Beneath the Apple Leaves(95)

Claire followed Lily’s gaze, her eyes resting on her husband. “We’ll talk more downstairs,” she assented. “Let me just get dressed.”

Claire reached for the squeaky closet door and Lily grabbed her. “I have all your clothes downstairs. Have coffee already made.” Her voice cracked with pleading.

In the kitchen, Lily went from cupboard to cupboard. Opened and closed—click, click, click. She shoved bread and cans in a burlap bag, her fingers frantic, the items wobbling in her shaking hands. By the door, two traveling bags limp with the few clothes inside, the money divided and stuffed in the corners. She was sick to her stomach, the nausea threatening to make her retch. Adrenaline made her sweat even in the cool air.

Claire’s firm, pale hand grabbed her forearm, stopped her wild movements. “What’s going on, Lily?”

Lily covered her face, bent into tears. “We need to go,” she croaked. “Please, Claire. Please don’t ask me why. Just—” She pleaded with every cell. “Just please come with me.”

Fear entered Claire as it always did, swift and with images that left her hollow. “No.” She retreated, stilted in her withdraw. “No. I-I-I can’t leave and you know it. He’ll tell. He’ll tell what I did.” The terror seized Claire in a choke hold and she curled into the corner. “I-I-I can’t leave! I can’t—”

The clock ticked louder, beat in Lily’s chest. Her stomach twisted—around and around—squeezed. She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her head low, swollen tears dropping to the floorboards. She fell to her knees in front of Claire. Please hold me, she wanted to weep. For once, help me.

Lily’s mouth stretched in a silent wail. She clutched Claire’s cold hands. “I need your help.” The request was a rush of air with only a hint of sound attached.

Claire blinked. The stuttering mouth and limbs stopped. Lucidity entered sedately. “Did Frank hurt you?”

Her bones crumpled, her voice mute. She nodded, embraced her waist with wrapped arms, curled into the agony that ate with gnashing teeth.

“He let a man hurt me.” Her throat strangled, but she forced the words. “Let a man hurt me like Papa hurt you.”

Claire’s eyes died. The face rigid and ghostly white, lost.

“Please come with me.” Lily looked into the face of the woman who had raised her, birthed her. The curse of what she was, of her constant reminder to Claire of what had happened to her, haunted. “Please, Mama. Help me.” Mama. She had never said the word before, the title longing and horrific for them both.

Tears dripped in solid lines down the woman’s cheeks. “He’ll tell them, Lily.” The fight, the panic, evaporated, resignation in its place. “He’ll tell them I killed Papa.”

Lily drifted into the haze of that day, the picture now crisp. He had come for her. The belt lashed red fire across her shoulder, then the backs of her legs as she ran in circles around the house to escape. He was faster, snapping the leather at her heels. Claire chased him and screamed for him to stop, tugged at the belt until her hands bled. Lily had stopped then, dead in her tracks. Tired of running. Weak from terror. Ill with Claire’s wounds. She closed her eyes, waited for all to end. A gun fired. A high-pitched shriek. A splash. Her eyes opened. Her father gurgled in the reddening puddle. Claire dropped the gun, her body quaking. Lily held her—two shaking figures in the stillness.

Lily reached for her sister, for her mother, as she did that day, but she no longer shook. “No.” A final word that left no room for debate. “He won’t tell. And even if he did, we’ll be too far away.” She placed a gentle hand on Claire’s skirt. “We can start over. You and me. In a place where nobody can hurt us. Never again.”





CHAPTER 48

The pounding at the front door rattled the house. Eveline wiped the steam from her eyes and put the lid back on the soup before heading to the porch. The knock picked up, and by the time she saw who was at the door Frank had turned the handle and entered.

“Where are they?” he hollered.

Eveline stepped back, his figure looming in the open doorway.

“Where the hell are they?” He stormed past her, into the kitchen, through the dining room and back around again through the parlor. Eveline stationed herself inertly, too shocked to move, to be angry at the forced entry.

He circled again, a caged animal, went to the bottom of the steps. “Claire!” he yelled. “Lily! I know you’re up there!” He ran up the stairs two at a time, yelling their names to the empty rooms.

He barreled downstairs and grabbed Eveline’s arm. “Where are they?”

She looked at the large hand on her sleeve. There was a time his touch would have given her a rush, made her flush to her hairline. She met his unhitched gaze stonily. There had been a time she had found the face handsome. Strong and handsome. But now? Grotesque, the features transformed into monstrous flesh, devilish and distorted. She jerked her arm away and spit, “They aren’t here.”

“They’re with Andrew, aren’t they?” He headed to the door, shoulders first, his fists balled.

This time she grabbed him by the back of the shirt with as much force as to rip the seams. “They aren’t here, I said!”

He grabbed at his face, the anger turning it bright red, but somewhere he heard the truth of her words and his fists unclenched. “Then where the hell are they?” Frank suddenly fell silent—an eerie space filled with comprehension. “She drugged me.” He turned to Eveline slowly. “That little whore drugged me.”