The Only One Left by Riley Sager

TWENTY

The third floor of Hope’s End surprises me. Although everything looks the same, save for the top of the Grand Stairs in the center, it feels completely different. Up here, the mansion’s tilt is more pronounced. Something seen and not merely felt. Staring down the hallway from the top of the service stairs is akin to being in the hold of a listing ship.

No wonder Carter chooses to stay in the cottage. I have no idea how Jessie and Archie can live up here. I start off down the hall, slightly woozy. The floorboards rasp beneath my feet while from above comes the sound of driving rain hitting the roof. Up ahead, an open door spills out light and music.

Jessie’s room, I presume.

I doubt Archie listens to the Talking Heads.

I’m proven correct when I peek inside and see her sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a stack of Polaroids.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you holding up?”

A pointless question. It’s obvious to anyone with a set of eyes that Jessie’s not doing well at all. She looks up from the photos, revealing streaks in her makeup left by recent tears.

“Shitty,” she says.

I step into the room, struck by how different it is from mine. While almost identical in shape and size. Jessie has truly made it her own. The walls are covered with posters of bands, some I’m familiar with, most I’ve never heard of. A silk scarf has been thrown over one of the lampshades, giving the room a muted red glow that reminds me of Lenora’s call button. Near the door, the ceiling is standard height. On the other side of the room, it slants dramatically to the dormer windows, one of which is open, letting in the sound of pouring rain—a fitting companion to Jessie’s tears.

“I can’t believe Mary’s gone,” she says, holding up one of the Polaroids.

I join her on the floor and take the photo from her hand. It shows her and Mary on the terrace, with puffy clouds hanging in the sky behind them and the wind tossing their hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen Mary—what was mostly buried under sand at the base of the cliff doesn’t count—and I’m struck by how young she was. Still in her twenties, from the looks of it. And so familiar to me it squeezes my heart. Bright smile, sensible haircut, gold studs in her ears because anything more elaborate would get in the way of the job. A caregiver through and through. I can see why everyone seemed to like her. I think I would have liked her, too.

“I knew she couldn’t have left like that,” Jessie says. “Not without saying goodbye or telling me where she was going.”

“Why did you think she left in the first place?”

“Because that’s what Mrs. Baker told us.”

“Why did she think that?”

“I guess because that’s what it looked like,” Jessie says. “I should have known not to believe it. Leaving like that wasn’t Mary’s style. Neither is suicide. I don’t care what that detective says. Mary didn’t kill herself.”

“Sometimes people do things you don’t expect,” I say, thinking about my mother and the way she ended things. No goodbye. No note. No closure. I miss her, but I’m also furious at her for leaving me and my father alone to pick up the pieces. Something, it turns out, we couldn’t do. “Maybe there was something wrong that no one knew about.”

“Like what?”

Like being tormented by the ghost of Virginia Hope, for starters. But I don’t want to go there just yet. It’s best to ease into the topic. If such a thing is possible.

“How did Mary act the last time you saw her?”

Jessie sniffs and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, turning the mascara streaking her face into a sideways smear. “You sound just like that detective.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That Mary seemed fine.” Jessie picks up another Polaroid and stares at it while adding a small, quiet, “Even though it wasn’t entirely true.”

“Something seemed wrong?”

She nods, drops the Polaroid onto the floor, picks up another one, and shows it to me. It’s Mary in the second-floor hallway, the white of her uniform—possibly the same one I’m now wearing—a stark contrast to her dark surroundings.

“Why didn’t you tell the detective?”

“I don’t know,” Jessie says with a shrug. “I guess I was trying to protect Mary.”

An urge I understand well. Even after her death, I felt the need to protect my mother. It’s why, in the beginning, I floated the idea that she had no idea how many pills she was taking. That her overdose was accidental, even though everyone knew it wasn’t. I eventually came to realize that instead of protecting her, I was clinging to the idea that she wouldn’t leave my father and me the way she did. Not by choice.

“Right now, the best way to help Mary is to find out exactly what happened.”

“She fell,” Jessie says. “That’s the only explanation.”

I’ve heard that tone before from my father. Uncertain confidence.

What they’re saying’s not true, Kit-Kat.

“Maybe not. Especially if Mary was acting weird or nervous,” I say, purposefully using the two words Lenora had crammed into one.

Jessie stares past me to the wall, where a poster of the Eurythmics gazes back at her. “Why are you so interested in what happened? You didn’t even know Mary.”

No, I didn’t. But I am the one who found her. I’m the one who looked down, saw her dead body, and screamed so loud the sound echoed off the back of the house. I’m the one who now fears I’ll be seeing her sand-covered body in my nightmares later tonight.

But that’s not my only worry. The main one—the concern that might keep me from sleeping at all—is that what happened to Mary could happen to me, a notion that’s both utterly paranoid and completely rational. We have the same job, the same bedroom, even the same uniform. If something about this job led to Mary’s death, I’d really like to avoid a similar fate.

“Did Mary ever mention hearing strange noises at night? Coming from Lenora’s room? Or seeing things?”

“No,” Jessie says. “Have you?”

I don’t answer, which is an answer in itself. Sometimes not saying no means yes.

“The other night, you told me Mary was scared of this place.”

“I was joking,” Jessie says.

“So you said.” I pause again. “But I think there might have been some truth to it.”

Although Jessie begins to respond with a shake of her head, it soon changes direction, swerving upward into a tentative nod. She muddies things further by saying, “Maybe. I don’t know anymore.”

“Did Mary ever say outright she was scared?”

“Yeah, but it was, like, obviously as a joke. Both of us joked about it all the time. Stupid shit like, ‘I just saw Virginia in the hallway. She says hello.’ Dumb things like that to lighten the mood. God knows, this place needs it. But then Mary stopped playing along.”

I lean in, curious. “When was this?”

“A few weeks ago. I’d make a joke about Virginia or Winston Hope and Mary would shake her head and be like, ‘Don’t say stuff like that.’ She became real serious about everything. Like she was actually scared.”

“Of Virginia?” I say, thinking of the things Lenora had typed. That Virginia was in her room. That Mary was afraid of her.

“Maybe?” Jessie returns her attention to the Polaroids on the floor. They’re all faceup, a dozen images of Mary that Jessie slides around like a tarot card reader. “I know I’m making it sound like Mary was some kind of weirdo scaredy-cat. She wasn’t. I don’t think she believed in ghosts. But . . .”

“But what?” I say, pressing.

“Something seemed to spook her,” Jessie says. “I don’t know what. Maybe she really did see the ghost of Virginia Hope. Or maybe she just didn’t want to joke about it anymore. Probably because she’d been spending a lot of time with Lenora.”

“That’s part of the job,” I say. “Constant care.”

“But I’m talking, like, a lot of time. Maybe she thought it was disrespectful or something.”

“Did Mary ever mention a guy named Ricardo Mayhew?”

Jessie scrunches her face. “Who?”

“He used to work here,” I say. “Carter told me about him.”

“Never heard of the guy,” Jessie says. “If Mary knew who he was, she never told me. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t. She told me everything else about this place. She probably knew more about the Hope family murders than anyone except Lenora.”

One particular Polaroid in the pile catches my attention. Taken in Lenora’s room, it shows Lenora and Mary at the desk. Lenora’s in her wheelchair, hunched over the typewriter. Mary’s behind her, leaning in close. A sight so familiar it stings.

I pick it up and show it to Jessie. “When was this taken?”

“A couple weeks ago.” Jessie plucks the photo from my fingers and arranges it in a pile with the others. “They were always typing.”

“Do you know what?”

“Mary never told me,” Jessie says as she stands and crosses the room to her dresser, where she drops the Polaroids into the top drawer. “At first, I thought it was some kind of physical therapy. You know, working on Lenora’s motor skills. But they were there all the time. Sometimes even after Lenora was supposed to have been put to bed.”

She moves to a tape recorder sitting atop the dresser next to a hardcover copy of Lace with a library sticker on its spine. She pops a cassette from the recorder and hands it to me. “This is for Lenora. Part one of the new book. Maybe it’ll take her mind off everything.”

“Thanks.” I pocket the cassette and head to the door. Before leaving, I turn back to Jessie and say, “Did anyone else know about the typing?”

“I don’t think so,” Jessie says. “I only knew because I walked in on them one night. I thought it would be a cool picture, so I stood in the doorway and took it before they realized I was there. Mary kind of freaked out about it. She made me swear not to tell anyone. I probably shouldn’t have even told you.”

But I’m glad she did.

Because now I know why Mary knew so much about the Hope family and what happened that night.

Lenora told her.

I see that look you’re giving me. I’m more observant than people give me credit for. And right now I can tell that you think you won’t like where all this is going.

You won’t.

But I promised to tell you everything, so that’s what I’m giving you. My deepest, darkest secrets. Things I’ve never told anyone before.

Only you, Mary.

Only you.