After Alice Fell(78)

“And Alice?”

“She made one too many complaints.”

I roll my hand in a fist. “Amos pushed her. Didn’t he?”

“I put her at Brawders to save her,” he says. “God, she was so—”

“But you didn’t save her. Amos pushed her off that roof. And you let it happen.” I roll my hand into a fist and try to yank away.

“I didn’t know. Not about that, not about Lydia. I promise you.”

“You’re a liar.”

“No. I thought Alice was safe.”

“Wasn’t it enough to commit her? Why? Why?”

“You were coming home. You would have listened. You did listen.” He gulps a breath and his hand drops from my arm. With shaking shoulders, he cries, hand tight to his mouth to hold in the sound, skin glistening with tears. He reaches out to me—for what? Forgiveness? Solace?

“The Asylum for the Insane is sending two men. Tomorrow morning.”

“You’re committing me?”

“For your own good. For your own life, Marion.”

“And what happens when she sends Amos for me? What then?”

“She won’t. Once we burn the factory, he’ll get his money. That’s what he wants. It’s all planned. New life.”

“You can’t get away with this Lionel. You’re just as complicit.”

“But we can. It’s all planned. We burn the factory. Get the insurance. New life.”

I can barely breathe. “Did you ever love Lydia?”

“I’ll live with my mistake.” He pushes up from the floor, bumps against the wardrobe. “Where are the slides?”

“You helped kill her.”

The knob on the wardrobe snaps in his grasp. “No.”

“You’re a liar. You knew exactly where to find her. You knew to bring rope. You knew because you waited—”

He lunges toward me, shoving me to the bed, his hands pressed on my shoulders. “Shut up. I’m trying to save you.”

“Have you even thought about your son? Cathy hates him.”

“Shut up.”

My blows slide from his shoulders and land on his back, then against his waist. “Let us go. Both of us. I won’t say a word. Look at me, Lionel.” I ratchet a breath. “I know you love her. Let it just be you and her. Just you and her. Like you’ve always wanted. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

He swallows and lifts his chin.

“She’ll kill him too,” I whisper.

“No.” He pushes me into the mattress as he stands, staggering to the door. “It’s all planned. The hospital will keep you safe. I’ll keep him safe.”

“Leave the door open and let us go.”

“I never meant—”

The swing of the door snuffs the candle.

“Auntie . . .”

“No, Toby.”

Lionel spins around. “It’s all right,” he says, bending down to the boy. “Shush and go back to bed.”

“Toby . . .” My voice cracks. The floor shifts and sways as I stand; I set my feet wide for balance. Grab the bedpost to maintain myself. Then I thrust myself past Lionel, knocking him against the rocking chair. I grab the pitcher and swing it hard at his head. He lets out a groan, pats the back of his head, and stares at the blood. Then he grabs the mantel, stumbling and collapsing with a thud. Benjamin’s picture smacks on the floor with a loud snap of glass.

My ears ring with the next sudden silence.

“Toby?” Cathy’s voice glides down from the top of the stairs.

He turns toward her.

“No, Toby. No no no. You need to run.”

“Toby.” Cathy’s voice is sharp.

“Auntie—”

I can see his toes, the white soft of his bare feet, the sharp juts of ankle. “Go through the kitchen. Go to the fort.”

“Auntie—”

“Run.”





Chapter Thirty-One


Cathy steps to the entryway. Her skirts peel round the last post. She doesn’t rush. Just stands in place. Listening.

But Toby’s gone. I sit up, gulping air into my lungs. He’s out the door. I can see him in my mind’s eye. He’s fast, like a deer, eluding the moonlight.

“Lionel?” A singsong. One step on the hardwood, the next muffled on the runner.

“He’s in here.” I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them and slink to the mending basket, watching the doorway. I pull the cord to the skirts—clever Alice—and the bands lift the hem just above the ankle, enough so I won’t trip on the fabric.

The etui rests on the pile of clothes. I stick my thumbnail to the clasp, listen for the click, then turn the box upside down. The scissors tumble out. Such small shears. I squeeze the handles and hold it against my skirts.

Cathy is just outside the door. The key rattles in the lock, the tumblers grinding, metal on metal. She pushes the door open, silhouetted in the sconce’s light. She holds her bow near her thigh, the arrow nocked in the catgut string, tip pointing to the floor. Her head swivels to me. “Where is he?”

I set my feet, hoping against hope she won’t lift the bow in time. Then I lunge.