The Only One Left by Riley Sager
TWENTY-NINE
Lenora is giving me her version of the silent treatment, which involves refusing to tap out a response to even the most basic questions. Still, I try, continuing to ask her what she’d like to do this evening.
“Would you like to try typing?”
Lenora’s left hand doesn’t rise from the bed.
“You can listen to more of the book Jessie recorded for you. Would you like that?”
Again, nothing.
“Or I could read to you instead,” I say. “That might be fun for neither of us.”
This at least gets a reaction. The corners of Lenora’s mouth perk up into a half smile. But it fades as quickly as it formed, and her face returns to stony expressionlessness.
“I’m sorry,” I say for at least the fifth time that day. “I mean it. And I’ll replace the snow globe. I swear.”
We both know I can’t. Lenora’s murdered parents gave it to her more than fifty years ago. And I’m the suspicious bitch who broke it. No wonder she’s furious at me. I’m mad at myself.
For thinking she could possibly be faking her condition. And for being so paranoid that I thought a mostly paralyzed woman could have killed Mary. And for letting that paranoia destroy what’s likely the last treasured possession she had. Now all I can do is continue to beg for her forgiveness. I even get down on my knees, kneeling in the flecks of gold glitter that remain on the floor. I can’t rid my brain of the heartbroken way Lenora looked as I tried to salvage what was left of the snow globe. It was impossible. The globe itself was nothing but shards, and very little of the Parisian scene inside survived. Even the Eiffel Tower was ruined, having been snapped in two. All that remained was the base. A stump of gold. I had no choice but to sweep up the shattered pieces and drop them into the trash as a single tear leaked from Lenora’s eyes.
“Please, please forgive me,” I said then and say again now.
Finally, Lenora responds.
A single tap against the mattress.
No.
“What can I do to make it up to you? Anything you want, I’ll do it.”
Lenora shifts her gaze to the typewriter on the other side of the room. Now she wants to type. Quickly, I get up and wind a fresh page into the carriage. I bring the typewriter to the bed and place Lenora’s left hand atop the keys.
She presses seven of them.
outside
I stare at the word, surprised. “You want to go outside?”
Lenora raps twice against the typewriter.
“But that’s against the rules.”
Lenora bangs out another word.
so
Even without punctuation, I can tell she means it as a question.
“But you don’t want to go outside.”
i do, Lenora types. Adding, i miss it.
“So you never told Mrs. Baker not to take you outside?”
Lenora balls her hand into a fist before smashing her knuckles against the typewriter, sending up a spray of keys that clatter together, none of them striking the page. Not that they need to. I understand her perfectly.
No.
But there must be a good reason why Mrs. Baker doesn’t want her to go outside. I can think of three off the top of my head: The weather. Lenora’s fragile condition. The sheer hassle of getting a wheelchair-bound woman down the steps.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I say.
Lenora taps yes. No surprise there.
“Mrs. Baker won’t be happy when she sees me trying to do it.”
she cant know
It’s official—this is definitely a bad idea. I’ll get in trouble if Mrs. Baker catches us. Which she will. There’s no way I can bring Lenora down to the first floor and outside without someone noticing. I’m not sure I can even do it at all. Not by myself. And when I get caught, I’ll surely be sent packing, which will lead to being fired by Mr. Gurlain. I pace the room, my stomach clenching at the thought of being forced to return to my father’s house, trapped in that endless cycle of loneliness and silence.
“I can’t,” I tell Lenora. “I’m sorry. It’s too risky.”
She types as I continue to pace. A full sentence banged out as quickly as her one good hand will allow.
ill tell you what happened to the baby
Lenora gives me a pleased-with-herself look. She knows it’s an offer I can’t resist. One that makes me wonder if this was her plan all along. Not for me to break the snow globe and feel so guilty I’d promise her anything. No one could have planned that. But giving me just enough details about the night of the murders to make me want more? Refusing to type the moment I mentioned the baby? It’s entirely possible Lenora did all that on purpose, waiting for the perfect moment to manipulate me into giving her what she wants.
Two can play that game.
“You’ll also need to give me the rest of your story,” I say. “If we do this, you’ll have to tell me everything you told Mary. Just like you promised.”
Lenora doesn’t type or tap a response, probably because she doesn’t know what it’ll be yet. Filling her silence is a swift knock on the door, followed by a voice saying, “Kit? Are you in there?”
Mrs. Baker.
Speak of the devil.
“Just a second,” I call before lugging the typewriter back to the desk. On my way to the door, I try to kick some of the remaining gold flakes under Lenora’s bed. A fruitless attempt to cover up what I did. One glance at the shattered snow globe in the room’s trash can will tell Mrs. Baker everything.
I open the door, prepared for a lecture about how it’s past Lenora’s bedtime, which must be strictly observed. Instead, Mrs. Baker simply says, “There’s someone here to see you.”
My body jolts in surprise. “Who?”
“He didn’t say,” Mrs. Baker replies, which I interpret to mean she didn’t ask because she doesn’t care. “He’s waiting outside the front gate.”
“I’ll go out to see him,” I say, adding, “As soon as I put Miss Hope to bed. We’re running behind this evening.”
Mrs. Baker surveys the room, practically sniffing like a bloodhound for signs something is amiss. If she sees the glitter on the floor or the broken glass in the trash, she doesn’t show it. “Please tell your guest to call at a decent hour next time,” she says, waiting until she’s out the door to add the kicker. “Or not at all.”
Quickly, I change Lenora into her bedclothes and arrange her beneath the covers. As I place the call button in her left hand, I whisper, “We’ll talk more when I get back.” Then I turn out the lights, grab a sweater from my room, and rush downstairs.
Outside, the night is cold but clear, with stars twinkling brightly against a black velvet sky. I walk down the center of the driveway, wondering not just who awaits me at the end of it but why they’re here. My hope is that it’s Detective Vick, pulling me away from the others in the house to finally admit he believes me. My fear is that it’s Kenny, angling for a peek of Lenora Hope for the second night in a row.
I’m wrong on both counts.
It ends up being my father standing on the other side of the gate, gripping the bars like an inmate in a jail cell. He does a double take as I approach, as if I’m the one making a surprise visit.
“What’s with the uniform?” he says.
I ignore the question. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to take you home.”
His calling it that makes me roll my eyes. That house hasn’t felt like home in six months.
“Who told you I was here?”
“Kenny,” my father says. “And Rich Vick. And half the damn town. You didn’t think I’d find out you were taking care of Lenora Hope?”
I knew he would. Eventually. But judging by his reaction now, I was right not to tell him when I left. Giving him a cold stare through the gate’s bars, I say, “Why do you care?”
“Because every person who knows you’re working for that woman will think what the police have said is true. Soon everyone will think you’re guilty.”
“And what do you think, Dad?” I say, pain slicing through my voice like a switchblade.
“What happened to your mother was an accident.” He says it quickly. The way people do when they don’t want you to notice they’re lying. But my father’s bad at it. He doesn’t even look at me while he’s doing it.
“I wish you really believed that.”
My chest tightens as grief and disappointment well up inside it, spilling out of my heart, pouring over my ribs. My eyes will be next if I don’t leave immediately. I back away from the gate and start moving up the driveway. I refuse to let my father see me cry over him.
“Goodbye, Dad,” I say. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
“I’m worried about you being here. Rich Vick told me you’re the one who found that dead girl.”
“I was,” I say, leaving out how Mary now haunts my every waking hour. I’m sure she’d haunt my dreams, too, if my mother left room for her.
“He also told me you think she was murdered,” my father adds.
“According to Kenny, so does everyone else. Everyone except your detective friend.”
“So it’s true? That’s what you really think?”
My father’s back to gripping the gate, staring at me through the bars with an expression that’s one part concern, two parts disbelief. He wants me to say no. Probably to spare him from looking like a fool when word of it inevitably spreads through town like the flu. Unlike him, I don’t have the energy to lie.
“Yeah. That’s what I think.”
“That’s all the more reason to get you away from this place.”
It gives me an even greater reason to stay. Since the town’s only police detective doesn’t believe Mary was murdered, it’s up to me to prove that she was. And to find out who did it. Because it all seems to hinge on Lenora’s past—and how much of it Mary knew—I can’t leave until I learn the truth.
I turn back toward Hope’s End and say, “Dad, go home.”
“Kit, wait.”
I don’t. I continue up the drive, fully aware my father’s still watching, hoping I’ll turn around, open the gate, follow him back to a house I no longer recognize. I keep my eyes fixed on the lights of Hope’s End. It’s not home, either. But I can’t shake the feeling that my future rests inside this place where tragedy struck twice.
Two separate nights.
Decades apart.
Yet linked to one person who I’m pretty sure has all the answers but won’t reveal them until she gets what she wants.
Back in the house, I head straight for Lenora’s room. She’s still awake, her bright eyes aimed at the ceiling.
“Do we have a deal?” I say.
She taps twice against the call button.
The matter’s settled.
Lenora’s going outside.
And the price for taking her there is the truth.
