The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

4. Dead Nights

Dead Nights

Wednesday, Present

T he Nest is as rich as I left it. Saturated silk fabrics adorn every seat, their black sheen only obstructed by the elaborate gold stitching fitting for any 19th-century style home. Bookcases surround the perimeter while rich mahogany tables are scattered between the couches and chairs, lending the space to set a drink or grab a book for a quick read in their dark corners. Madeline would have you believe it all inherited from Edgar himself, but history tells us the only fortune left by him was his name.

Chances are, everything here was custom made, orchestrated to fit the depiction popularity made of a man long since dead. A weight every member of this family has passed from shoulder to shoulder. No matter the generation of the heir, the expectations of history never changed. Trinkets of the Poe family were handed down to bolster the reputation that came with it, such as royalty did with their crowns. Except these items were meant to drown you in more than just power. They were meant to burrow into your feelings under the guise of unrequited love. Of death. Of murder.

Fitting, we would all meet here to say our first intimate goodbyes to the lost son. The performative nature of the whole thing makes my stomach turn. But as much as all of this is the exact opposite of everything Paxton was, I knew he would have loved it. When you’ve lived with your legacy being passed over you in life, it’s only natural to hope it’ll finally be given with your goodbyes.

Cocktail tables and candlelit centerpieces cluttered the center of the room, forcing the crowd of mourners to be shoved together. Few small groups stray from the throng to huddle in the shadowed corners, whispering amongst their own. My feet step onto the ornamental red rug that holds the main mingling area of the room, and silence descends and my presence is acknowledged.

“Evangeline. It’s so good of you to come,” Madeline Poe, in her spiked black heels, tight black dress, and ornate black veil, drifts to me. The matriarch of the family only by her marriage to Alexander, although you would never know she wasn’t born for this. She grabs both my cheeks in her delicate hands, kissing each before releasing me.

Her eyes are sharp, flashing from silver to blue, the same as Paxton’s. She looks me up and down, her neck and shoulders bending out of sync, a posture that no ordinary woman would care to hold for a moment, let alone a lifetime, as she undoubtedly has. Stick a needle-thin cigarette holder between her fingers and you would believe she was simply posing for a photo with the way her hips push forward and her back curves into a ‘C’. I cringe at just the thought of how her bones must wish to snap.

In our closeness, I can see the drag of her lips and the creasing of her skin that mourns even when she cannot. A lover of death who’s supposed to smile in the face of her son being taken by its cruelty. She may not openly show it, but she hates this. Or me seeing her vulnerable . A slice of sympathy brushes my heart like a paper cut.

"Hi, Madeline. It's good to see you again. I am so sorry it's under these circumstances." I squeeze her hand, which has somehow fallen into mine.

We're both being cold and polite. Even though we're broken. That's what Poe women do. They never have the luxury of falling down rabbit holes or getting lost in temporary insanity. Only the men, with weaker hearts and flowery words, get the privilege. We all have expectations to uphold, and it’s what she demands of me. What she always has. And tonight, in this room full of unwanted memories, I'm more than happy to don the mask for her.

She nods her appreciation before guiding me further into the room, displaying me to those within.

"Most of you are well acquainted with our dear Evangeline." She tilts her chin to her husband, Alexander, who winks back at us with a cautious smile. " But for those of you who are not, please know that she is family. She will be afforded the same grace you bestow on us, as she has also lost a great deal."

My breath catches at the public display. Never has she so openly claimed me, and my guard immediately shoots up. While this is a private gathering, these are not all friends. Apparently, the political balance of wealth asks you to sleep with knives, even at a wake. Madeline has just made a strategic move to let everyone know that I'm in play, an ally in their games, and that Paxton and I shared a great bond. There are many things I mourned when I left this family. This is not one of them.

My belief in Oliver’s accusations strengthens. I vow to remember this isn’t a normal family with coincidences and meaningless threats. Everything here has a purpose. The hairs on my arms rise in trepidation. Not that this game is unusual, but that this is allowed to happen now and that I’m being herded into the fold is. Oliver’s words play over in my head, and I can’t help my mind from wandering. Is the murderer here? What is Madeline hiding? Whose side am I on? Before I can let my curiosity run any further, I feel Alexander Poe’s arms wrap around me.

“I am so glad you decided to come. I was worried after we didn’t receive your RSVP…” he whispers down to me.

All I can do is nod my head in acknowledgment. He has the exact opposite effect on me than his wife, making me melt into him. If there is one Poe I have always been sure of, it is Alexander. His hug warms pieces of me that have been numb for years. Pieces I didn’t realize needed to be thawed. I beg my tears to hold back under the weight of his familiarity, the only father I’ve ever considered good . The only man who hasn’t tried to break me with his love.

“You have grown into a beautiful lady, Evangeline. You must find me once this is done and tell me all about your adventures,” he whispers so softly no one else can hear.

He carefully pulls away, and I can breathe again. My eyes stay dry, at least for now, and I cannot send up enough thank-you prayers for their obedience. He sends me off into the crowd with a nod. I take small steps deeper into the Nest, eyes focused on a dim nook in the back corner where I can hide. The room begins to move and swell, an ocean confined only by the wood and paint covering these walls. Hands are thrust into mine, names from those I don’t already know thrown without caution or intent to be remembered .

I am adrift until a hand I know as well as my own grasps mine in its warm embrace. The sweet smell of maple dashed with espresso fills my nose, giving me gooseflesh in anticipation, as Oliver bends down to my cheek. He kisses me once, the public greeting I can only imagine every gossip in here has been holding their breath over. I haven’t been heard from in years, and they all know the swiftness and secrecy of our falling out can only mean scandal, no matter how Madeline tried to spin it.

Their eyes burn into us from all corners, whispers waiting to dissect every shift my face makes. Not for the first time, I wonder what Oliver and Paxton have told them in my absence. Did they stick to Madeline’s lie that I was not accepted into Harvard with the boys? That I could only live on their coattails so long? I school my irritation, my hurt, my memories. Here in this den of snakes, I cannot be angry with the past. Or with Oliver.

I lean into his lips, the shock of them on my skin enough to break me, but I hide away the pieces as we step apart. The slick of my teeth being cooled tells me I must be smiling. Oliver doesn’t return it, but no one would expect him to. If the rumors are true, the writer of heartbreak doesn’t smile often anymore.

His eyes roam over my face, falling back to lock in with my own. Is he forgetting the past too? Is this how the world starts anew? His voice comes out firm, not loud, but commanding all the same. He wants us to be heard.

“The wind drifts you back. I feel complete now that you’re here, and yet so many pieces are still missing, with Paxton gone. I wish we had reunited under different stars. Still, death is not the end—for any of us—but especially for Paxton. We will lay his name, and his secrets, bare, so as to mourn him properly.”

I can’t control myself from glancing around at the faces that are eyeing us, wondering if Oliver’s veiled words are a threat to someone in this room or if they’re a promise of retribution meant just for us. Oliver and Paxton Poe could not have been more different, but they loved each other fiercely. If Paxton was murdered, Oliver would not rest until he believed justice had been served. That, or revenge .

Pinpricks spread through my limbs. Not trusting myself to speak, I find Oliver’s hand and tangle my fingers in his, giving a light squeeze. Even though his picture on the jackets of his books I sort at the library does little to me after all these years, being together in the flesh again is electric. His eyes shine brighter, the ghost of a grin threatening to split his drawn features, but doesn’t. It’s just for the watchers.

I tell myself half-truths that even I can’t fully believe.

Apparently, Oliver doesn’t either. He seizes my change in demeanor, sweeping our hands into the crook of his arm, never loosening his grip.

“Eve,” he breathes, a plea I know all too well. “I would like to introduce you to a few new friends.”

He says the word friends as if they are thorns and the word new as if it is painful. I nod, allowing him to guide me away from his parents, who are whispering to the Hortons, who live six houses down. We make our way through a few more people whose smiles are razors, as I pass, making me quirk an eyebrow at their display. Whispers and smiles are weaponized, like heartbeats to the guilty. I make sure to show them I have no shame to hide.

When I’m sure I can take no more of being a spectacle, we stop in front of the literary classics bookcase. Their shelves are meticulously cataloged to contain all the ‘ necessary knowledge of the greats before us’, as Madeline has told me many times before. The worn spine of Crime and Punishment nestled almost lovingly against Othello catches me, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s an omen.

One man looking to be around my age stands in a dark grey suit, absorbed by a woman, at least ten years my senior, who is all but whispering a story to him. Her features are sharp, demanding, showing the calculation of someone who’s been around the board enough to know how to play the game. Everything about her is obstinate, except for her size, which looks as if a strong wind might break her.

The man beside her, however, is a boulder, average in height, but not in the width of his shoulders or in the trunks he calls legs. The closer I get, the more I realize how mundane he seems. All but his eyes. One, ice blue as an ocean cap. The other, murky brown as the mud in a pond.

When we approach, the conversation stops, both turning to us, faces stiff, as if we are intruding on something private. The man holds out his hand in greeting.

“Oliver,” he says as their palms clasp, skin slapping at the force.

“Hey, Issac. Thank you for coming. I wanted to introduce someone very close to both Pax and I.” He gestures his head towards me. “This is Evangeline Pierce. She’s lived with us since childhood. The final letter in the Poe name. ”

The old misnomer guts me, but I work to keep my face passive as Issac looks between us, a violent grin lighting his face.

“Eve! It is so nice to meet you. Pax spoke of you often. It’s almost as if I already know you.”

His hand is outstretched, but Oliver doesn’t to let my arm go. I’m unable to pull from him without making a scene, leaving me no choice but to use my left hand. Issac takes it, paying no mind to the awkwardness. Instead of shaking it, as I expect, he leans down and presses a light kiss to its top. Oliver squeezes me tighter.

“Lovely to meet you,” he whispers, eyes lingering on mine. A jolt of fear goes through me, intuition telling me to tread carefully. He lets me go and turns to the woman. “No doubt you noticed the resemblance, but in case not, this is my dear cousin, Emily Monroe.”

I hadn’t noticed the similarities until he’d said something, but now they sit, striking their familiar ties. She doesn’t move to greet me, instead she hardly tilts her chin in acknowledgment. Thankfully, Oliver’s voice interrupts the silence.

“Issac and my brother were working together on a project to bring the decomposition of dead bodies into becoming living plants to the mainstream. They were working on ways to allow for permitting so families could bury their loved ones on their own properties.” Oliver produces a slick smile, one he reserves for the social climbers and press, as he moves tighter to me. “They were also working on several other cost-effective solutions for people to honor their dead without going bankrupt, from what I understand. You see, the Langleys own practically every morgue in this and the surrounding three states.”

“Yeah, and there is no one better to go into a morbid, yet necessary, business with than a Poe,” Issac says as he claps Oliver on the back.

The boys dig into where the project left off, what patents are left, the contracts that need to be found and filed, and what will happen now with Paxton gone. I have trouble focusing on anything more than the brush of Oliver’s fingers at my hip and the way they tap out a rhythm of music I once knew. Somehow the conversation leads into jests of which family is more comfortable with death. As Oliver’s fingers still, leaving only their unyielding pressure on my skin, I look for a distraction and let my focus drift to Emily.

I’m startled to find she’s already staring at Oliver’s hand on me, a sneer pressed on her lips. She doesn’t shy from me when our eyes meet. Instead, they roll to show how unsatisfactory I am to her. How little she fears my judgement. Before I can determine their characters, or find potentially deadly flaws, I’m being pulled away, back into the chattering swarths, by Oliver.

We glide to the other side of the room, closest to the door, unaccosted, and huddle close to each other in the corner. Oliver blocks me from the view of the other guests. If anyone were to look over, it would appear we may be up to more than just talking with the way our bodies fill in the space between us as if they were born to it. Maybe they were, once. The moths in my stomach rise at the thought.

“Most of the people here could have had something to do with Paxton's death.” Oliver’s eyes bore into me. “But those two have the most motive and opportunity. The Langley’s have gotten themselves into some serious troubles over the years. Their reputation has taken a nasty hit, which is why I assume they wanted to work on such noble pursuits. And they haven’t always been friends of the family. Alexander and Madeline despise them. Not to mention that Issac hates Paxton like the jealous fool he is,” Oliver whispers.

“What about Emily?” I ask, curious about the woman who smiles with her brutish cousin, and has a clear contempt of me. Oliver, lost in his own thoughts, doesn’t seem to hear me. I grab his forearm. “Oliver. What about Emily? You said both of them.”

His eyes lose their glaze as he comes back to me, his stare transfixed on my hand that’s still holding him. “Emily…” he starts, “she’s in love with him. Was in love. With Paxton.”

He struggles to swallow, more to the story than he’s giving, almost as if he fears what he must say next.

“Why would she want to kill him, then?” I ask, never seeing the trap.

Oliver looks up at me, resolve hardening his panic. The drunken, romantic fool has fled and in his place is the man I remember leaving behind. My legs twitch in anticipation, begging me to run, my mind catching up too slowly to what my body already knows comes next.

“I thought it would be obvious. Paxton didn’t give her the time of day. For all I know, he never really talked to the woman. He gave no one a second thought that I’m aware of.” His words are cool as his eyes dance around my face, searching, my gut coiling before he delivers the blow we’ll both feel.

“Not after you.” He flexes and releases his hand, pumping it like a heartbeat, a tick I thought he left behind long ago. “Please, excuse me. There are a few other people I must speak with. ”

“Oliver. Wait,” I whisper, tears of frustration and guilt threatening to fall, no matter how much I demand them to heel, knowing he’s too far to hear me anymore.