Home Before Dark: A Novel (20 page)

“Are you fucking with me?”

Even though I knew it was the worst possible way to greet my wife in the morning, I couldn’t help it. Discovering the record player back on the desk and playing that infernal song had put me in mood so dark that I’d spent the night tossing and turning, worried that as soon as I drifted off, the music would return.

When the thud from upstairs arrived at exactly 4:54, I knew sleep would never arrive.

My agitation was only heightened when I went down to the first floor and found the chandelier glowing as bright as the sun.

By the time Jess entered the kitchen, I couldn’t help but confront her.

“What are you talking about?” she said, her expression a mix of hurt and confusion.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. The record player was on again last night.”

“In your study?”

I huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Yes, in my study. I put it in the closet, but last night there it was, back on my desk and playing that stupid song. So, if this is some sort of prank, I need you to know it’s not funny. Not anymore.”

Jess backed against the counter, shrinking into herself. “I don’t know why you think I had anything to do with it.”

“Because you’re the only person who could have done it.”

“You’re forgetting about our daughter.”

Upstairs, the doorbell chimed. I ignored it. Whoever it was could wait.

“Maggie’s not that crafty.”

“Really?” Jess said. “I know you think she’s Daddy’s little girl and can do no wrong, but she’s not as innocent as she looks. I’m pretty sure half of this imaginary-friend stuff is just to get your attention.”

I barked out a laugh so bitter it surprised even me. “Is that your excuse for this record-player bullshit?”

By then, I knew the fight was about more than just a record player. It was about everything that had happened since we moved to Baneberry Hall. Ten days of headaches and regrets and tension that had gone unaddressed until that moment. Now it was out, flaring up with the heat and speed of a wildfire.

“I didn’t touch your record player!” Jess shouted. “And if I did, it would have been justified, considering you’re the one who forced us to move into this godforsaken house.”

“I didn’t force you!” I yelled back. “You loved this house, too.”

“Not as much as you. I saw it on your face the moment we stepped inside. That this was the house you wanted.”

“You could have said—”

“No?” Jess said, cutting me off. “I tried, Ewan. It didn’t work. It never works. You debate and cajole until you get your way. Always.
And Maggie and I have no choice but to go along with it. Now we’re in a house with a fucking graveyard out back and our daughter acting weirder than she’s ever acted before and then this goddamn ceiling—”

She stopped, red-faced and sobbing. Tears streamed down her cheeks—a sight I couldn’t bear under any circumstances. I was about to pull her into my arms, hug her as tight as I could, and tell her everything would be okay. But then she spoke again, and it stopped me cold.

“And don’t even get me started on Petra.”

My spine stiffened. “What about her?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her, Ewan. I saw you take her picture yesterday.”

“You were in the picture, too.”

“Only because I happened to be standing there.”

I was incredulous. I had as much sexual interest in Petra Ditmer as I did in Hibbs.

“She’s a child, Jess. The idea that I have the hots for her is ridiculous.”

“Almost as ridiculous as me getting up in the middle of the night to turn on a record player I’ve never even seen.”

Jess wiped her eyes and left the kitchen. I followed, chasing her up the steps to the first floor.

“Jess, wait!”

She continued up the servants’ steps just outside the dining room, storming upstairs. I stopped, caught short by the sight of someone standing in the great room, framed by the doorway that separated it from the dining room.

Petra Ditmer.

“I rang the doorbell,” she said. “Maggie let me in.”

“How long have you been here?” I said.

“Not long,” Petra said, even though the flush on her cheeks
made it clear she’d heard, if not everything, then at least a big chunk of our argument.

“This isn’t a good time, Petra.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” She looked at the floor, nervous. “But I read the letters last night. The ones that were in the ceiling.”

Petra dug into the backpack she was carrying and removed the envelopes, now individually sealed in plastic bags. Pressing them into my hands, she said, “You’ll want to read these, Mr. Holt.”

I dropped the letters onto the dining room table. At that moment, they were the least of my concerns. “I will, but—”

Petra scooped them up and pushed them back into my hands. “Now,” she said. “Trust me.”

The letters sat open on the floor of the Indigo Room, where Petra and I had retreated after she demanded I read them. There were four of them, handwritten in a swooping, elegant script.

“All of them were written by someone named Callum,” Petra said. “They’re addressed to Indigo, which makes me think she hid them in the floorboards after she read them. You know, for safekeeping.”

“Why would she need to hide them?”

Petra pointed to the first letter. “The answer’s right there.”

I picked it up, the paper as rigid as parchment, and began to read.

July 3, 1889

My dearest Indigo,

I write these words with a heavy heart, having just spoken to your father. As we both feared, my darling, he has
unconditionally refused to give me permission to ask for your hand in marriage. The reasons for his decision were exactly the ones we had anticipated—that I lack the means to provide you with the lifestyle to which you are accustomed and that I have proven myself not a whit in the world of business or finance. Although I pleaded with him to change his thinking, assuring him that if you become my wife you will want for nothing, he refused to entertain the matter. Our plan to join our lives as husband and wife the proper way—with your father’s blessing, before the eyes of God, and witnessed by those closest to us—has come to a shattering end.

Yet I retain hope, my beloved, for there is another way in which we can become man and wife, although it is one I wished with all my heart to avoid. Since your father has made it abundantly clear his opinion won’t be swayed, I boldly suggest we defy his wishes. I know of a reverend in Montpelier who has agreed to join us in marriage without the consent of your family. I know full well that elopement is a drastic undertaking, but if your love for me is as strong as you claim, then I beseech you to consider it. Please reply immediately, telling me of your decision. Even if it is no, I assure you I will remain, always and forever—

Your faithfully devoted,

Callum

I lowered the letter, my gaze moving to the painting above the fireplace. Hibbs had told me the story about Indigo’s failed attempt to run off with the man who’d lovingly created that portrait, and I wondered if he and the letter writer were one and the same.

Standing, I approached the painting, once again amazed at the amount of detail on display. The joyful spark in Indigo’s eyes. The hint of a smile in her ruby lips. The individual strands of fur on the rabbit she was holding. Other than the cracked paint around the rabbit’s eyes, the work was flawless. I wasn’t surprised one bit when I looked to the bottom right corner and found the artist’s name.

Callum Auguste.

“It was him,” Petra said, suddenly beside me. “He’s the dude who wrote the letters.”

“Yes,” I said, chuckling at her word choice. “The very same dude.”

We returned to the letters on the floor, where I proceeded to read the rest, beginning with one dated three days after the first.

July 6, 1889

My darling Indigo,

My heart has been singing with joy since receiving your reply, and will continue to rejoice for the rest of my days. Thank you, my dearest one, for agreeing to my plan, despite how much it pains you to disobey your father’s wishes. I know the bond between you is stronger than what most fathers and daughters share. You are the apple of his eye, and one cannot blame him for wanting only the best for you. It is my greatest hope that he will soon come to understand and accept what we already know—that all you and I require is our undying love.

I have spoken again with the reverend who has agreed to marry us in secret. He would like to perform the ceremony within the next two weeks. While I’m aware that doesn’t provide you with ample time to prepare for such a life-changing
event, it’s better to do this sooner than later. To delay our nuptials any longer would be to risk your father discovering what we are planning. I have already made arrangements to have a carriage waiting outside Baneberry Hall’s gate at the stroke of midnight in nine days’ time. At the reins will be a trusted friend of mine who has already agreed to take you to the place where we will exchange vows. A place that I am reluctant to disclose in this letter, for fear it will somehow get into the wrong hands. Prepare as much as you are able as discreetly as possible. When the clock strikes midnight, make your escape, hoping that someday your father’s opinion of our marriage will have changed and you will be allowed to return to the home you so love, this time as my wife.

Forever yours,

Callum

July 10, 1889

My beloved Indigo,

Your most recent letter has me concerned, more than I care to admit. Do you suspect your father has somehow received word of our plan? If so, what reason do you have to believe he knows? I pray this suspicion is merely the result of nervousness about what we are about to do, for no good can result from your father’s knowledge. I urge you once again to go about this with the utmost secrecy.

Yours in devotion,

Callum

July 15, 1889

Fear grips me as I write these words—a deep, bone-rattling fear that your father plans to stop our impending marriage by any means necessary. I gather from your last letter than he does indeed know what we have planned, even though he has yet to admit as much. Do not trust him, my dearest. The only thing preventing me from storming the doors of Baneberry Hall and stealing you away is the knowledge that mere hours stand between now and the stroke of midnight. Remain strong and safe until then, my love.

Yours for eternity,

Callum

I lowered the last letter in a state of sadness, knowing that Indigo never did join poor, besotted Callum at the altar. Petra, sensing my grief, said, “She never married him, did she?”

“No,” I said. “The story I heard is that her father found out, stopped her from eloping, and forbade her from ever seeing Callum again.”

Petra let out a low whistle. “Damn. What did Indigo do?”

“She killed herself.”

“
Damn
.” Her expression grew pensive. “Indigo was how old when she died?”

“Sixteen,” I said.

“So am I. And trust me, if I was in love with someone, nothing would stop me from seeing him. Not even my mother. And I definitely wouldn’t kill myself.”

She sorted through the letters, ignoring their delicate state.
When she stabbed at one with an index finger, tiny chips fell from the page.

“Right here,” she said, reading aloud. “‘
Your father plans to stop our impending marriage by any means necessary.
’”

She passed the letter to me, and I read it again, paying close attention to Callum’s warning about William Garson.

Do not trust him, my dearest.

“What if—” Petra stopped herself, her cheeks flushing again, as if she knew what she was about to say was stupid. “What if Indigo Garson didn’t commit suicide? What if she was murdered by her father?”

I was thinking the same thing. I’d always thought the official story I got from Hibbs was missing a key element that tied it all together. This, I realized, could be it.

“I think you might be onto something,” I said. “The question is, what can we do about it?”

Petra arched a brow, as if the answer was obvious.

“We do some research,” she said. “And see if we can prove that William Garson was a killer.”