We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(43)

It’s a bit different from the one Tatum drew on my leg. But it’s the same kind of plant. From the garden level of Luigi’s Haunted Mansion.

The drawings of Mirren, Johnny, and Gat could have been done any time after the Beechwood Island fire. It happened a week before I arrived on the Vineyard.

But the piranha plant, no way. That drawing has to have been made after I arrived at Hidden Beach.

And yet, that’s impossible.

Kingsley hasn’t been here to draw it.

One of the boys has to be drawing in Kingsley’s sketchbook. But why? And which one?

I’ve seen Tatum draw on Meer, and he draws with confidence. And though Brock claims he can only draw spirals, and his piranha plant was objectively terrible, he could be hiding his skill. Maybe all this time at Hidden Beach, he’s been apprenticing to Kingsley?

More likely, the drawings are Meer’s. My brother keeps a sketchbook of doodles and tattoo ideas. He covers himself and everyone else in Sharpie. He told me he’s “not an artist”—but he was also homeschooled by his parents. “June had so much to teach me,” he said. “And so did the ocean. And Kingsley.”

Meer could have been trained by Kingsley to paint like Kingsley.

Is it even possible, what I’m thinking?

That Meer draws in this sketchbook because Meer is painting Kingsley’s paintings.

That Meer isn’t leaving Hidden Beach to go to college, or do anything else, because he already has a career that pays him millions.

That Meer, not Kingsley, painted Prince of Denmark, and that’s why the painting shows the son conquering the father figure.

And Meer, not Kingsley, painted me on a raft in the middle of the sea. Because it’s Meer who would have seen that picture on my social media. And Meer would store the painting in his own room instead of in Kingsley’s studio.

But why would Meer be painting for Kingsley?

Did our father leave his family ages ago to adventure across the sea like Odysseus, after training my brother to carry on his legacy?

I look through the rest of the sketchbook, hoping for more information, but it’s only half full. The rest of the images don’t offer anything I can make sense of. The artist returns to pencil. There are many, many drawings of goblins and gargoyles, crushed up next to one another, laughing and lurking in what looks like a cave, or maybe they’re under a bed.

They really do look like Kingsley drew them. I recognize the sense of threat in each image, the ugliness inside the beauty, some impossible-to-articulate quality of line. The feeling of claustrophobia, the laughing faces.

When I finally lift my eyes from the sketchbook, morning sun is pouring through the windows. I tuck the book under my arm, put my electronics away, and shut the lights.

I need to talk to Meer.





40


He’s sleeping without a blanket, wearing pajama pants and no shirt, lying in front of a white plastic fan. The hot air ruffles his hair, which has come out of its usual bun. Since his mattress is on the floor, his sheets spill onto the carpet.

I sit on the edge of the bed and tap Meer softly on the shoulder. I expect him to roll over sleepily and ask me to go away, but he bolts up to sitting, seemingly completely awake in a heartbeat. “Is it Dad?”

“No. He’s not back yet.”

Meer flops back and looks at me. “Oh, Matilda. I thought you were my mom, waking me up. Ugh, I’m so tired.”

“He might be back today, though.”

“Mm? Why do you say that?”

“June was doing his laundry, like getting ready for his return.”

“No, I was doing his laundry,” says Meer, rubbing his eyes. “I just finally got around to it, is all.”

“Oh.” I can hear the disappointment in my own voice.

“I’m laundry boy,” says Meer. “I’m just not diligent.”

“So he’s not due back.”

Meer plops a pillow over his face and talks from underneath. “No, Matilda. He hasn’t called me or texted me or emailed me. Or my mom.”

“Not once? All this time?”

“Same as every time you ask.”

I haven’t asked in ages. “Really?”

Meer takes the pillow off his face. “That’s the hundred-percent truth I just told you. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Okay. Don’t be annoyed. I just thought the wrong thing.”

“Why are you even awake? It’s very early.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“And why are you getting me up?” asks Meer, staggering to his feet and pulling his hair off his neck, gathering it with an elastic from his wrist. He disappears into his closet, and I can hear him rummaging for clothes to wear.

“Have you seen the painting that just sold? Prince of Denmark?”

“Of course,” says Meer, still in his walk-in closet. “I posed for it. Then it got shipped off to the gallery.”

“I found a sketchbook of Kingsley’s,” I say. “From this summer. It had a date on it.”

“He was here most of May and June,” says Meer. “He always has a sketchbook. He always puts the date. I can’t find my other shoe.”

“Yeah, but he was drawing in Sharpie. Like you do. Meer, can you come back out? I’m trying to talk to you about something important.”