Help for the Haunted(131)

“Rose,” I said, deciding once and for all that this      conversation had to wait. “I am going to call an ambulance. We need to get you      help.”

I stood, went up the stairs. In the kitchen, I      walked to the phone on the wall, only when I picked it up, there was no dial      tone. I clicked the receiver a few times, but the line was dead.

Hands shaking still, I went to the freezer and      pulled out an ice tray to get ice for Rose’s leg. But the tray was empty.      Instead, I grabbed a bunch of Popsicles, wrapped them in a dishtowel, and rushed      back down the stairs.

In the brief time I had been upstairs, the air in      the basement had changed. Outside the window, the light was just the same. That      bare, yellowy bulb still glowed on the ceiling as well. The dank, loamy smell      still hung in the air. And yet, I had the sense that something had shifted.      “Rose,” I said, pressing that cool towel to her leg. “The phone isn’t      working.”

“Sylvie, you better go.”

“What? Go where?”

“Anywhere. Just not here.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

I heard a sound in the corner of the basement then,      from behind that partition. I stood, remembering the reason I had been so      determined to come down here in the first place. I thought of Emily Sanino      humming “Happy Birthday.” I thought of that cake she left. I thought of all      those candles too. And then I walked over and stepped to the other side of that      paneled wall. There was only the empty cot covered with rumpled sheets. On the      small dresser by the sliding door that led out onto the backyard, I saw a stack      of empty Tupperware containers that had been left on our stoop.

I stepped back to the other side and looked at my      sister, who had propped herself up into a slumped position against the stairs      and was nursing her leg. “So those noises I heard, they were her?”

Rose nodded. “She was here for a few weeks after      the murders. But then we agreed she had to go. Any plans we had made could no      longer be. At least not until you were grown and gone and nobody suspected      anything. But then—”

Again, I heard a noise somewhere behind me in the      basement. I turned and looked into the shadows, where my father’s old dental      chair remained untouched still. Just beyond, I could see the fuse box and a      tangle of wires on the wall. It was then that I realized the phone cord had been      cut. I was not sure what to do so I turned back to Rose. “But then what?”

“But then Franky didn’t stay away. She couldn’t.      And the truth was, I didn’t want her to. So without telling me beforehand, she      came back. On Halloween night, while I was out and you were here alone, she      slipped in through the sliding door and waited for me. That’s when you first saw      the light on again. I told her it was better to just leave it on, because I knew      it would keep you from coming down here, since you thought it had to do with Mom      and Dad and the things they did when they were alive. I knew you still      believed.”

I stood for a moment, staring at my sister,      wondering how she was capable of keeping so much hidden for so long. “Did you      . . .”

“Did I what?”

“Did you kill them?”

She shook her head.

“Say it!” I shouted. “I want to hear you tell me      that you didn’t!”

“No,” she said, crying and shaking her head more.      “No. No. No. It was Franky. She did it, Sylvie.”

I felt cold all over. Pinpricks up my arms and down      my legs and across my stomach. My entire body was shivering now and I could do      nothing to stop it. Voice trembling, I asked, “How could you cover for her,      Rose? How could you let me go on thinking I had seen someone I did not?”

“Because I loved her. And she did it because she      loved me.”

No noise came from behind me, but I saw Rose’s gaze      shift over my shoulder. I felt a presence there, and so I turned around.

For an instant, all those pictures in the living      room of Emily Sanino flashed in my mind. I saw the young woman before me as a      dark-haired toddler in a pink dress, a few years older at the beach in a bright      one-piece bathing suit, as a lanky adolescent with a mouth full of braces and a      T-shirt that said GOD’S LOVE SUMMER CAMP. I      remembered the trophies with the little golden girl on top. Track awards. And      now that track star Rose had dated was standing before me, head shaved to the      scalp just as it must have been that night at the church, one of the few details      that had led me to believe it was Albert Lynch who knocked me down on his way      out the door. In one ear, she sported a small silver cross, the sort my mother      used to wear, but the effect was menacing instead of peaceful. When she spoke,      her voice was more composed than I would have imagined. She asked, “What did you      do to Rose?”