Requiem

Hana

On Saturday morning I make my visit to Deering Highlands. It is becoming almost routine. I’m happy that I manage to avoid seeing Grace—the streets are still, silent, wrapped in an early-morning mist—and happy, too, that the shelves of the underground room are looking fuller already.

Back at home, I shower in too-hot water, until my skin is pink. I scrub carefully, under my fingernails even, as though the smell of the Highlands, and all the people living there, might have clung to me. But I can’t be too careful. If Cassie was invalidated because she caught the disease, or because Fred suspected her of it, I can only imagine what he will do to me and to my family if he discovers that the cure did not work perfectly.

I need to know—for good, for sure—what happened to Cassandra.

Fred is spending the day golfing with several dozen campaign donors and supporters, including my father. My mother is meeting Mrs. Hargrove at the club for lunch. I wave good-bye to my parents cheerfully and then kill time for a half an hour, too antsy to watch TV or do anything but pace.

When a sufficient amount of time has elapsed, I gather up the final guest list and seating chart for the wedding, shuffling them roughly into a folder. There’s no point in being secretive about where I’m going, so I call Rick, Tony’s brother, and wait on the front porch for him to pull up the car.

“To the Hargroves’, please,” I say brightly as I slide into the backseat.

I try not to fidget too much. I don’t want Rick to know that I’m nervous. I don’t want any questions. But he doesn’t pay any attention to me at all. He keeps his eyes on the road. His bald head, nestled in his shirt collar, reminds me of a swollen pink egg.

At the Hargroves’ house, all three cars are missing from the circular driveway. So far, so good.

“Wait here,” I say to Rick. “I won’t be long.”

A girl I recognize as a member of the household staff opens the door. She can’t be more than a few years older than I am and has a permanent look of dull suspicion, like a dog kicked too many times in the head.

“Oh!” she says when she sees me, and hesitates, clearly uncertain about whether to let me in.

I start talking immediately. “I ran over here as fast as I could. Can you believe after all that, my mom forgot to bring the plans to lunch? Mrs. Hargrove needs approval over the seating chart, of course.”

“Oh!” the girl says again. She frowns. “But Mrs. Hargrove isn’t here. She’s at the club.”

I let out a groan, making a big show of surprise. “When my mom said they were having lunch, I just assumed . . .”

“They’re at the club,” she repeats nervously. She’s clinging to that piece of information like a lifeline.

“So stupid of me,” I say. “And of course I don’t have time to run to the club now. Maybe I could just drop them for Mrs. Hargrove . . . ?”

“I can give them to her, if you like,” she offers.

“No, no. You don’t have to,” I say quickly. I lick my lips. “If I can just pop inside for a minute, I’ll leave her a quick note. Tables six and eight may have to be swapped, and I’m sure what to do with Mr. and Mrs. Kimble. . . .”

The girl retreats to let me in. “Of course,” she says, opening the door a little wider to admit me.

I pass in front of her. Although I’ve been to the Hargroves’ many times, the house feels different without its owners present. Most rooms are dark, and it’s so quiet I can hear the creaking of footsteps above, the rustle of fabric several rooms away. Goose bumps pop up on my arms. It’s cool in the hall, but it’s also the feel of the place—like the whole house is holding its breath, waiting for a disaster.

Now that I’m here, I’m not sure where to begin. Fred must have kept records of his wedding to Cassie, and probably of his divorce, too. I’ve never been inside his study, but he pointed it out to me during my first visit, and there’s a good chance that any documents he keeps will be there. But first I have to get rid of the girl.

“Thanks so much,” I say as she ushers me into the living room. I beam her my brightest smile. “I’ll just plop down here and write a note. You’ll tell Mrs. Hargrove the plans are on the coffee table, right?” I intend for her to take this as a hint to leave me, but she just nods and stands there, watching me dumbly.

I’m improvising now, grasping at excuses. “Can you do me a favor? Since I’m already here, can you run upstairs and try to find the color swatches we lent to Mrs. Hargrove ages ago? The florist needs them back. And Mrs. Hargrove said she left them for me in her bedroom—probably on the desk or something.”

“Color swatches . . . ?”

“A big book of them,” I say. And then, because she still hasn’t moved: “I’ll just wait here while you get them.”

At last she leaves me alone. I wait until I hear her footsteps retreat upstairs before venturing back out to the hallway.

The door to Fred’s study is closed but, thankfully, unlocked. I slip inside and close the door quietly. My mouth is dry and my heart is speed-racing in my throat. I have to remind myself that I haven’t done anything wrong. At least not yet. Technically, this is my house too, or it will be very soon.

I feel for the light on the wall. It’s a risk—anyone could see the light spilling under the door—but then fumbling around in the dark, overturning furniture, will bring them running as well.

The room is dominated by a large desk and a stiff-backed leather chair. I recognize one of Fred’s golf trophies and the sterling-silver paperweight sitting on the otherwise empty bookcases. In one corner is a large metal filing cabinet; next to it, on the wall, is a large painting of a man, presumably a hunter, standing in the middle of various animal carcasses, and I look away quickly.

I head for the filing cabinet, which is also unlocked. I rifle through stacks of financial information—bank statements and tax returns, receipts and deposit slips—dating back nearly a decade. One drawer holds all the employee information, including photographed copies of the staff’s ID cards. The girl who showed me in is named Eleanor Latterly, and she’s my age exactly.

And then, stuffed in the back of the lowest drawer, I find it: an unmarked folder, slender, containing Cassie’s birth and marriage certificates. There’s no record of a divorce, only a letter, folded in two, typed on thick stationery.

I scan the first line quickly. This letter is in regard to the physical and mental state of Cassandra Melanea Hargrove, b. O’Donnell, who was admitted to my care—

I hear footsteps crossing quickly toward the study. I shove the folder back in place, push the cabinet closed with a foot, and stuff the letter into my back pocket, thanking God I thought to wear jeans. I grab a pen off the desk. When Eleanor swings the door open, I triumphantly flourish a pen before she has a chance to speak.

“Found it!” I say cheerfully. “Can you believe I didn’t think to bring a pen? My brain is cheese today.”

She doesn’t trust me. I can tell. But she can’t exactly accuse me outright. “There was no book of swatches,” she says slowly. “No book anywhere, that I could see.”

“Weird.” A bead of sweat trickles between my breasts. I watch her eyes tick around the whole room, as though looking for anything disturbed or displaced. “I guess we’ve all got our messages crossed today. Excuse me.” I have to shove past her, moving her bodily out of the way. I barely remember to scrawl a quick note to Mrs. Hargrove—For your approval! I write, even though I don’t really care what she thinks. Eleanor hovers behind me the whole time, like she thinks I’m going to steal something.

Too late.

The whole operation has taken only ten minutes. Rick still has the engine on. I slide into the backseat. “Home,” I tell him. As he maneuvers the car out of the driveway, I think I can see Eleanor watching me from the front window.

It would be safer to wait until I was home to read the note, but I can’t stop myself from unfolding it. I take a closer look at the letterhead: Sean Perlin, MD, Chief Surgical Supervisor, Portland Laboratories.

The letter is brief.

To Whom It May Concern:

This letter is in regard to the physical and mental state of Cassandra Melanea Hargrove, b. O’Donnell, who was admitted to my care and supervision for a period of nine days.

In my professional opinion, Mrs. Hargrove suffers acute delusions provoked by an entrenched mental instability; she is fixated on the Bluebeard myth and relates the story to her fears of persecution; she is profoundly neurotic and unlikely, in my opinion, to improve.

Her condition seems of the degenerative kind and may have been provoked by certain chemical imbalances resultant from the procedure, although this is impossible to say definitively.

I read the letter several times. So I was right—there was something wrong with her. She went screwy. Maybe the procedure unhinged her, like it did for Willow Marks. Strange that no one noticed before she married Fred, but I guess sometimes these things are gradual.

Still, the knot in my stomach refuses to unravel. Beneath the doctor’s polished prose is a separate message: a message of fear.

I remember the story of Bluebeard: the story of a man, a handsome prince, who keeps a locked door in his beautiful castle. He tells his new bride that she may enter any room but that one. But one day her curiosity overwhelms her, and she discovers a room of murdered women, strung from their heels. When he finds out she disobeyed his order, he adds her to that horrible, bloody collection.

The fairy tale terrified me when I was a kid, especially the image of the women heaped together, arms pale and eyes sightless, gutted.

I fold the letter carefully and return it to my back pocket. I’m being stupid. Cassie was defective, like I thought she was, and Fred had every reason to divorce her. Just because she no longer shows up in the system doesn’t mean anything terrible happened to her. Maybe it was just an administrative error.

But the whole ride home, I can’t help but picture Fred’s strange smile, and the way he said, Cassie asked too many questions.

And I can’t help the thought that rises, unbidden, unwanted: What if Cassie was right to be afraid?