Don't Tell a Soul Read online

  All candles look alike, but the moment I picked it up, there was no doubt in my mind that the candle was the same one that Miriam had given me the previous night. I could see the half-moon marks where my fingernails had dug into it. It wasn’t until that moment that I remembered falling asleep with it lit. The candle should have burned all the way down. But it hadn’t. Instead it had found its way to the other side of the manor.

  Someone had been in my room—and they’d returned after I had fallen asleep. I’d known that coming to Louth might not be safe, but I’d figured I would have a few days to settle in before things got dangerous. The candle felt like a warning, and the sight of it made my skin crawl. I left it right where I’d found it, and told myself I’d have to be more careful. But I didn’t even consider changing rooms. The rose room was where I needed to be.

  As I made my way back out of the burnt wing, I stopped in a room with plywood panels nailed to the wall where a pair of French doors should have been. The wind whistled through a thin crack between two of the panels, and a thin sliver of daylight cut across the floor. I put my eye to the opening and saw that the snow had resumed falling. Fat, lazy flakes settled on the railing of a little balcony on the other side of the plywood. It was a twin of the balcony outside the rose room. Six months earlier, Lark Bellinger had jumped from that very spot.

  I knew all about Lark. I had for months.

  I’d been under house arrest in Manhattan when the manor had burned. My mother hadn’t said a word. I’d had to read about the tragedy in the New York Times. The story was too juicy to be passed up—even by the most serious newspapers. I suppose I should have been grateful. If not for all the lurid details, I never would have known.

  Even the Times coverage read like the plot of a movie. A wealthy former Manhattanite spends years restoring an old Hudson Valley mansion. He marries a beautiful local woman, and she and her teenage daughter move in. A few months later, the mansion catches fire, and the new bride tragically dies trying to save her daughter. The girl is later discovered outside on the grounds, raving unintelligibly. Police claim she sustained a serious head injury after jumping from a balcony on the second floor. No one could explain why she was at the mansion in the middle of the night when she’d recently been sent to live with her father nearby.

  I’d studied the pictures that accompanied the articles. I even pulled them off websites and made my own file. The makeup and piercings didn’t fool me. Lark had tried so hard to make herself look tough. That wasn’t what I saw at all. What I saw was a girl just like me.

  The newspapers never mentioned what happened to Lark after the fire. I had to ask my mother. “The girl lost her mind,” I was told. “She started a fire that killed her mother. They had to send her away.”

  That was when I knew there was something wrong with the story. It sounded like a million old tales I’d been told—simple and tragic with a clear villain and victim. But in the real world, girls don’t just lose their minds. If they kill their mothers or beat up their boyfriends or burn down their houses, they tend to have reasons. So when it became clear I couldn’t stay in Manhattan, I suggested that my mother send me to Louth. She would have preferred I go to a boarding school where no one had heard of me. I knew that would be pointless. No matter where I went, my shame would soon follow. My own innocence would never be proven, and my reputation couldn’t be salvaged. But I thought maybe, if I went to Louth, I could find out what had really happened to Lark.

  I was still standing with my eye pressed to the crack between the boards when I heard footsteps enter the room. I figured it was Miriam coming to find me. I wasn’t going to let her startle me again. I stayed right where I was.

  “Do you need something?” I asked.

  There was no answer. I heard the footsteps stop and turn back the way they’d come. As I listened, a strange thought entered my mind. The footsteps sounded softer than they should have—as though the person behind me weren’t wearing shoes. I spun around to look, but there was no one there.

  At lunchtime I pulled on my boots and headed outside, toward the town of Louth. Even with all the snow on the ground, it took less than twenty minutes to see all the sights. The manor sat on top of a hill. The Hudson River flowed in the valley below. Between the hill and the Hudson were five streets that ran parallel to the river, each one no more than a few blocks long. The first streets I strolled down were lined with old houses. Most were in various states of disrepair, but every fourth or fifth house looked like something you’d see on Instagram. And there were always a couple of houses on each street that were under construction. It was like a virus was spreading through all the old wood, slowly turning the town into a rich people’s retreat. When I hit the fourth street, I saw just how far the disease had progressed. Grace Street (named after my new dead friend, I later discovered) was Louth’s sad excuse for a commercial thoroughfare—three blocks long, with little shops on both sides. Half were the sort of shops you’d expect to see in a tiny town on the banks of the Hudson River—stores that sold crap people might actually need. The rest of the storefronts showcased pine-infused chocolate bars and cashmere pajamas that cost four hundred dollars.

  I stopped outside a bakery that looked like it had last been decorated in the 1950s. The sign above the door read columbo in a swooping cursive font, and the white lace curtains in the window were yellow with age. Some of the pastries behind the glass looked like they might date from the fifties, too. But the aroma wafting from the shop was delightful, and I could see a plate of fresh croissants on the counter. That was exactly what I was after.

  I opened the door to the sound of laughter. No one was manning the register, but I could hear two women chatting away in the kitchen at the back of the store. “Hello?” I called out.

  “Right with you!” a cheery voice replied. Then a woman in a hairnet and apron emerged, wiping her hands on a paper napkin. She and her co-worker must have been having their lunch. “What can I—” she started to say. Then she froze and came to a complete stop. I’d inspired some pretty dark feelings in my day, but I’d never had anyone refuse to look at me. The woman kept her gaze fixed on a point just over my left shoulder.

  “What can I get for you?” she asked, her voice chilly but polite.

  I wanted to leave, but I refused to let her get the better of me. “A croissant, please.” I could feel my hands shaking inside my coat pockets, and I hoped she couldn’t tell.

  “For here or to go?”

  I’d planned to sit at one of the café tables near the window. “To go,” I said.

  She dropped the roll into a little brown bag and took my money. As soon as the transaction was over, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the shop. Soon I could hear two women whispering.

  My cheeks flushed with humiliation, I started for the door. Then I stopped. Standing just on the other side of the bakery’s window was a guy my age. He wore a long, black coat and held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He looked amused, and I realized he must have been watching the entire time.

  I wasn’t going to stand there and let him mock me. I stomped out of the bakery.

  “Don’t take it personally. The locals don’t like people like us,” he said as I brushed past him on the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me?” I paused and spun around to face him. He was handsome, with floppy black hair and dancing dark eyes framed by expensive glasses. My first impression was that he seemed reasonably intelligent and extremely rich. I’m sure most girls would have been thrilled to have him strike up a conversation. I was not one of those girls.

  He pointed to the bag in my hand. “There’s a café called JOE just down the street. You can get some coffee to go with that. Want me to show you?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I can find it on my own.”

  As I walked away, I heard only the crunch of my own boots on the snow. I didn’t let myself g
lance over my shoulder, but I knew he was still standing there watching me.

  * * *

  —

  I couldn’t have missed JOE if I’d tried. The café looked like a tornado had picked it up somewhere in Brooklyn and dropped it down in the middle of Louth. The barista, with his designer flannel shirt rolled up to display his tattoos, was clearly a transplant. There was only one other customer inside the café—a girl in a black fur coat and black sunglasses. Her lips were painted a brilliant red, and they’d left a crimson smudge on the teacup in front of her. She sat so still that she could have been mistaken for a mannequin. I couldn’t see the eyes behind her glasses, but I could sense them staring at me. I’d been in Louth for less than twenty-four hours, and I’d already become the town freak.

  “Hey!” The barista greeted me like I was his long-lost best friend, and I almost backed out the door. “What can I get for you?”

  “Coffee,” I said, hoping the conversation would end there. It didn’t.

  “You in for the weekend?” the guy asked as he filled my cup.

  “Yeah. And all the weekends after that,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl lift the teacup to her lips.

  “Ah,” said the guy, nodding and grinning like he’d been hitting the peyote before I arrived. “Gotcha. So where are you staying?”

  “Up at the manor. With my uncle.”

  “So you’re the niece! James mentioned you were coming to visit.”

  “He did?” That seemed very unlike him. It was hard to imagine my frail-looking uncle leaving the manor to make small talk with the locals.

  Suddenly there was a loud clatter in the dining area. I glanced over to see that the girl in the fur coat was mopping up spilled tea. The barista rushed over to her table with a handful of napkins. As they cleaned up the mess, he said nothing to the girl, and she said nothing to him.

  “You know James?” I asked once he’d returned, trying to imagine my uncle befriending a guy with a man bun and a tattoo of Dolly Parton.

  The guy snorted. “Sure. James is a legend—a pioneer. Dude practically discovered Louth. I don’t think there was anyone for miles around when he got here.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, frowning. “The town’s been here for over a century.”

  “Oh yeah,” the guy said. “There were people here for sure. I was talking about folks like us.”

  “Folks like us?” I asked. The guy outside the bakery had said something similar. I’d never considered myself a “folk,” and I couldn’t wait to hear what I had in common with Paul Bunyan’s hipster brother.

  “You know—from the city. There are a bunch of us here now—and all over the county. In the summer you’ll probably see everyone you know.”

  God, I hoped not. “In Louth?”

  “Well, in Hudson anyway. Louth’s still a bit off the beaten path,” he said. “But once your uncle’s inn opens, that ought to change. We were all thinking it was going to happen this summer. But I suppose it’s gonna take a little more time now.”

  A little more time. Ha! “Yeah, I think that’s pretty safe to say,” I told him. “The place is a wreck.”

  “You up here to help James get it back into shape?”

  “Sure,” I told him as I picked up my coffee. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

  I chose a table on the other side of the café from the girl in the fur coat—and a seat facing in the opposite direction. Just as I was taking my first bite of croissant, the chair across from me was dragged out, and suddenly the girl was sitting in front of me.

  “Hello,” she said as she took off her glasses. She wore no makeup aside from lipstick. She didn’t need to. Her eyes were a startling green. I wondered if she always kept her secret weapons hidden behind shades. “I’m Maisie.”

  I swallowed the lump of croissant in my mouth and washed it down with coffee. “Bram,” I said. I didn’t know what she wanted, but I knew she was after something. Girls like Maisie didn’t usually sign up for the welcoming committee.

  “I heard you talking to Jeb. You’re the girl who’s going to be living up at the manor.” It wasn’t a question. She knew who I was. They all did.

  “Word gets around fast,” I said.

  Maisie smiled flirtatiously. “Welcome to our little fishbowl,” she said. Then she pointed a red-tipped finger at my lunch. “How’d you get that? Jeb told me he was out of croissants.”

  “I bought it at the bakery. The lady there wasn’t very nice to me, so I came here to eat it. Apparently, the locals don’t like people like us.”

  “I’m a local,” said the girl. Her smile widened.

  “Really?” I found that hard to believe.

  “Born and raised.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. Her fur coat parted, and I saw she was wearing what looked like a silk nightgown underneath. Above her tall snow boots, her skin was bare and exposed to midthigh. She gave the impression of someone who’d fled disaster in the dark of night. I imagined her arriving on the Hudson’s shore in a lifeboat, the only survivor of a luxurious ship that had sunk to the bottom of an icy sea.

  I glanced up at a clock on the café wall. “Do you go to school here?” I asked. People our age were usually fully dressed by noon on a Monday.

  “Not when it’s midwinter break,” she replied. “School’s out for the rest of the week. How come you don’t know that?”

  “I’m done with school,” I informed her.

  “You graduated?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “But I’m not going back.”

  “Interesting. So how long are you planning to hang out here in Louth?”

  I wondered if there was an answer she was hoping to hear. “I have no idea,” I told her.

  “Hmmm,” she said meaningfully. I waited for her to say more.

  “What?” I asked when she didn’t.

  “You’re not scared?”

  “Scared?” I asked. So she wasn’t there to welcome me, after all. She had another motive.

  “You must know what happened up there,” Maisie said. “A woman died a few months ago. Dahlia Bellinger.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said. Did she really think that fact had somehow escaped me? “She was my uncle’s wife.”

  “She wasn’t the first.”

  “No, she was his second wife,” I said.

  Maisie cocked her head as if I’d accidentally let something slip. “I meant Dahlia wasn’t the first person to die in the manor.”

  James had warned me about the stories floating around. I hadn’t expected to hear them on my first day in town. “Are you talking about Grace Louth?” I asked.

  “Among others,” Maisie replied.

  Now this strange girl had my undivided attention. “What others?”

  “Including Lark Bellinger’s mother, three women have died at the manor over the years.”

  Suddenly I was much more intrigued by the living. “Did you know Lark?” The diva and the goth would have made an odd pair, but I could see how they might get along. Morbid girls have a way of finding each other.

  “I’ve known her since kindergarten,” Maisie confirmed.

  “Were you friends?”

  “Were?” The word had a bite. “She’s not dead. But we haven’t hung out much since she got locked up in Hastings. That’s a hospital for the mentally ill, in case you didn’t know.”

  I did know. I also knew what had put a tremor in Maisie’s voice and why she kept her hands clasped together to keep them from shaking. It wasn’t fear that made her jaw quiver. It was rage. What had happened to Lark infuriated her.

  “You don’t think she should be there?” I asked carefully.

  “Lark Bellinger is as sane as I am,” Maisie insisted. “At least, she was until she moved into that house.”

 
“What are you saying?” It sounded to me like something had happened to Lark at the manor. I wondered what Maisie knew.

  “I’m saying you need to be very careful, Bram Howland. I don’t know why you’ve come here, but you’d be better off back in Manhattan. Louth isn’t a good place for people like us—and the manor’s the worst place of all.” Maisie rose from the table and slid her sunglasses back on.

  “Us? I thought you were a local,” I said, looking up at her.

  “I meant female,” she said.

  I hadn’t expected the conversation to take that particular turn, but if Maisie had been hoping to shock me, she must have been disappointed. I wasn’t easy to shock.

  I waited for Maisie to stomp away then, but she didn’t. She stood there frozen, staring past me, as though she were engaged in a silent argument with someone I couldn’t see. When she spoke again, the anger in her voice had been replaced by fatigue. “There are three houses down by the water. I live in the second one. If you ever need help, come and find me.”

  I watched from the window as she trudged outside. Stray flakes dislodged by the wind collected on her black hair and coat. Then I picked up my empty coffee cup and made my way to the trash can.

  “Wow, that sounded intense,” the barista said as I walked past the counter.

  “Excuse me?” I’d never heard anyone confess so casually to eavesdropping. “Were you listening to our conversation?”

  “Couldn’t help it. Small place, small town. Listen, don’t let Maisie scare you away. She’s known around Louth for being…troubled.”

  I could see the need on his face. He wanted so badly for me to ask. He couldn’t wait for an opportunity to share all the juicy tidbits he’d gathered.

  “Good,” I told him. “Troubled people are the only ones you can trust.”