Good Girl, Bad Girl(117)

She doesn’t answer.

“Can you hear me, Evie? We’re leaving.”





69




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ANGEL FACE




* * *



“I can hear you.”

I’m on the landing, peering through the wooden railings. My eyes are swollen shut and the shapes below me are vague and indistinct, like I’m watching them from the bottom of a swimming pool.

Cyrus is sitting on a lower step with his hands taped around the wooden spindles. Mrs. Whitaker is kneeling in the hallway.

“You have to open the doors and windows. Then go outside. Get away from the house.”

I descend, touching the wall with my right hand. I’m holding the pistol behind my back. As I get closer, I can see Mrs. Whitaker more clearly, but not her face. I want to see her face.

“Open the windows, Evie. Then leave.”

“What about you?”

“The police will cut me free.”

“Stay where you are!” Mrs. Whitaker gets to her feet. Swaying. Sweating.

I am between steps. The gun is heavy in my hand. I pull it out, aiming at the center of her chest. Cyrus takes a sharp breath. He utters my name and the word “no.”

She turns to face me, holding the cigarette lighter in her hand, her thumb on the flint wheel.

“Don’t do it!” says Cyrus. “The gas!”

I realize my mistake, but don’t lower the gun.

“She’s not going to let us go,” I say.

“Yes, she is. We’re all getting out.”

“Are you letting us go?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer.

The gas and fumes are making me light-headed. Rocking forward, I catch myself before I fall, and slide down onto a step, holding the gun in my lap, no longer aiming.

Cyrus looks up at me. “We’re getting out of here.”

“She’s not going to let us go,” I say.

“Yes, she is.”

“No.”

Mrs. Whitaker hasn’t spoken. I give her the evil eye. It’s the look I sometimes used on Guthrie and Miss McCredie and kids who pissed me off at Langford Hall.

“You’re too selfish to let us go,” I say. “It’s always been about you. You wanted a baby so badly, you cheated on your husband. You wanted Aiden to go to Cambridge because it made you look good. You wanted Jodie to get rid of the baby because it threatened your secret. You’re such a coward you can’t even die alone.”

Anger flares in her eyes.

“You asked me about my mother. You see this?” I open the palm of my left hand and show her a tortoiseshell button the size of a fifty-pence piece. “It’s all I have left of her. She had this bright red coat with a fur-lined collar that she said made her feel like a Russian czarina. I think that means princess. She was wearing it when they found her body. I hugged her for as long as I could, until they had to bend back my fingers to make me let go. When she’d gone, I found this button in my fist.”

I close my fingers and hold it against my cheek.

“She gave up—just like you’re doing. She abandoned me. She pushed me away. For years I told myself that I didn’t blame her, but I’ll never forgive her because she can’t tell me why.”

There is a beat of silence and I wonder if anyone is listening.

Slowly, Mrs. Whitaker gets up from her knees. She glances into the kitchen.

“I’ll turn off the gas. You open the door,” she says.

I slide down the stairs until I reach Cyrus. I don’t have the knife.

“Open the front door,” he says, nodding along the hallway.

I’m a step below him when I hear a surprised cry or half a curse. In that same instant, the house seems to breathe in and then out, as though someone has suddenly opened the window of a moving car, lifting dust and litter from the floor. The world explodes around us, filling the air with wood, plaster, dust, and debris. Flames shoot out of the kitchen doorway and suck back again as the walls buckle.

Mrs. Whitaker appears, her face blackened, eyes white and wide. She touches her smoking head, as though seeking physical proof, and looks at me curiously before collapsing forwards. The entire back of her head has disappeared, and her clothes have burnt off like a plastic doll held too close to the fire.

The whooshing sound returns and fire rolls across the hallway ceiling to the library. I look at my pajamas and know I can’t survive.

Cyrus is yelling for me to get out. How? There’s no escape. The kitchen ceiling has collapsed, leaving the claw-footed bath where the table used to be. Flames have reached the front rooms, blocking the hallway. I hear the sound of smashing glass. Hoses are blasting water through the windows, turning spray to steam, but the fire has taken hold.

“Get out, Evie! Get out!”

I pull at the tape around his wrists and run my fingers down the lathe-turned spindle. Bending my leg, I kick hard, but I’m barefoot and don’t have the strength to break the wood. I scramble up the stairs and retrieve the pistol. Holding the barrel against the spindle, I unlock the safety and pull the trigger. The noise is louder than I expect, louder than the guns on TV and in films. Cyrus pulls free, scrambling to his feet, taking me with him.

“This way,” he says, tugging at my sleeve, wanting me to follow.