The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

6. Sleeping Giants

Sleeping Giants

Wednesday, Present

I ’ve only just made it to the foyer before the same maid who fussed over Tad earlier comes bolting toward me.

“Miss Pierce, you have a phone call,” she says, the care she held in her voice for the driver gone.

I stare at her, unable to put together the words so they make sense through all the thoughts I have fighting for my attention in my head.

“I’m sorry? Did you answer my cellphone?” I ask, perplexed and irritated at the thought.

To her credit, she treats me as dumb as I sound without being outright rude. A trait all house staff of the wealthy learn.

“No, Miss Pierce. You have a phone call on the landline. It’s your mother. You can take the call in either the office or the kitchen.”

She’s waiting for me to catch on, hands wringing in front of her, eyes darting toward the kitchen. It’s obvious that she wants to get back to more important matters instead of serving the likes of me. The Poes are one of few who still believe in corded landlines, otherwise I’m sure she would have happily brought the phone to me, instead of doing this dance.

“Oh! That makes sense,” I say, feeling sheepish. “I’ll take it in the office. Thank you. ”

“I’ll get it transferred. Do you need to be seen where to go?” she asks, voice pitched in suspicion.

We both know I don’t. I’ve lived in this house almost as long as the boys. I know every nook and cranny that Dellbrook has tried to hide. But her question isn’t about directions, it’s about status. It’s about whether or not I’m worthy. In the kitchen, she can watch me. She can listen and gossip about all she hears, tell her friends I am just like her after all. I can only imagine how it rips at her pride when I’m treated as a guest instead of as an ex-employee. How it would rip at mine. I pull the thread that connects my spine, snapping it into place, frustrated that no matter where I go, I fit in with no one.

“No. I know the way. You’re dismissed,” I say, cold.

I hate the way my words reflect every kid that ever bullied me in school. Hate that I can hear Madeline in every vowel. But I don’t take them back. I know I’m taking more out on her than I should, but if I’m going to survive a week amongst this crowd, I need to leave my upbringing at the door and take hold of the mask the Poes have provided me.

Her nose flares in enmity, but she does as I’ve deemed, the scuff of her shoes echoing as she leaves. I release the strings holding my chin up and my shoulders down, breathing easier as each vertebra of my spine sinks back into my well-known bow. Guilt sinks like a stone in my stomach, but I don’t have time to succumb.

Oliver’s words of Paxton’s death, of his murder, ring in my ear. I can’t help but shift through what I think I know. Mother told me Paxton had died of illness. Natural causes he hid from us all. But Oliver has never been one to cry wolf. Sure, he lengthened and exaggerated his emotions, but always grew them on seeds of truth. He wouldn’t be trapping me here unless he believed Paxton was murdered. And if he is asking me for help, this might be the closure our hearts both need to heal. Whether I believe him fully. I try to outrun my thoughts, hurrying my steps to Alexander’s small writing closet, jokingly referred to as the office.

I reach a tar-colored bookshelf that could be easily passed by if only you do not know it for the doorway it is. It is an open secret that to get in you must look for a faded blue book amongst the swell of spines, obvious in its purpose, if you only read the title, The Mysterious Key . I still smile as I grab it now and the soft mechanical whir of the hinges pop loose. Alexander may not be the most strategic of the Poe family, but he held whimsy close all the same .

Inside is like I never left—a converted walk-in coat closet, bigger than the draped off corner that was my childhood bedroom before we fled here. The dark grey walls close in, leaving only enough space for a few people to gather around the massive desk and chair that sits center stage. Both are filled with papers and notebooks and literature, spilling out past their worn wood. Ink dots every surface like dew, which I know from experience is best to consider still wet.

A tall gold stick stands apart, making it easy for me to find the classic 1919 telephone in the mess. I move to the desk and lean down, resting my weight on my wrist on its paper filled top. I pick the phone up in my hands, flustered by the weight and inconvenience of its use, and hold the earpiece up so I can hear.

“Mother? Can you hear me?” I ask, speaking into the cone which functions as a microphone and always makes me feel silly using it.

Static breaks, and then I can hear her voice. “Evangeline? You sound far away. Don’t tell me you’re in that hoarder lair Alexander refuses to let be cleaned.”

I smile, remembering the pleading my mother had done to have this room tidied or boarded up. She would often complain to me, in the confidence of our rooms, that she worried he’d be lost forever here, suffering the fate of heavy toppled over literature. What a death that would be.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to be here if you would’ve just called my cell,” I reply.

I set down the transmitter so that my fingers can rustle through pages, allowing me to glance at the newer poems and short stories Alexander has been working on.

“I have been calling your cell! You didn’t answer. You haven’t called or texted to let me know you made it. I was worried,” she guilts.

“Liar. I know that the minute I got out of Tad’s car, he called you. And I haven’t picked up because I’ve been busy. I told you I would call you right after my scheduled call with Roger. You know… you know how this house gets,” my words catch, trying to mask how I’m feeling with how she expects me to.

There is less prodding that way. I couldn’t take another lecture about using this to move on. Or worse, have her worry over Oliver and me.

“Anyway. I made it. I’m fine. We’re having drinks at the wake before the funeral tomorrow,” I say to appease her .

She pauses, letting the line cut in and out.

“And you’re still coming back on Sunday?” she asks.

She’s worried she’ll lose me to them. If I’m being honest with myself, her fear is well founded. Every second I’m here, I can feel the memories trying to pull me back from my resolve. My curiosity damning my heart to be pulled under once again. I steel my mind against the softening of my soul for this place. And its people.

She plows ahead at my silence. “Hold tight your heart, Evangeline Pierce. Love is what traps us all. Remember what happened last time.”

Last time I was a child who believed in dark-haired boys that loved fiercely enough to take on the world. And I wasn’t that little girl anymore, even if my heart wanted me to be. Coastal green eyes drunk on love and whisky flash into my thoughts, and I wiffle them away in embarrassment for my pride.

Before I’m able to respond, the bookshelf door creaks open and my eyes dart to it. Madeline’s striking frame walks in. Her eyes pin me, cascading from the phone in my hand to the notebook I have open in front of me.

“Eve? Are you there? Have I lost you?” my mother asks, voice getting louder.

The ambiguity , I think.

“No, Mother. You haven’t. I have to go. I promise I’ll call later. Bye,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush.

I don’t let her respond. I just hang up the phone and set it back in place, where I found it. There’s no coincidence Madeline has sought me out here. She rarely seeks the company of anyone in private without cause, and that she has, makes all the hairs on my body stand on end. Maybe she knows about Paxton . I push the thought aside. Even if she did, she wouldn’t share her thoughts with someone who was only family adjacent on the matter.

“It really is good to see you,” she says, gliding into the room. “I thought, well, your mother led me to believe that getting you here would be an impossibility. I’m glad to see she was wrong, much as I’m sure her ego was wounded. And her nerves, I’m sure. But Paxton wants you here. We all do.”

Her words should feel like a balm to my wounds. Instead, they’re like cheese in a trap.

“I… regardless of what happened, I couldn’t miss this. You all know I consider you family,” I say, hoping it’s enough of the truth to be sincere but not enough to have overstepped the tenuous truce we seem to have. After all, she declared it first in a room full of people. Reassurance was something Madeline craved, even if she would never ask for it outright.

“I’m so glad you think so, Evangeline.”

She pauses her words as well as her body, right next to me. I feel her weighing my worth in a way she’s done every day since I was a child. Some days, I would be elated to find that I had passed whatever test she’d internally laid. Most, I swam in the thick, ropey swamp of her disappointment.

“You know, I always wanted a daughter,” she continues, still eyeing me. “Not, of course, before my sons, but after. We tried with no luck. And then your mother came to me with you.”

She stops just short of calling me like her own . She wouldn’t dare. Her stature would never steep low enough. All she can allow herself to do is allude to the sentiment. To let me know, in the little slices of love she can spare, that I matter despite her reservations. Even if her love hurts more than heals.

Her fingers lift to flick a piece of hair from my cheek. A few frizzy strands that are out of place after the rain. Her lips tip down, but she doesn’t say a thing about her disapproval of it. She doesn’t need to. I can see the judgment and how my appearance doesn’t suit what she expects me to be, especially in front of her casual acquaintances. I hold back any excuses I may have, knowing my interruption is unwelcome. I can feel the crescendo of her story climbing to its point with furor.

“It’s unfortunate, the falling out between you and Oliver.” Her words split and slice at the boundaries I’ve built. We’ve never talked about this before, and I don’t want to now.

Still, she continues, “Truthfully, it should’ve never gotten that far to begin with. I knew to step in and stop whatever silly crushes were being harbored. I knew they could never be born. Could you imagine the rumors?” she scoffs as she looks at me for agreement. I stand stone still, saying nothing, which she accepts. “Still, I thought my sons would know better. Would do better,” she sighs. “But they didn’t. It’s my fault for not interfering. For that, I am sorry.”

My eyes widen at her apology. It’s backwards and laced with pity instead of empathy, but that she’s given one to me at all makes my heart pound with suspicion.

“As family, though, I’d like to ask something of you while you’re here…” she says, words innocent enough.

But I know the intent. I know how she twists and curls things into what she wants. I know the crushing grip she can have on the world when she chooses. She rounds the desk to sit at its head, leaning back so her face remains in shadows. A trick to show the power she wields, and even though I know better, my spine still tingles at the haunting of it.

“I’m sure Oliver has already told you of his suspicions. More than likely roped you into some plan. He’s never been one to leave well enough alone, as you well know.” Her thin fingers spread across a stray paper hesitantly, before her eyes narrow and they sit firmly on the desk again. “But you’re smarter than that. I am looking into all his concerns. The business dealings with that wretched family and his erratic behavior before his death. But more than that, I am also mourning my son. To do that, I cannot have you both playing as if you are William Legrand.”

She moves just the slightest bit closer to me, voice inching down in volume with intimacy. “And I think we both remember what happened the last time you two got close.” She eyes me with pity before righting herself back to full control. “Do we have an understanding?”

Her words sting with their truth, causing my hackles to rise and my brow to bend. She wants me to agree to let this go. She doesn’t want us to dig holes in her perfect little morbid story. But most of all, she wants me to stay away from Oliver. My blood wasn’t good enough eight years ago, and it has become none less tainted since. She doesn’t want whatever tore us apart to be repaired and knows that if I refuse him this, it never could be.

What she doesn’t realize, but should, is that her warning only removes the indecisiveness I’ve had to stay. It hardens my need to defy her. Even if I don’t have the fortitude nor the courage to tell her there’s no fixing the bond that’s been broken between us. That by me helping Oliver, it’ll only tear us further apart, Paxton a bomb waiting to go off, solidifying exactly what she wants. I don’t tell her that my curiosity, just as my loyalty, would never allow me to leave well enough alone, either.

Still, I have seen no one deny Madeline a request, who didn’t come to regret it. So, I don’t.

“I understand,” I say.

It isn’t a lie or a promise. Just an acknowledgement of her words. But she doesn’t see it that way, and that is all that matters in this room. She stands from the chair and comes to pass next to me, turning only when we’re shoulder to shoulder.

“Good,” she says. “I would suggest you get settled. You’re looking a bit tired, and we have a long week ahead. ”

She exits the room, leaving the bookshelf open, a cue that I should follow. Still, I linger, listening to the quiet cadence of her heels disappearing. I turn to look at the last line on a page scrawled in Oliver’s handwriting at the front of the desk, struck by his ability to be present, even in the smallest moments, with his words.

And like a sliver, she burrows deeper into the abyss where not even a razors edge can get her out.