Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(110)

“But Vero . . . she always had a way with words. An ability to tell a story. ‘Vero wants to fly,’” I murmur. “All those years later. Vero wanted to fly; she knew she was never going home again.

“She hurt, you know. We all hurt. But she really was dying on the inside. She kept at me. Telling me what needed to happen. There is only one way out of the dollhouse.” I look at Thomas. “We’d been there for so long,” I say softly. “The other girls, they passed through. But Vero and me, did you think your mother would, could, ever let us go?”

Thomas doesn’t say a word.

The wind is blowing. Or maybe it’s Vero’s breath, whispering across my cheek. She’s here. I know she is. Because Vero got it only half right. She died; but she still didn’t escape the dollhouse.

“I weaned myself off the drugs. I hoarded the stash. Then, after a particularly bad night . . . Vero took it. I watched her walk over to my mattress, dig into the box spring. I watched her take it all out. I watched her shoot it all up.

“Protest. Intervene. Take it away. Throw it out. So many things I could’ve done. But I didn’t. ‘Vero wants to fly.’ And so I watched her take flight.”

“None of the girls had OD’d before,” Thomas says softly. “Mother didn’t know what to do. She sent me in to check Vero again and again. I remember you sitting curled up in the corner. You’d been crying.”

Young Thomas, the mop-haired boy, bending over Vero’s body, checking her pulse. Young Thomas glancing over at me. Our eyes meeting. And for just one moment, I’m sure he knows what I did. But he never says a word.

He leaves the room. When he returns, a decision has clearly been made. He positions her body carefully on the old blue rug. He rolls it up, slowly, even gently. I have to look away because it hurts too much to stare.

“I’ll take her out later,” he tells me. “After dark. Will you be okay until then?”

I don’t speak, only nod. When I glance up, he’s staring right at me. He knows what I did, I think again. The question is, does he know what I’ll do next?

I wait most of the afternoon. Maybe something will change. Thomas will return early. Madame Sade will demand to see Vero’s body. There are only two other girls in the house; they are both eighteen, older than Vero and me. Maybe they will want to visit. But nothing happens.

All day long, the house is quiet. Just the sound of the rain against the glass.

November, the saddest month of the year.

When the sky starts to darken, I finally move off the floor. I unroll Vero’s body, not as slow, not as gentle. My heart is beating too fast. Her limbs flop and my limbs shake. I don’t think either of us can take it. Finally I have her out of the rug, onto the bed. Swapping out our clothes, pulling up the bedcovers.

Putting Vero to sleep in my bed. And placing myself inside death’s shroud.

It smells of her. Of vanilla lotion and almond soap. Of the smile she used to flash before the days grew too short and the nights too long. Of the stories she used to tell, when she still hoped to see her mother again.

I’d hated her. But then I’d loved her. She became the only family I ever had. The younger sister who was prettier and wiser and funnier, but I forgave her everything because she loved me more than I deserved and we both knew it.

I wonder if she’s already escaped. Up to some bright light in the sky. Or maybe back into her mother’s loving arms.

Then I cry, but I keep it silent because that’s how you learn to cry in a dollhouse; without ever making a sound.

Eventually, footsteps down the hall. The door opening. A long pause.

Thomas, I remember now. Returning to fetch the corpse, to do his mother’s bidding.

I feel myself tense. Force myself to relax. I can’t be afraid, I remind myself. I am already dead.

The sound of footsteps slowly approaching. I can hear his breathing as he leans down.

Don’t unwrap. Don’t check. And if he does?

I think of the way his eyes met mine just hours before. I think of the way I’ve seen him stare at this house. And I’m not frightened anymore.

As Thomas lifts me up into his arms. As Thomas carries me out of the room, down the stairs, into the hall.

“Wait!” Madame Sade’s imperious voice.

“What, Mother?”

“Surely she’s not still dressed. Clothes are not cheap, you know. Isn’t that a sock I see?”

“You don’t need these clothes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Set her down. Losing a girl is bad enough. We might as well keep the clothes.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not setting her down. I’m not stripping off some dead girl’s clothes. You told me to take care of her. That’s what I’m doing. Now, get out of my way or you can dig the grave yourself.”

A long pause. I try not to breathe, not to hear the thunder of my own heart. Because I can feel the tremors in Thomas’s arms. I understand what this conversation is costing him. What it might yet cost me.

Then . . .

Thomas advances forward. Out the front door, down the steps, into the rain, though I don’t feel it right away. I am protected by the rug, lost in a dark world of muffled sound.

He walks forever. At least it feels that way. Wet leaves, tree limbs, smack against my foot, and I realize he has carried me into the woods. Of course, where else to dig the grave?