“No.” She squeezed the single syllable out like the last drop of water from a dry tap.
“That’s just typical, isn’t it?” Oliver laughed. “Switzerland over here refusing to get involved while bombs are going off around her. ‘But it’s nothing to do with me!’ If it’s nothing to do with you, sweetheart, why are you here?”
“Why are any of us here?” Maeve asked.
“Don’t be thick, Maeve. If it’s possible.” Oliver rolled his eyes.
“There’s only one reason someone would get us together,” Hollis said. But no one wanted to say what that reason was.
“It wasn’t our fault,” Ellie whispered. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We didn’t do anything right, either,” Hollis said.
Lorna closed her eyes and pretended she didn’t know what Hollis was talking about. Pretended she could leave. But Lorna had no place to go.
2 hours prior
The Vauxhall sedan kicked up dust as it sped down the drive. Lorna gripped the steering wheel, her vision narrowed on the horizon, watching for the house that was to appear at the end of this drive, and missed the pothole. The car bounced in and out, landing so hard that the boot scraped the ground. She hit the brakes, and her head smacked back against the headrest. A squeaky belt chirped louder than the ping of the rain on the car. The steering wheel vibrated in her hands.
“Don’t die here. Don’t die here.”
She pressed down on the accelerator. The Vauxhall inched forward, then picked up speed.
“Thank you.”
A warning light dinged.
Hatch open.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the open boot bobbing up and down.
“Shit.”
If the universe wanted to stop her from exiting the car, it almost succeeded. The seat belt almost strangled her as she fumbled with the latch. On the drive, her shoes slipped on the wet stones as she stumbled around the car. Twice she slammed the boot down, but it refused to latch.
“Shit shit shit.”
Rain gathered at the nape of her neck and dripped down the back of her shirt to her bra strap. She rested her hands on the car and took several breaths, letting the water travel along her spine.
“I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. I will make sure everything is fine.”
She pushed down on the boot a final time and heard it click shut.
“See? Fine. Just like I said.” When she returned to the car, she didn’t bother with the seat belt.
Viewed from the crest of the drive, the lumbering red brick manor that was Wolfheather House looked like a redcoat soldier standing at the edge of a long, thin loch. Cast in the shadow of the surrounding snow-capped peaks, a single plume of smoke rose from one of its six chimneys. An inconsonant glass conservatory protruded off its backside, an unnecessary addition that made the house even more of an eyesore.
Lorna parked at the base of the drive, facing away from the house. Rain peppered the quiet loch and she remembered how, as a child, the water could calm her. Despite the weather, she left her suitcase by the Vauxhall and went down to wet her hands. It eased the pain on her scratched hands but failed to provide the calm she’d hoped for. The towering mountains made her feel trapped in a large cage, the gray cloud a heavy tarp pulled across the top. But wasn’t a cage what she wanted? She skipped a single stone, rippling the loch’s surface, then dried her hands on her jeans and made her way to the house as an unseen dog barked.
A fire burned in the empty reception hall while dishes clattered in a room to her right. Lorna followed the sounds of clinking porcelain and saw the back of a man laying out plates and cutlery in the large dining room. The room comfortably fit ten round tables, each surrounded by four chairs. No two tablecloths were alike—some lace, some polyester, some plain blue, others patterned with spring flowers. A hodgepodge of candles, two or three to a table, acted as centerpieces. The mismatched décor helped hide how the heavy red curtains clashed with the pea green carpeting and yellow walls. If she had her way, she would redecorate the entire place so that it didn’t remind her of her great aunt’s drawing room and the uncomfortable evenings spent there. She could almost smell the Jean Patou Joy perfume. Lorna rubbed her cold arms and cleared her throat.
The young man spun round, a dinner knife clutched in each hand.
“Bloody hell! You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. Give them a heart attack, you will. Sneaking around like a bloody ghost . . .”
“Sorry to interrupt. I’ll go wait till you’re ready.”
Lorna happily exchanged the coldness of the dining room for the warmth of the fireplace and debated sending a text as she waited. Her mother’s voice rang through her head.
Always let someone know where you are, at least one person, please, Petal, please. In case of an emergency. In case something should happen . . .
But who would care where she was?
“You’re the—”
“Bloody hell!” She jumped at the sound of the man’s voice.
“Now you know what it’s like to be frightened.”
“I wasn’t frightened.”
“’Course you weren’t.”
She stuffed her phone in her pocket and followed him to the front desk, signing the book.
“You’re the first one here,” he said.
As he handed over the key, he looked as if he wanted to say something more, but the phone rang. He answered, and she started for the stairs.
“Wolfheather House. James Caskie speaking . . .”
At the top of the stairs, her first instinct had been to turn right, but a rope blocked that direction along with a frayed roll of pulled-up carpeting. So left it was, down a hall with dark brown side tables adorned with silver candlesticks and geometric paperweights to a room with a brass 1 inelegantly screwed into the door.
She withdrew her phone and sent a quick text to the one person she thought might care. Then, before changing out of her travel clothes, she collapsed on the bed, eyes closed, arms outstretched. For the first time in months, she lost the feeling of being watched and, for a few brief minutes, became herself again.
Ellie
Ellie was not yet certain of what she was seeing. She could identify the images—Hollis yelling, Maeve rubbing her arms through the wet sleeves of her jumper, Lorna staring into her empty wineglass, Oliver with his cigarette burning down—but it was like watching a show on television. A show about their lives, dramatic reenactments portrayed by actors who resembled them but didn’t quite match with her memory of them. Hollis’s hair was never that short, and his shoulders were too wide. Maeve looked several pounds heavier, some of the fat rounding out her face. Lorna had a somewhat smaller chest, and wasn’t her nose stubbier? Oliver she could barely look at. He was all wrong. Like Oliver’s father had dressed in the real Oliver’s clothes. So yes, they were all here, but these weren’t the people she remembered. And although the prospect of spending the weekend with complete strangers sounded exciting, in reality she thought it would be better to follow Hollis’s original intent and vacate the premises as soon as possible. As soon as no one was looking. And yet, could she?
Possibly the best option was to wait and keep an eye on everyone. See how this all played out.