The Spite House(85)

Beyond basic necessities, he gave Eleanor and Owen an outside chance at reclaiming the inheritance they shouldn’t have lost and would never have known about if they never came back to Degener. He was still waiting for the appropriate time to make them aware of this. Someday soon, he was going to tell them their complete history. What their ancestor died for, what the Houghtons did to repay them, what their father sold and surrendered. What the Houghtons, with all of their might and influence, refused to help him retain.

He might never get a legitimate chance to undo the iniquity done to him, but he could ensure the children understood what was rightfully theirs, and instill in them the verve to fight for it. Someday, he used to tell himself, as soon they’re old enough, I’ll tell them everything, and they’ll understand better than Lukas ever did.

Someday never came.

The day that they disappeared, Peter came home to find Eleanor sitting by herself at the kitchen table. She looked like she was asleep. Her head rested in the crook of her folded arms. Her body did not jerk with sobs and her voice did not hitch with them either, so Peter was surprised to see her face soaked in tears when she lifted her head and looked at him.

“Something happened,” Eleanor said.

He set the groceries down. She had a bad dream, he presumed. Or one of the orphan children said something especially terrible to her. If that was it, then enough was enough. He was going to speak to the Sisters about it. He had seen Eleanor look sad before, but never distraught like this. Not even at the funerals for her parents and cousins.

“What happened?” he said.

“Owen is gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s gone.”

“What are you saying? He ran off?”

“No,” she said. “He was upstairs in the hall. That stupid hall you built. He locked himself in and wouldn’t let me in. I upset him. I said awful things.”

Peter sighed, relieved that he wouldn’t have to go chasing after Owen in the woods, thinking of a fitting punishment for when he found him. “So he’s just upstairs. You worried me, Eleanor. You shouldn’t say he’s ‘gone’ if he’s just trying to hide from you—”

“He’s not hiding, he’s gone. Can’t you ever listen for once? He’s vanished. He’s missing.”

Peter’s blood started to race. “So he did run away?”

“No. He was in the hallway. He wouldn’t let me in. He said he was going to disappear. He said he didn’t want to be here anymore. And then when I got the door open, he wasn’t there. He couldn’t have gotten out without me seeing or hearing, even when I came to the kitchen to get a knife—”

“A knife?” Peter said.

“Just to open the door with,” she said. “Not a sharp knife. Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking, I can see it in your face. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. I love him. Not like you.”

Peter stared at her. “We’ll address that little comment after I get your brother.”

“I told you, he’s gone. I’ve already looked for him.”

As he marched to the staircase, Peter called out to Owen, told him to come out of hiding. “I mean it, boy. If I find you somewhere after I’ve told you to come out, you’re going to be in a world of trouble.”

He went downstairs first, to sweep the building from the ground up, not wanting to get caught upstairs in case his nephew was on the ground floor where he could run outside.

There was nowhere for the boy to hide downstairs. Peter walked back up to the second floor, where Eleanor watched him without helping. He looked everywhere he could think of, including the pantry, which was much too shallow to hide a boy of Owen’s size. On the third floor the only viable hiding spots were Eleanor’s armoire, the hallway, and the bathroom. Peter did not find Owen in any of these places.

He checked his bedroom last. He did not find Owen in his wardrobe or under his bed. Peter thought he must have somehow missed him, and returned to the first floor to cover the house again, calling out Owen’s name more angrily now.

When the boy did not turn up after the second search, Peter went to Eleanor. “You need to tell me the truth about what happened.”

“I told you,” she said.

“Did he really run off, Eleanor? You’ve had me searching inside this house the whole time, I could’ve been out there finding him.”

“He was in the hallway. I told you.”

“What did you get the knife for? Did you do something? If it was an accident, it’s fine,” he said, though his tone and volume indicated it was far from fine. “You just need to be honest with me about what happened.”

“He disappeared,” Eleanor said. “It’s not my fault. The house made it happen. Your house. This is your fault. Why did you make us live here?”

“Eleanor, we don’t have time for this. Your brother is missing.”

“You don’t care about that. You don’t even want us. You just want to hurt Daddy, and he’s not even alive anymore. So you took us here to make us as miserable as you. You’re only made of hate, just like this house. What is wrong with you?”

“Enough!” Peter said. He took her by her shoulders and shook her. He never laid a hand on either child before this, but he also hadn’t encountered a moment like this. Owen was gone, and Eleanor was saying things she couldn’t possibly believe. Horrible lies. She must have done something to her brother and was trying to pass her guilt on to him. That was the only explanation. She was smart enough to know why he took them in. The twins died just months later, and all that talk at the funeral of them dying of loneliness without the children was nonsense. They were old. He’d recognized that and made the only sensible choice.