing to try if she is.
Mom had her reasons for fleeing but now she’s gone, I want to get to know Cora and make up my mind. Foolhardy? Maybe, but there’s something about this house I’m drawn to and I want to know more about my extended family, no matter how dark the secrets are .
I hate the idea of Cora being trapped in that tunnel and chamber. It had given me the creeps, so I don’t think it will take long for her to confess, especially if she shares my fear of the ocean, as Spencer said.
The thought of being trapped in that chamber with the tide coming in… I shudder and rub my arms.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, resting his hand on my shoulder briefly before sitting alongside me on the purple velvet chaise lounge.
I nod. “How’s it going down there?”
He grimaces and swipes a hand over his face. “It’s not my finest moment, trapping her like that, but it’s the only way to get the truth out of her.”
“Has she said anything?”
He hesitates, dejection radiating off him. “You won’t like what I’m about to tell you but I’m so sick of this place and its secrets.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I reach out to him and lay a comforting hand on his forearm. “Tell me.”
He clears his throat and blows out a breath before speaking. “Cora has been drugging you.”
Shock makes my jaw drop. “What?”
“Micro-doses of hallucinogens, in the water bottles in your room and in your daily smoothies, then using digital technology to project videos of your mother as a teen in some warped way to make you think this house has supernatural links to her in the hope you’ll stay to discover more.” He shakes his head. “It’s sick, her obsession with this place.”
So that explains those visions of my mom on the walls, and the sound of her voice, but what about the rest? The warmth of the doorknob and the key fob in my hand, the oppressiveness of the walls closing in on me, the startling awake in the middle of the night because of a presence?
