The Only One Left by Riley Sager

THIRTY-ONE

The typewriter is gone.

Mrs. Baker removed it from my arms once the last loose sheet of paper had taken flight. At first, I stupidly thought she was trying to help me. Or at least get the typewriter out of my hands while she berated me for bringing Lenora outside. Instead, she said nothing as she lugged it across the terrace, the lone page in the carriage flapping in the breeze.

Then, with a grunt and a heave, she hoisted the typewriter over the railing and let it drop.

I gasped when it fell from view. Jessie let out a horrified yelp. Even Lenora reacted, her left hand reaching out as far as she could muster, as if that alone might reverse the typewriter’s fall.

Pleased with herself, Mrs. Baker wiped her hands together and strode to the French doors. All she said as she passed me was, “Take Miss Hope back upstairs where she belongs.”

Carter helped me with that, scooping Lenora in his arms and carrying her up the Grand Stairs as I pulled the wheelchair up step by rattling step. In Lenora’s room, he gently placed her in the wheelchair before turning to me.

“What do you think’s going to happen?”

“I think I’m going to be fired,” I said. It was the only logical outcome. But it wouldn’t be Mrs. Baker doing the firing. She’d leave that to Mr. Gurlain, who I was certain would be all too happy to banish me from the agency.

“Shit,” Carter said. “I’m so sorry, Kit. This is all my fault.”

In truth, it was mine. I knew the rules. I broke them anyway, simply because I wanted answers that I’ll never get now that the typewriter is gone. All I received in exchange for my transgression was a tidbit of information that might help Carter. The only silver lining in this dark cloud of a day.

“Lenora had the baby,” I said after pulling him into my room and closing the adjoining door so Lenora couldn’t hear us from hers. “A boy. She confirmed it.”

“What happened to him?”

“She doesn’t know. All Lenora could tell me is that they took the baby away from her.”

Carter dropped onto my bed, trying to process it all. Not just the suffering Lenora went through or the cruelty behind it, but also how it seemed to support his theory about being her grandson.

“So I might be right,” he said. “Lenora and I might really be related.”

“It’s a definite possibility.”

I joined him on the bed, our shoulders touching. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find out more.”

Carter flashed that crooked smile I’d become slightly enamored of over the past few days. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t have learned any of this without you.”

“But now that you know it, be careful. Whoever killed Mary is still here.”

“Or out there,” Carter said.

Maybe, but I doubted it. I thought more than ever that Mary’s killer was someone at Hope’s End.

Specifically the woman who would be sending me packing at any minute.

But those minutes turned to hours, bleeding from afternoon into evening. In that time, I heard nothing about being let go. Not when Archie brought up dinner for me and Lenora. Not when I mixed her crushed pills into her food or did her circulation exercises or gave her a bath. Now I’m putting Lenora to bed, noticing the way in which her gaze flits to the desk. It seems so big without the typewriter on it, so empty.

The same can be said of the sideboard, on which used to rest her snow globe. Now there’s just the Walkman. Likely the next thing Lenora will lose. And she’s already lost so much.

“I’m sorry, Lenora,” I say as I place the call button in her left hand. “I know how much you liked using it. I wish I could have heard the rest of your story.”

Even though it’s not an official goodbye, it feels like one. Because surely I’ll be gone by morning—if not sooner. I suspect the only reason I’m still here is because Mrs. Baker is trying to cajole Mr. Gurlain into assigning another caregiver to Lenora. One who, unlike me, has the power to decline the job.

Assuming I’ll never see her again after this, I pat Lenora’s hand and say, “It was a pleasure caring for you. I hope whoever takes my place will make you happy.”

I leave her after that, sweeping into my room and closing the adjoining door behind me. Now all I need to do is pack up my things and wait for the axe to inevitably fall. Not that there’s much packing to be done. I never did get around to replacing Mary’s belongings with my own. The books are still in their box. My suitcase full of clothes sits atop the dresser. All that’s left to be done is take the lockbox out from under the bed, collect grooming products from the bathroom, and change out of my uniform and into the clothes I wore when I arrived.

I start with the lockbox. Opening the nightstand, I take out the key. I then drop to my knees and slide the box from beneath the bed. I unlock it and open the lid. Inside are Lenora’s pills—and nothing else.

The pages we’d typed—all of them—are gone.

I hop to my feet, push out the door, and stomp down the hallway. The service stairs shake as I angrily descend to the kitchen, in search of Mrs. Baker.

I find her in the dining room, sitting alone at the massive table, a recently opened bottle of wine in front of her. The room is dim—lit only by a small blaze in the fireplace. Its flickering glow reflects off Mrs. Baker’s glasses, masking her eyes as she lifts a wineglass to her lips and takes a sip.

“Where are they?” I say.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, dear.”

“The pages Lenora and I typed,” I say, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “I know you have them.”

“Had, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “I had them.”

She gestures to the fireplace, where a few bits of scorched paper surround the single log burning inside. On one of them, I spot a typed word halfway eaten by flame. Seeing it sends me stumbling backward into one of the dining room chairs, which hits the floor with a clatter.

“You had no right to do that,” I say. “Those pages belonged to me.”

“And what was on them belonged to Miss Hope. Which means they fell under my authority.” Mrs. Baker takes another satisfied sip of wine. “Just like the typewriter.”

“You didn’t need to destroy them!” I yell, the words bursting out of me. Since I’m about to be sent packing, I see no need to control my anger.

Mrs. Baker, far calmer than I, nods toward the toppled chair and says, “Sit with me a minute, Kit. I think it’s time for a nice chat.”

I remain standing, disobeying her yet again.

“Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. “I assume you expect to be fired.”

“Yes,” I say. Why lie at this point?

“You’re free to go, if you’re so inclined. No one is forcing you to stay here.”

“But you’re not forcing me to leave?”

“No, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “But I would like to know whose idea it was to take Miss Hope outside.”

“Hers.”

“I thought so. Honestly, it doesn’t surprise me. Miss Hope can be very . . . persuasive. It makes sense she’d convince you to disobey my clear wishes.”

“Your wishes,” I say. “What about Lenora’s?”

“They are one and the same.” Mrs. Baker sets down her glass and runs the pad of her finger around the rim. “Although it’s obvious you don’t approve of my methods.”

“I don’t.”

“Even if it’s for Miss Hope’s own good?”

“Is it?” I say. “You keep her a prisoner in her own house. She has no friends. No visitors. She only sees people who are paid to take care of her. You won’t even let her go outside, for God’s sake. Even inmates—literal prison inmates—are allowed to do that.”

“What if I did? What do you think she’d encounter? Hatred, that’s what. Judgment. Constant suspicion. The world is not a kind place for women accused of violence. You, of all people, should understand that. Don’t people judge you for what happened to your mother?”

Too stunned to stand, I finally sit. Not on the chair, but on the floor beside it. I land next to the fireplace. Heat from the crackling blaze inside it stings my skin. But nothing’s as hot as the shame that burns through me.

“How long have you known?” I say.

“Since before you arrived. Mr. Gurlain felt it was his duty to notify me.”

Of course he did. I have no doubt he also assumed it would kill my chances of working here—or anywhere, for that matter. What I don’t understand is why it didn’t work.

“If you knew, why did you let me come here?”

“Because I thought you and Miss Hope would be a good fit,” Mrs. Baker says. “And I was right. You understand her. In fact, you even like her.”

The comment throws me, mostly because I’m not certain I do. I like Lenora some of the time. Other times, she scares me. Or leaves me frustrated. Or fills me with pity, which then brings me back full circle into wanting to like her.

“It’s okay to admit it,” Mrs. Baker says. “Miss Hope can be very charming when it suits her needs. But let me make one thing clear—you’re nothing to her. I know you think you are. That you share a bond unique to her nurses. It’s not. She’s done this kind of thing before, going back decades. She’s smarter than she appears, as I’m sure you know. Some would even call her wily.”

I nod, for the description fits. Lenora uses silence and stillness to her advantage, concealing much, revealing little. As a result, every small detail you learn about her leaves you only wanting more.

i want to tell you everything

That’s what Lenora typed my first night here. And I’ve been starved for that information ever since, willing to break every rule. It doesn’t matter that a week has passed and I still know next to nothing.

“What would you call her?” I say.

“Manipulative.”

Although Mrs. Baker smacks her lips together, as if savoring the word like it’s the wine in her glass, her tone reveals a different emotion.

Distaste.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what caused poor Mary to do what she did,” Mrs. Baker continues. “Miss Hope made her feel needed. Made her feel special. When Mary realized that wasn’t the case, it drove her to do the unthinkable.”

Detective Vick’s voice echoes through my thoughts, reciting Mary’s alleged suicide note.

“I’m sorry. I’m not the person you thought I was.”

Did he also tell Mrs. Baker what it said? And does she genuinely believe Mary killed herself? I try to study her face, looking for signs she does. It’s unreadable, especially with the flames from the fireplace still dancing in the reflection of her glasses.

“Why do you stay here?” I say.

“That’s a rather bold question.”

“One I’d like you to answer. If you hate Lenora so much, why are you still here?”

“If I hated her, I would have left years ago. And this place would have fallen apart without me.”

I think of the tiles raining from the roof, the cracks in the walls of the service stairs, the swath of lawn that now rests at the bottom of the ocean. “In case you haven’t noticed, it is.”

Mrs. Baker tilts her wineglass back and empties it. “It would already be rubble if not for me. The things I’ve had to do to keep this place standing. Selling it off bit by bit to pay for one repair or another. Trust me, it would be all too easy to leave. But Miss Hope needs me. I stay here out of a sense of devotion.”

“But devotion only goes so far,” I say. “You still get something out of being here, don’t you?”

“I knew you were bright,” Mrs. Baker says, making it sound like a liability. “Yes, our arrangement provides me with certain benefits. Miss Hope and I came to an agreement years ago. If I somehow keep this place standing, she’ll pass it on to me when she dies.”

“All of it?” I say.

“The land. The house. Everything in it.”

The fire next to me is quickly dying, its glow finally fading from Mrs. Baker’s glasses. Behind the lenses, her blue eyes seem to catch what little light remains and take on a vibrant shine. I stare at them, unsettled, wondering if she’s aware of just how close she is to having that plan fall apart. All it would take is for someone to come along and contest the agreement. Lenora’s grandson, for example.

I consider mentioning that I know Lenora had a baby. I don’t because, just like Archie, I doubt Mrs. Baker will be honest about it. Also, I see no reason to make myself a target.

If I’m not one already.

Because her revelation that she’ll inherit Hope’s End makes me suspect there are secrets Mrs. Baker would do anything to keep.

And that she had every reason in the world to kill Mary.

Miss Baker made us tea and took me back to the sunroom for what she called “a nice chat.” As if nothing about our respective roles had changed. I was still the pupil and she the proper lady tasked with teaching me how to become the same. Only I seemed to see the ridiculousness of that. After all, I knew what she’d been doing with my father in that same sunroom minutes earlier.

“What do we do now?” she said, addressing the situation as if we both had a say in the matter. She didn’t.

“You can start by telling me why,” I said. “Why my father? Do you love him?”

Miss Baker could barely hold back her laughter. “No, child. What we have is strictly transactional. I give him what he wants, and he rewards me with small tokens of appreciation.”

Money, in other words. For all her talk of manners and propriety, Miss Baker was nothing but a high-class whore. My disgust with her must have shown in my expression, because she snapped, “Don’t you dare judge me, young lady. Someone like you, born into enormous wealth, has no idea what it’s like for the rest of us. The things we need to do to survive. Especially unmarried women like me. I’m simply looking out for my future.”

“At what price?” I said.

“The highest one I can get.” Miss Baker leaned back in her seat, daring me to say another critical word. “Is that what all this is about? You wanted to confront me? Try to shame me?”

“No,” I said. “I wanted to show you this.”

I stood, pulled the fabric of my dress tight against me, and turned so Miss Baker could see my growing stomach in profile.

“Dear me,” she said as she set her teacup on its saucer. Her hands shook so much the teacup rattled the whole way to the table at her side. “How far along are you?”

“Six months.”

“And the father?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” I said, unwilling to risk bringing Ricky into this. If Miss Baker knew, she might tell my father, who would surely fire him. Then there’d be no hope of Ricky and me scraping together enough money for the one thing I most desperately wanted to do--escape.

“Did he force himself on you?” Miss Baker said.

My face turned red as I shook my head and looked at the floor, too ashamed to face her.

“I see.” Miss Baker paused to clear her throat. “Does he know about your . . . predicament?”

“Yes.”

“And what does he intend to do?”

“Make an honest woman out of me,” I said, which prompted a rueful laugh from Miss Baker. Hearing it made me flinch.

“You’re still practically a child,” she said. “And a good man would have restrained himself. Or at least taken precautions.”

Still stinging from the way her laughter echoed through the sunroom, I gave her a hard stare and said, “Does my father?”

Miss Baker stiffened in her seat. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“Your help.”

I listed all the ways in which I needed assistance, from procuring maternity clothes to accessing the proper amount of food. This needed to occur long enough for Ricky and me to plan our escape. I finished by telling her that it all had to be done in secret.

“That’s a tall order,” Miss Baker said. “What makes you think I’ll be willing to help?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell my mother everything.”

The corners of Miss Baker’s mouth lifted in a cruel smile. “Your mother already knows.”

“Then I’ll tell Berniece Mayhew,” I said, knowing full well she was the biggest gossip among the household staff. “About you and my father and what the two of you have been doing when you think no one is watching. Once that gets out, good luck finding another job teaching etiquette. Everyone will know exactly what kind of lady you are.”

Miss Baker stood in a huff, looking like she wanted to slap me across the face, storm out of the room, or both. I suspected the only reason she didn’t was because she knew she was trapped.

“I’ll help you,” she finally said.

We shook hands. She promised to see about buying me some new clothes in the morning, followed by arranging a visit from a doctor whose discretion was assured. I told her that Archie had agreed to set aside an extra plate of food at every meal and give it to her to bring up to my room.

“Who else knows about this?” Miss Baker said.

“Just Archie,” I said. “And now you.”

To her credit, Miss Baker refrained from mentioning my sister or my mother. She had been at Hope’s End long enough to observe that neither of them would have been of any help to me.

When we parted ways, I felt a newfound sense of optimism that my plan could actually work. It would require caution, of course, and perhaps a little bit of luck. But for the first time in weeks I saw a path that led me away from Hope’s End, away from my family, and into a bright, happy future with Ricky and our child.

The only thing I didn’t count on was that, no matter how cautious I was, luck failed to be on my side.

And that when I shook hands with Miss Baker, I was in fact making a deal with the devil.