The Silent Girl: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller full of suspense, page 4
“Oh, that?” she says. “Dovemorn House. Just up the road. Bit of a local legend. There’s not that much to see now. Just a falling-down mansion and a bunch of sad stories.”
“I heard they were reopening,” I mention. “That they might be hiring for help.”
“Reopening?” She huffs a sigh of disbelief. “They’ll have a lot of work to do if that’s the case.”
“It was on a sign in town,” I answer. When I see a gravel drive that forks off to the right, I sit up and turn to face Peggy, who nods at me as if she knows I’m torn, as if I’m at the edge of something that, for some reason I can’t pinpoint, feels momentous. Looking in the mirror, I pull off my hat, fumble for the hairbrush in my bag, then try to tidy my hair. This is an act of deception—I can tell because it makes me more uncomfortable than brushing my hair ought to—I’d like to look like someone who hasn’t spent all day wandering town in the rain with nowhere to go, hair stuffed under a hat. I part it on the side to hide the scar at my temple and straighten my shirt.
“I think I’ll hop out here, if that’s okay?”
“You got it, Sophie,” she answers. The brakes sigh and screech as the truck comes to a stop, and I take my backpack and swing my legs toward the door. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Peggy.” I hesitate, then reach over and grab her hand, squeeze and let go before I jump to the ground. The lost-and-found ballcap is left on the seat, but I’m moving now, and don’t want to go back for it. One leap of faith wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe I could try another.
Ten
I walk a quarter-mile up the drive, which bends sharply uphill and around, and by the time I reach the tall iron gate I’m nearly out of breath. There’s nobody in sight, and though the rain has stopped, there’s a gentle mist that obscures the grounds from sight. The iron gate, wrapped with a length of chain secured with a massive padlock, connects on either side to a stone wall, too high to see over. On this side of the wall, a row of towering cedars casts a deep shadow, giving the impression almost of a moat. I step close to the gate to peer through the bars. I can see a few outbuildings, a scattering of overgrown thickets and thorns, a few stone structures that could be statues or fountains. But there’s nothing like a doorbell or a knocker, no way to ask to be let in. I turn to the side, eyeing the nearest tree. I walk over, grab the lowest branch, and try to climb up. When the soles of my shoes slip on the damp bark, I kick them off, hanging from the branch. Barefoot, it’s a quick climb. I find my balance on one of the large lower branches, holding to the others for support, before stepping lightly onto the top of the thick stone wall, and swinging myself down to the ground. A flock of creamy-gray birds shuffles and coos in my direction, but they don’t take flight. This side of the gate feels different: it’s quiet here. The heaviness of the stone at my back is a comfort, and, after a day of running, I lean against its cool solidity, a cushion of moss behind my shoulders, and feel a sigh of relief so sweet, rising from so deep in my body, I could almost cry.
But I won’t. Not least because I hear the sound of tires crunching on the gravel drive. Remembering I left my hat behind in Peggy’s truck, I figure she’s come back to return it, and walk toward the gate to greet her. The gravel is sharp under my feet, and I walk gingerly, then look up from my bare feet to see not Peggy at all, but a man.
“What the—” He’s as surprised to see me as I am to see him. “What are you doing here?” Before the scowl settles over his face, I see his eyes widen, just for a moment. I see I’ve frightened him.
“It’s alright—I just—”
“You shouldn’t be here.” His hair’s dark brown and wet from the rain. This is the man from the waiting room at the police station. His brow settles into an impassive line. “No trespassing.”
“I didn’t mean to trespass.”
I draw another deep breath, taking in the sweet fragrance of the cedars, and lift my chin to address him. He’s taller than I remembered, though I’m admittedly on the shorter side of average. “I heard that someone here was hiring. I came to see if a position was still available.” He digs in his pocket for a ring of keys, then shuffles through it, flicking suspicious glances in my direction.
“That why you’re here? On the wrong side of the gate?”
“I thought there might be an office,” I answer, more clearly this time. “I was looking for the owner.”
“The owner lives in California,” he scoffs. “I’m the caretaker. And interviews are by appointment only.” He finds the key he wants and opens the padlock, unwinding the chain. “Kids around here like to sneak in, get drunk, have pretend seances.”
“I’m not a kid,” I answer. He looks pointedly at my bare feet, his hands gripping the unlocked gate between us. “I climbed up the tree right there to get in. So if you have trespassers, that’s probably why.” If I had to guess, he’s in his late thirties, but it’s hard to tell. “My name’s Sophie.” Through the bars of the gate, I reach out to offer a handshake.
“Hi, Sophie.” When he finally speaks to me, I could swear he rolls his eyes. “Could you stand aside so I can open this?” With a sense of surprise that quickly turns into annoyance, I step back. He opens the gates and walks straight past me. I catch up to him, walking across the gravel as though it doesn’t hurt my feet.
“You’re still here,” he observes.
“Look, I’m really sorry for sneaking in. I didn’t mean to be rude.” I don’t want to tell him that I’ve spent the last three weeks in a hospital room, that I was afraid the wrong eyes might find me if I stayed on the other side of the gate. “I’m new to the area.”
“Oh, really?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me as he walks. “Where are you from, that a gate means something other than keep out?”
“Just listen. Please.” Turning so we’re face to face, I take two quick steps forward so that I’m now standing in his way. “I said, my name is Sophie. Tell me about the job.” When I offer a handshake for a second time, he grasps my hand, and I feel the brush of calluses on my palm.
“Nathaniel Wells,” he says. A moment passes, and I clear my throat with expectation. I pull my hand back, suddenly afraid the criss-cross of scars there is more visible than I think. “And you need to make an appointment.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Fine,” he sighs. “Landscaping. Garden work. Maintenance.” He takes off walking again, and when I hesitate, looks back at me as if to indicate I’m meant to follow him.
We pass what looks as though it might once have been a circular garden, with a low concrete wall dividing it into quarters, and a pathway carving through the middle. I try not to stare, though it’s impossible to stand here, in the ruins of something once so magnificent, without feeling a little humbled. When Nathaniel speaks again, I use it as an excuse to slow down, inching my sore feet from the gravel path onto the softer grass. “How’d you hear about the job?”
“I was—in town.” I weigh how much I can conceal without outright lying. “There’s a sign at the welcome center that says the house is opening for tours in the fall. Someone said you were hiring for help. That you were having trouble finding someone to work here.”
“Yeah?” he says. “Well, it’s hard work. And it’s nearly an hour to the closest town. There’s living quarters, decent enough to stay in, but no air conditioning. No phone.”
“Will you show me around?”
“No.” He answers so promptly, and with such certainty, that I can see something about him enjoys saying it.
“I’m already here.” I cross my arms and he rolls his eyes again. There are bits of wet grass and dirt in between my toes, and it takes all I’ve got to try to look serious.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll show you around. But it’s not an interview, the job is not on the table, and you wouldn’t be interested in it, anyway.”
“Fine.”
Nathaniel sets off again, and I try to match his pace. We face an expanse of overgrown foliage and structures—walkways, trellises, statuary—that I assume to have been a garden. It would be beautiful, I think, if it were cleaned up. No—it’s still beautiful. At the far end of the gardens, I can just make out the shape of a house, huddled in the mist like some kind of animal.
“Very brief background,” he says. “The house was built between 1904 and 1907. Marble from Italy, brought over by steamship and pulled up the mountain by horses. Ten dozen craftsmen worked on it over three years. Stained-glass windows by Tiffany himself. It was built as a gift from Colonel Atwood to his wife.”
“Wow,” I breathe. I stare as the marble house comes into view, four layers of windows flanked by a tower on either side. The windows are dark and the roof is strewn with fallen leaves and branches. One of the porches on the first level looks dangerously slanted. “Imagine someone giving you that as a present. How’d it end up like this?”
“You could say their marriage went south. Nobody’s lived here or maintained the place since the sixties. The owner hired me to chase off the occasional trespasser and then, six months ago, got the wild idea to open for tours. So, here we are.”
“That’s it?”
“I said I’d give you a brief background.” Nathaniel pauses and, in the short silence, I pull my jacket closer. I can’t tell if he’s looking at my ill-fitting clothes or if the scar on my temple is showing. “The Edwardians loved outdoor living spaces,” he says. “Walkways, courtyards, terraces. Most of the structure of the gardens is intact. What it needs is to be cleaned up, cleared out, and some of it replanted. It’s just too much for one pair of hands. Maybe too much for two,” he says, fixing me with a doubting look. “You live in town?” he asks. I nod my head, justifying the lie by telling myself it’s been mainly true until today. “It’s a long drive,” he says.
“You said there was a place to stay here?” As I wait for his answer, I see him sneak a look across the pond.
“Yeah, but—”
“Can I see it?” I ask. A long, quiet moment passes.
“It’s not in the best shape.”
“That’s fine.” I follow him across the grounds and over a footbridge that arcs over a wide pond, edged with overgrown ornamental grass and wildflowers.
“Watch your hand there,” he says, indicating a loose spot on the handrail. “I’m having it repaired, but it’s not steady right now.”
“Thanks.” He leads me across the garden, along a wide granite pathway covered with a high trellis, where climbing roses with peach- and white-colored flowers are in bloom.
When we reach the other side of the mansion, we walk up a small incline to see a much smaller stone dwelling built into the hillside. There’s a wooden door and a pair of windows either side. The upper part of the structure is perforated with little indents, almost as if someone meant to hide or plant something there. Rows on rows of them. I take a questioning step closer and place a hand on the stone wall. A dove startles and takes flight from one of the nests, fluttering past my shoulder. I gasp and stumble backward. For the first time, Nathaniel laughs.
“This was the dovecote. They used to keep doves here. There are no birds inside, but they still come to the nests.”
“Keep doves?” I ask. “How do you catch them?”
“You don’t catch doves.” For a second, something akin to a smirk softens his expression before it settles into a frown again. “You give them a safe place to stay, and sometimes they do.” He unlocks the door and pushes it open for me. Inside, it is quiet and shadowed. When Nathaniel turns on a light, I see what was once a small but graciously appointed study. By the windows at the front of the room, there’s a sprawling desk and a carved wooden chair, and I can sense the quality of the hardwood under my feet, despite its scratches.
“Even for estates of this period, a structure like this was unusual,” Nathaniel says. “But Zenaida—Mrs. Atwood—loved doves.”
“Zenaida,” I repeat, savoring the delightful-sounding name. The walls of the high-ceilinged room are hung with mirrors and paintings, I assume to carry light into the room from the front windows, all coated now with dust.
“Zenaida is also the Latin name of a type of dove,” he says. “Mourning doves. The ones you see out there. So, in a way, he named the house for her.”
“It’s so pretty,” I whisper, though there’s something of sadness in my tone. “Why hasn’t it been in use? It’s such a lovely building.” He gives a pointed look at the desk before speaking.
“Well, the family that was living in the house at that point didn’t want it. I think they repurposed the building as an alternative to demolishing it,” he answers. I lift my chin, look down the length of the wall at the carved chair rail, the stone fireplace in the corner adorned with carvings of autumnal fruits: apples, figs, pomegranates. It’s not in the best of condition, but the detail is striking.
“Why?” With a hesitant, almost reverent hand, I step closer to the fireplace, trace the carvings at eye level. Nathaniel clears his throat in a way that tells me he’s choosing his words carefully.
“The ghost stories started going around almost as soon as she disappeared,” he says. “It’s got historical value. But I think the truth is, nobody wanted to use it.”
“What happened?” I remember the secretary, as well as Peggy, both saying that the house was haunted.
“I don’t think anyone’s really sure. She left a cryptic note, like a poem or a riddle, almost. Left it on the desk, right there. A cook thought she saw Zenaida walking into the woods one evening, but nobody is exactly certain when she was last seen,” he adds. I can tell he’s skimming over things. “They never found her body.”
“Oh.” I hug my arms, rubbing my hands to warm them in the sudden chill. “Not even now?”
“One thing you’ve got to understand about the woods,” he says. “Even experienced hikers can get lost. The trees muffle sound.”
“Maybe she got lost, or…” I trail off.
“Maybe,” he agrees. “The note she left behind might contradict that.”
“What did it say?” I trace a hand along the massive desk, coated with dust.
“I don’t remember.” This is so obviously a lie that I’m ready to call him out on it, to insist he tell me, but he keeps talking. “Not long after, a gardener found one of her gloves in the rose trellis, way up, like it wasn’t there by accident. Several years later, a child found her wedding ring in the pool by the willow grove. A year after that, a hiking party found one of her shoes, out in the woods, ten miles in the other direction.” Nathaniel sees the look on my face and seems to snap back to normal. “Sorry—I did say I’d give you a brief background.”
I would have thought this kind of story would send me running. But the room has a feeling of invitation, almost, like an old friend asking me to stay and catch up. I’m relieved when Nathaniel opens the next door and points to a staircase. “Upstairs is the bedroom and bathroom. This part used to be the dovecote. They would come in through the holes in the wall and roost here. That’s why there aren’t windows on this side.” Turning back into the study, he points toward the back of the room. “This was used as servants’ quarters mid-century, and they added the kitchen and bedroom. It’s not state of the art, but everything works. There’s no laundry,” Nathaniel adds. “No storage. It’s fifty miles to the nearest gas station, let alone a town.”
“It’s fine.” I follow as he walks outside and shuts the door behind him. “When can I start?” Nobody will find me here, I know it. I imagine that I could sleep without waking in fear. That I could spend all my days working outside, keep moving until I’m tired enough to rest. And something about the landscape has me enchanted. But when Nathaniel Wells answers me, he’s shaking his head.
“I told you, the job’s not on the table. I don’t mean to be rude, Sophie, but I might have understated the situation: this is difficult, physical work. Landscaping, clearing brush—”
“I can do it,” I snap. I understand I’m being scrutinized, and the challenge sparks my temper. This place wants me: I can feel it. This man knows nothing about that. “No wonder you haven’t been able to hire anyone.” You’re insufferable, I add silently.
“I bet you’d quit inside a week,” he says. I look down at my crossed arms and remember the nurse telling me that I gave someone hell.
“Yeah? How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“One week. Trial period. You don’t even need to pay me.”
“Fine,” he agrees, as if daring me. “When can you start?”
“Anytime,” I retort.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says.
“Fine,” I repeat, my voice rising a note. Nathaniel takes a step back, as if he’s looking at me for the first time. It makes me nervous, and I stand here on edge, squeezing the necklace I carry in my pocket.
“Be here at eight,” he says. “And don’t feel bad if you change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind.” I brush past him, our shoulders almost colliding, and storm out into the open air. “No need to walk me out.”
Eleven
I leave Nathaniel standing outside the dovecote and walk briskly past the flowering trees, across the footbridge, and through the ruins of the elaborate gardens. The rain picks up again as I walk barefoot down the gravel drive, out through the gate. I retrieve my shoes from the foot of the cedar tree and gratefully slide my feet into them. I look over my shoulder with a scowl, whispering a few choice words in Nathaniel’s direction. Several yards from the gate, I find a dry spot to sit against the wall, under the branches of another tall cedar.
Wherever my brother is, I hope he’d be proud of how I’m looking out for myself. Thanks to the food pantry, I’ve got protein bars and a bottle of water for dinner. I open my sketchbook and uncap the brown marker, immediately begin a sketch of a dove, thinking as I sketch. Sleep is out of the question, but I’m certain I can find a place to wait out the night. As the rain continues at its steady pace, I put my sketchbook away. Though it’s nearly summer, clouds darken the evening. I pull my knees up to my chin and try to make myself as comfortable as I can. From a distance, I hear the startling clatter of the chain links. Nathaniel can’t see me from here, watching as he locks the gate for the evening. Walking into the fog, he paces along the length of the stone wall as though he’s looking for something. When he turns around and walks back, toward where I’m sitting, I lean back and try to disappear between the trees. Over the noise of the rain, I don’t hear his footsteps until he’s almost right in front of me.
