Beach Thriller(77)

The stairwell opens directly into a large, round room. Small windows are set high and evenly spaced throughout, like a fortress. I picture archers shooting arrows through the slim openings, which allow only small sips of light to enter, creating shadows that gather in the corners like shapeless monsters.

A large four-poster bed occupies the center of the room, across from a mahogany dresser. A worn, intricately woven area rug covers the cold stone floor. The bed is piled high with blankets. My first thought is that the room is empty, but then I see the pile of bedding move. From underneath comes a faint groan.

“Rose? Is that you? Conrad … is it time already?” The woman’s voice is so weak, so faint, I can barely understand her. Even though someone is in her living quarters, she makes no effort to open her eyes. Given her frail condition, perhaps she lacks the strength.

“Um, no. I’m sorry. I’m … Jade,” I say, making my way toward her bed. “Conrad sent me to check on you.” The lie comes easily—they always do. But the sight before me leaves me at a loss for words.

Beside the bed is an old rocking chair. The varnish is worn, raw wood peeking through in places. The colors of the floral design painted onto the top have faded, as though the flowers themselves are dying. Nearby is a nightstand littered with pill bottles. A tall glass of water stands next to a pitcher, but I doubt this woman is strong enough to fill her own glass.

On the floor sits a Bluetooth speaker, playing the piano song that may haunt my dreams for a lifetime. The smell of mildew is pervasive, which can’t be healthy—but it beats the odor of sickness that has saturated these stones.

The woman stranded in bed is like a castaway on a desert island. Her long hair is lifeless, the color of faded straw, and just as coarse. Dark rings circle her shuttered eyes, but her face has very few wrinkles, perhaps because she so seldom sees the sun. It’s fitting, given that she reminds me of a vampire’s victim—drained of color, her life force dimmed to a waxy pallor.

She struggles to prop herself up on her pillows, determined to see who I am. When her eyes flutter open, I’m stunned. They glow like two of the clearest blue pools imaginable, set against strikingly pale skin. For a moment I can’t look away. Her feet, which poke out from beneath the covers, are encased in thin gray hospital socks.

I take a seat in the rocking chair, which creaks faintly as I settle in.

“Jade?” she whispers as if my name is actually familiar to her. Has Conrad spoken of me? Has Rose?

“Yes, I work here at the house. And … what’s your name?” My voice shakes. Perspiration beads on my forehead. The air is hot and stale, but that’s not why I’m sweating. My anxiety is kicking like a horse.

She gathers her breath. Her voice leaks out in a slow whisper. “My name … it doesn’t matter anymore.”

My heart breaks. I thought I was lost and forgotten, but she’s got my sadness beat by miles.

I’m not sure what to say or do, but I can’t just stand around like an idiot. I ask a logical question: “Can I get you anything?” Like, 911? But all I add is, “Are you all right? Maybe you need a doctor?”

She sits up a little straighter. “No, the doctor checks in all the time. I’m not well, but there’s nothing anyone can do. I just need my pills.” She gestures to the nightstand.

“Which ones do you need?” I ask, taking the opportunity to read the labels. They’re prescribed to Elizabeth Ward Carmichael. I recall the names of the medications I overheard when Dr. Hill was talking to Conrad—and many of them are here.

So wait, is this Conrad’s wife? I remember in Beach Thriller that his fiancée was named Elizabeth. It hits me all at once. I never made the Baxter connection before. Probably because I wasn’t sure how much of Beach Thriller was real and how much was fiction. But now all the dots are connecting.

Seeing Elizabeth’s last name, Ward, on the pill bottles, makes me realize that Maeve’s second husband, Baxter Ward, must be Elizabeth’s father. Which means, Maeve married her daughter-in-law’s dad. Super cringe and totally incestuous. And now they’re keeping her up here like a drugged, dystopian Disney princess. Am I the rescuer in this story, or a mouse about to get caught in a trap?

All I know is that I don’t get paid nearly enough for this shit. It feels like I’m putting together a bizarre puzzle, but the pieces are all misshapen and keep multiplying.

First things first. This lady is hankering for her fix, though I’m not about to oblige. I’m not a medical professional. What if I give her the wrong thing, and it kills her?

“I don’t think I should give you anything,” I say.

Elizabeth doesn’t move, but her brow furrows. She’s not too pleased with my response. She stays perfectly still as if trying to process my words, but her brain isn’t firing correctly.

Kneeling beside her bed, I try for a better look at those mesmerizing eyes. I’ve seen my fair share of high people. The pupils are always dilated—and hers come at me like a pair of bowling balls.

Forget the drugs. What this lady needs is a way out of here.

Finally she speaks. “Please. I need my pain pills. My back is killing me.”

Next to the prescriptions is a bottle of Advil. That should be relatively safe—at least I hope so. I dump two tablets into my hand and give her a glass of water. It’s heartbreaking to see her hands tremble, just trying to bring the drink to her lips.