We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(15)

“What are they?” I ask.

“Herbal tinctures,” she says. “Some I make myself, others I buy.”

“But what herbs?”

“Passionflower, ashwagandha, star-of-Bethlehem, butterbur, and clematis,” she says. And in fact, the jars are labeled in the same lovely cursive as the signs in the mudroom, though the labels look waterlogged.

“I don’t know why I asked,” I confess. “I don’t know anything about herbs.”

“You can trust me. Ask the boys. I haven’t poisoned them yet.”

“That’s true,” Meer says. “I drink passionflower water and star-of-Bethlehem every day for breakfast and I look like this.” He puts his hands under his chin and smiles like a child in a photograph.

June swats Meer gently. “Don’t listen to him. He does no such thing.”

I pick up the glass of golden liquid. I take a small sip. Suddenly, I’m incredibly thirsty, but it tastes—well, bitter and deeply rotten, like oregano gone slimy in the back of a refrigerator. Like unspoken pain.

June, Meer, and Brock look at me.

“It’s good for you. Drink it,” says June. “Or don’t. No one’s going to force you.”

“Yum yum,” says Meer, then makes a gagging face.

I tip my glass and drink.





17


The four towers of Hidden Beach are known by paint color names, their doors labeled in June’s writing: Parchment, Bone, Chalk, Oyster. I follow Meer up the stairs in Parchment Tower. He gallantly carries my duffel and shows me to “the Iron Room” on the fourth floor.

“When I was little,” says Meer as we climb, “I always wanted a room at the top of one of our towers. Not because of the view, but because Kingsley has his studio at the top of Bone Tower. But I used to always wake up in the middle of the night, so my parents insisted I have the room next to their bedroom, on the second floor of Oyster. It’s better in the summer, because lower down doesn’t get so hot at night. But Tatum and I are top-floor boys now. We took over Chalk Tower.”

“Did Kingsley put you back to bed when you woke at night?”

“Mm-hm. He used to tiptoe in all exaggerated—you know, like a clown tiptoe—then sit on the floor next to my bed. He’d have me close my eyes so I could see the pictures on the insides of my eyelids. He’d ask me what I saw, and I’d fall asleep talking. Mid-sentence, I’d conk out because my eyes were closed.” We have reached the fourth floor and Meer stops in front of a door.

“He sounds like a good dad,” I venture.

“He’s a great artist,” says Meer, like that’s the most important thing in the world.

He takes me into the Iron Room. It’s curved on one side, like the tower. The windows are wide, dressed with plain white curtains. The bed, an ancient-looking ironwork four-poster, is covered in indigo-dyed linens. It sits in the middle of the room. There are no nightstands. The closet smells of wood and is lined with empty shelves. There is no bar for hangers. No mirror, nor a chest of drawers.

“Did Kingsley ever paint you?” I ask.

“A bunch of times. I like it better if he just works from a photograph, though. Or from memory. Posing is very boring and your arms get sore, or your butt or whatever. And he gets mad if you move, because he wants to get you in the light the right way, but he’s forgotten you’re even a person. So you’re sweating and like, hungry for snacks. But then, when the painting is done, you feel like the opposite happened. Like Kingsley saw something inside your soul. And he put it on the canvas so everyone else could see it, too.”

After Meer leaves me, I rummage in my backpack for my phone. I should text my mom to tell her where I am, and Saar to say I arrived.

But my phone isn’t there.

I open the sleeve where I carry my laptop. That isn’t there, either.

Meer talked about being unplugged. “We have cell phones for emergencies and there are computers, but we keep all the electronics in a locked room and only go in there for tech mornings so we can catch up and handle things. Monday and Thursday.”

Did he really remove the electronics from my bag? Or did June take them while I was passed out on the breakfast room couch?

It’s unnerving. For the second time I wonder if it was a good idea to come here.

I am mostly unpacked when I hear voices in the hall. Male voices, young. Brock and someone else. I am guessing Tatum.

“Who’s here?”

“Where?”

“In the Iron Room. The door’s closed.”

“Oh, that’s Matilda,” says Brock.

“Matilda, like Meer’s sister Matilda?”

“Yeah.”

“She came to visit?”

“Yeah. She’s sick or something. She passed out on the kitchen floor.”

There’s a pause. Tatum sighs. “Did we know she was coming?”

“You obviously didn’t.”

“Did you know, is what I’m asking.”

“I did not.”

“Did Meer?”

“Seemed to, yeah.”

“She just what? Decided to show up? Does Kingsley know?” asks Tatum.

“I don’t know what Kingsley knows.”

“How long is she staying?”