The Only One Left by Riley Sager

THIRTY-TWO

I leave the dining room as Mrs. Baker pours another drink. The sound of wine spilling into her glass follows me across the kitchen, replaced by a loud, sloppy sip as I reach the service stairs. As I climb to the second floor, I try to piece together how she could have killed Mary.

First, Mrs. Baker got wind of the fact that Lenora was telling Mary her story. Most likely she was passing by, heard the typewriter, and realized what was happening. She could have even crept in at night and read what Lenora had written.

Maybe Mrs. Baker also knew about Carter’s quest to prove he’s Lenora’s grandson. It’s obvious she keeps a close eye on what’s happening inside Hope’s End. She likely spends more time observing than anything else. Which makes it equally as likely that she found out Mary and Carter’s plan.

Then, on the night Mary left the house with the suitcase, Mrs. Baker struck.

I can even picture it as I continue up the stairs.

Mary rushing across the terrace with a suitcase that contained dozens of typewritten pages and a sample of Lenora’s blood.

Mrs. Baker emerging from the shadow of the house.

Fast.

Grabbing the suitcase.

Breaking the handle.

Giving Mary a shove.

It’s possible Mrs. Baker had no intention of killing her. Maybe she just wanted to throw Mary off-balance long enough to get the suitcase away from her. But death was the end result. Mary slipped over the railing, fell to her death, remained there for days. And Mrs. Baker had no choice but to tell everyone that Mary left in the middle of the night.

I know a lot of that is conjecture. Just like I know that the truth could be far different from what my wild imagination came up with. I even know it’s possible Mrs. Baker had nothing to do with Mary’s death.

The only things I’m sure of, really, are that Mary left Hope’s End with a suitcase in her hand.

That whoever has it now is very likely the person who killed her.

And that Mrs. Baker is the most obvious culprit.

At the top of the stairs, I impulsively hurry past both my room and Lenora’s, stopping only when I reach Mrs. Baker’s door. I try the doorknob, which twists in my hand. When I let go, the door gently creaks wide open. Even though I know it’s merely a trick of the house’s tilt, I can’t help but think of it as an invitation to enter.

I check the hall in both directions until I’m certain no one is around.

Then, with a breath and a prayer, I slip inside.

Closing the door behind me, I stop and gaze around the room. It’s the same shape and size as Lenora’s quarters, with the only differences being the lack of a door leading into another room and the location of the en suite bath. That’s on the other side of the room in a mirror image of Lenora’s.

Two lights are already on inside. A relief. It saves me from having to turn them on and then remember to flick them off before I leave. One is a lamp on the nightstand, which casts a glow over Mrs. Baker’s immaculately made bed. The second is a floor lamp in the corner, which sheds enough light over the other half of the room. I see a dresser, an antique dressing table with an oval mirror, and a sideboard similar to the one in Lenora’s room. Instead of a Walkman on top, this one holds a gramophone, complete with a lily-shaped horn to amplify the music.

Quickly and quietly, I slide open dresser drawers and peek into the sideboard, finding nothing of interest. They’re too small to hold a suitcase, and if Mrs. Baker had the pages that were in it, I suspect they suffered the same fate as the ones Lenora and I typed. As for the sample of Lenora’s blood Mary took, that was likely also destroyed.

Just in case, I sit at the dressing table and root through the drawers, which contain nothing but rattling jewelry and rolling lipstick tubes. Atop the table is a framed photograph of a young couple in front of the Eiffel Tower. Snow falls around the pair as they huddle together beneath the man’s overcoat. The woman in the photo I assume to be Mrs. Baker, albeit fifty years younger than the person currently gulping down wine in the dining room. They have the same eyes, same nose, same chin. That’s where the resemblance ends. In the photograph, she sports marcelled hair and a wide, genuine smile, something I’ve never seen from Mrs. Baker.

The man in the picture is tall, handsome, and maybe ten years older than her. I assume he’s the fiancé Mrs. Baker mentioned the day I arrived. The one whose death prompted her return to Hope’s End. From the way they’re looking at each other in the photo, the two of them definitely seem in love.

I move to the other side of the room, where the most likely hiding places reside. Under the bed. In the armoire. Beneath the large sink in the bathroom, which is where I continue my search, yielding nothing. I get the same result when I crack open the armoire doors. Hanging inside is an array of black dresses, with a few pairs of sensible black shoes sitting in a row beneath them.

My last stop is to check the area around the bed. On the nightstand is another framed photograph of the same man as the one on the dressing table. He’s alone in this one, looking dashing in an army uniform.

I drop to my hands and knees to check under the bed. Instead of a suitcase, I find several shoeboxes. I pull one out and open it, taking care not to leave clean marks on the dusty lid. Inside are more photographs. I sort through them, seeing a young Mrs. Baker in a variety of situations. Wearing a satin gown and lifting a glass of champagne in a toast. Walking down the street with two other women, their arms linked, mouths open in mid-laugh. Reclining naked on a chaise in what appears to be an artist’s studio, her modesty preserved by only two well-placed feathered fans.

They’re a potent reminder that Mrs. Baker once had a life outside the tilted walls of Hope’s End. A happy one, from the looks of it. I wonder how much she misses it, how much she wants it again, and how far she’d go to make that happen.

I put the photos back in the box, replace the lid, and slide it back under the bed. Instead of photographs, the next box I grab is full of receipts and copies of cleared checks. All of them bear Lenora’s signature, although it’s clearly the work of Mrs. Baker.

I grab a handful and thumb through them.

Electric bill. Paid monthly, although there’ve been a few late payments and, once earlier this year, a warning that service was about to be terminated.

Grocery bill. Paid like clockwork every Tuesday when the delivery from the market in town arrives.

At the bottom of the box is a stack of checks all made out to Ocean View Retirement Home. One thousand dollars a month, going back at least a dozen years.

I’ve heard of Ocean View, of course. It’s the only nursing home in town. I even applied to be an aide there after Mr. Gurlain suspended me. I was told I was overqualified for the job, which somehow felt more insulting than if they had told me the truth—that, given my reputation, they thought hiring me would be like inviting a wolf to watch over a flock of sheep. What I don’t understand is why Mrs. Baker is paying all that money for a nursing home when Lenora’s right here, being cared for by me, Mary, a long line of other nurses.

I’m still looking at the cleared checks when my attention is caught by a sound in the hallway.

Footsteps.

Coming down the hall.

Almost at the door.

I slap the lid atop the shoebox and shove it back under the bed. Then I leap to my feet and hurry . . . nowhere.

There’s no place for me to go. I can’t sprint out the door if Mrs. Baker’s coming in, and the only hiding place I can think of is in the bathroom, which is likely where she’ll head first. Resigned to being caught—which this time will surely get me fired—I start to raise my hands in surrender.

That’s when I spot the armoire.

Without thinking, I bolt toward it, throw open the doors, and back myself inside. Crouched behind identical black sheaths, I pull the armoire doors shut just as the bedroom door is pushed open.

Through the thin crack between the armoire doors, I see Mrs. Baker enter the room. From the way she sways, I assume she quickly polished off the entire bottle of wine herself. She drifts to the gramophone on the sideboard and turns it on. One dropped needle later, music starts blasting through the room.

“Let’s Misbehave.”

Mrs. Baker drunkenly sings along, croaking out every other word.

“Alone . . . chaperone.”

Her head bobs in time to the music, her hands undulate in the air, and her singing gets louder.

“Can get . . . number.”

She plops down at the dressing table and yanks the same drawer I’d opened minutes earlier, pulling out a tube of lipstick.

“World’s . . . slumber . . . misbehave!”

Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, Mrs. Baker swipes the tube across her bottom lip, her unsteady hand smearing it outside the lip line. She wipes it with her thumb, making it worse. A crimson streak now runs halfway to her cheek. Mrs. Baker chuckles softly to herself, leans forward, stares at her drunken reflection.

Something in the mirror suddenly catches her attention. I can tell by the way her gaze darts from her reflection to just over her right shoulder.

The armoire.

Mrs. Baker turns away from the mirror and faces it. From my point of view, it appears as if she’s looking right at me. I hold my breath, unable to do anything but watch.

As Mrs. Baker sets the lipstick atop the dressing table.

As she stands.

As she takes an uneven step toward the armoire.

Her second step is steadier. The third even more so. Like she’s sobering up with each consecutive stride. By the time she’s in front of the armoire, all traces of drunkenness are gone. It’s now the usual stern, stone-cold-sober version of Mrs. Baker who reaches out.

Touches the armoire doors.

Prepares to throw them open.

I shrink against the interior wall, knowing that in one second I’ll be caught, fired, sent back to a house where my father thinks I killed my mother. But just before Mrs. Baker can pull the armoire doors open, the record player suddenly skips.

The music is replaced by a loud, low groan. It sounds through the entire house, starting at the first floor and moving upward, gaining volume as it goes.

I know what it is.

Mrs. Baker does, too, for her face darkens with concern.

The groan is followed by a crack, a clatter, and several sudden, sharp jerks. It sounds like something’s smashing into the house. Inside the armoire, I’m jostled like a body in a coffin that’s just been dropped. One of the doors flies open, exposing me being knocked back and forth behind Mrs. Baker’s long black dresses.

But she’s no longer there to see me. Instead, she’s throwing open the bedroom door and peering into the hall, one withered hand gripping the wall for support as all of Hope’s End bucks and heaves.

As quickly as it started, everything stops.

The noise.

The movement.

All is silent and still.

Mrs. Baker disappears into the hallway, off to investigate what just happened and where. Others in the house are doing the same. I hear footfalls overhead and the sound of someone thundering down the service stairs.

I stay huddled in a corner of the armoire, my heart beating a hundred times per minute. Above me, Mrs. Baker’s dresses still sway on the rack. I wait until they’ve settled before crawling out of the armoire and hurrying to Lenora’s room. She’s awake, of course, her expression alarmed and her good hand clenched around the call button. Through our adjoining door, I hear the buzz of the alarm and see the red light filling my room.

“I’m here,” I say. “Are you okay?”

Lenora drops the call button and taps twice on the bedspread. Her gaze then flicks to the far corner of the room, where someone stands, unnoticed by me until just now.

Archie.

He has the curtains pulled back and is looking out the window toward the terrace. “Looks like it’s down there,” he says.

“What is?”

Archie finally turns to face me. “The damage. We should go see what happened.”

I already know what happened. Hope’s End just got a bit closer to tumbling into the ocean.

“What are you doing in Lenora’s room?” I say.

Archie and I look at each other with wary suspicion. It reminds me of a movie I watched with my mother when she was sick. Two cat burglars who interrupted each other while trying to rob the same mansion are forced to choose if they should work together or alone. They ultimately decide to trust each other. Archie makes a similar decision.

“I was saying goodnight.”

“Since when do you say goodnight to Lenora?”

“Ever since Miss Hope first took ill,” Archie says. “Every night, I make sure to stop by and see how she’s doing.”

“Let’s walk,” I say.

What I really mean is that I want to talk where Lenora can’t hear us. Archie nods and follows me into the hallway, where the tilt of the house is noticeably more pronounced. Just when I had gotten used to it, too.

“Every night?” I say. “You told me you and Lenora were no longer close.”

“I said it wasn’t like it used to be,” Archie says. “And that’s the truth. It’s evolved over the years. Just because I don’t make a show of it doesn’t mean I don’t care about Miss Hope. We’re both on the same side, Kit. We’re both here to watch over her. We just go about it in different ways.”

“Why haven’t I seen you visit her before?”

“Because it’s kind of our little secret. Something kept just between me and Miss Hope. I’m sure you understand.”

Archie pauses, as if he now wants me to share one of my secrets. I decline. Because that movie about the cat burglars who decided to trust each other? It ends with one betraying the other. I’m not about to let the same thing happen to me.

“How late do you visit?”

“Usually a little after Miss Hope goes to bed and a little before I do the same.”

We descend the service stairs slowly, our shoes crunching over bits of plaster that have fallen from the walls.

“Ever visit her in the middle of the night?”

“No,” Archie says. “An early riser like me can’t afford to stay up that late.”

He sounds honest enough that I almost believe him. Then again, Archie also sounded honest when he lied about knowing Lenora had a baby. Right now, I suspect there’s a seventy-five percent chance he’s telling the truth. Using that math, I conclude that Archie was the gray blur I saw at Lenora’s window my first night here.

I’m less sure about him causing the middle-of-the-night noises in Lenora’s room.

Or the shadow I watched pass the adjoining door.

Or the typewritten message Lenora blamed on Virginia.

“Do you know if anyone else sneaks into Lenora’s room at night on a regular basis?”

“I doubt it,” Archie says with a vagueness that drops the truth-o-meter to fifty percent. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“And I’m certain it’s something.” I stop halfway down the steps. “What aren’t you telling me? When I told all of you Lenora said her sister—her dead sister—was in her room typing, you didn’t seem surprised. Why is that?”

“Because it was outlandish,” Archie says.

“Or maybe because something like that has happened before over the years.”

Archie attempts to descend another step, but I block his way, standing with my arms outstretched and both palms against the stairwell’s cracked walls.

“Was Lenora telling the truth?”

I should feel ridiculous for even thinking it, let alone saying it aloud. But Archie’s reaction—a flinch, followed by a deliberate masking of his features—tells me I’m on to something.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about this place,” he says as he gently removes one of my hands from the wall and sidesteps past me. “Things you’re better off not knowing.”

“So it’s true?” I say. “Virginia’s ghost is really haunting Hope’s End?”

Archie makes a point of not looking at me as he continues down the steps. “Haunting’s not the right word. But, yes, her presence can be felt here. At Hope’s End, the past is always present.”

I follow him to the bottom of the stairwell and into the kitchen, which appears mostly unharmed. Just a few fallen pots and pans and a broken jar on the floor. In the dining room, a large fissure has appeared above the fireplace mantel, zigging toward the ceiling. Both sets of French doors are open, letting in brisk night air and the hushed voices of everyone else already outside.

Archie and I step onto the terrace, where Mrs. Baker, Carter, and Jessie all press against the side of the house. At first, I don’t understand why.

Then I see it.

Littering the terrace are more tiles from the roof plus a pile of bricks that I assume is the remains of a toppled chimney. Running through it all, about five feet from the house, is a fault line that stretches from one side of the terrace to the other.

One step over that line could send the cliff, the terrace, and, perhaps, all of Hope’s End tumbling into the sea.