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I eat another forkful of noodles and consider it as I grab a glass of water. Talking out loud to Beatrix seems gimmicky somehow. But if I am alone in this house, it’s not like anyone would hear me.
I return to the dining room table and sip water before clearing my throat.
“Listen, Beatrix. I’m going to try and level with you here. We’re on the same side. I want to tell your story. I want justice for you. What happened to you, what Martin and the entire island did to you, what happened with your baby? It’s not fair. You deserved so much better. I’m sorry.”
I pause and wait for something catastrophic to happen, like for the chandelier above the dining room table to shatter or for the power to go out. Instead, nothing happens. The house is completely still and quiet.
My stomach gurgles. I eat another forkful of noodles and dip a spring roll in a side of satay sauce.
“Beatrix, I don’t want to hurt you. And for the record, I don’t think you want to hurt me, either.” I eat another spring roll and keep reading. Dinner is peaceful and calm.
After cleaning up my dishes, I head up to the attic to keep digging through the latest box of archival materials I discovered.
It’s getting harder to navigate the trek up to the attic with my growing belly, but I stop to sit on the edge of the entrance. I swing my legs over and get up, groping blindly until I find the lightbulb and twist it into the socket.
The room fills with light, and I go to the latest cardboard box I’ve been scrounging through.
I sort through a pile of brochures from the grand opening of Weatherby books and some fliers from plays from the seventies, which are great but not what I’m looking for. I move on to the next box, cutting it open with scissors I keep in my makeshift workstation in the corner. This box opens with a plume of dust. I cough into my sweater sleeve.
Immediately, I can tell that these materials are significantly older. I thumb my way through work orders for the original work crew who constructed Idylewylde Hall and note the initials “B.M.” in a corner.
I catalog these into separate plastic bags and make notes on my legal pad. I’m just about to discard this box, but I find one last piece of paper caught between the pieces of cardboard forming the bottom.
My breath catches in my throat when I recognize the handwriting.
I open the letter carefully. By now, I’m accustomed to the delicate nature of the paper. I move toward the lightbulb to get better light and begin to read:
Dearest Martin,
It feels foolish to ask how you could do this to me. You never loved me. You saw me as a plaything to keep you occupied until Adelaide arrived. Everyone told me so. But I refused to listen. It was as if I was drunk on love itself.
I cannot go on as a common whore, discarded and childless. Who am I when I’m no longer a mother? I must be with our son. I believe it was you who said it would be ‘best’ if I did not live on Weatherby Island, and I’ve come to agree with you. It’s simply too painful to continue.
I wish peace for Adelaide and your child. She is with child, don’t try and deny it. Did you think I wouldn’t know?
Perhaps Adelaide is the only truly innocent one out of all of us. But you?
Martin, you are so blithely unaware of the pain you cause other people. I hope you spend the rest of your days cowering in shame, distraught over what you did to me, and our baby. I hope you suffer. Our son did not deserve to live for only an hour. I did not deserve to be tricked by your promises and false niceties.
I hope you spend the rest of your days repenting for what you did to me. I hope your sons know the shame of their father.
—Beatrix
The letter is dated January 2, 1835—less than two days before Beatrix’s body was found. I realize it could be a suicide note, but then I pause. The handwriting is nothing like Beatrix's fine script. It's blockier. I know I've seen it before.
I get up and dig anxiously around the cardboard box until I find what I'm looking for a copy of Martin's deed to the island. I hold the letters side by side. The handwriting is a perfect match.
This confirms it.
Martin killed Beatrix.
I snap several photos with my phone and slip the envelope into a plastic bag. I’m shaking with excitement. But as the excitement wanes, a feeling of dread overtakes me.
The lightbulb twitches. At first, I thought it was a breeze, but then I realized the lightbulb was rotating slowly in the socket itself as if someone was unscrewing it. I hear the bulb creak. The bolt keeping it in place falls to the floor with a tiny clink.
I’m encased in darkness.
Even with the November chill, it’s freezing up here. I can feel my breath coming out in fast puffs; I’m certain I would be able to see it if I could see anything.
