We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(59)

“The cord.” He flaps one hand vaguely at the IV line, which leads under his shirt. “I don’t want it. Take it out!”

“I don’t know how,” I say. “I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”

“She doesn’t let me have scissors. I want a box cutter. A knife. To cut the line.”

“Maybe you need the IV,” I say. “Maybe it’s keeping you alive.”

He shakes his head. “It’s water. It’s just water.”

“Hydration?”

He nods. “I won’t drink what she gives me. She’s a witch. She puts herbs in the water. Tries to give me tea.”

“June?”

He tosses his head back and forth on the pillow. “I fear her now. She wants me to paint. She brings me canvases and supplies. She keeps me in this tower. And I paint for her, because what else can I do? I cannot do anything but paint. The brushes call me. They are bewitched. She’d keep me here forever if she could.”

“Why won’t you drink what she brings?”

“She drugs me to keep me weak. Brock brings me cookies. Packaged foods. Potato chips that can’t be tampered with.” He shakes the IV line again. “You must do this for me. Do something for me.”

“What?”

“Bring me scissors.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I have to cut this cord. It goes to a port in my skin. I can’t see it well.” Kingsley sits up and pats the nightstand until he finds his glasses. He puts them on. “It’s very dark.”

I turn on the lamp, and when I do, he looks at me intently. For a long time. “Matilda,” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t sure you were real. I saw you.” He gestures at the window. “I can see you on the beach.”

“I’m staying here. I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you were in Italy. You said you were. Do you remember that? Saying you were in Italy?”

“I’ve been here a long time.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a year. I used to go out. But now she keeps me inside, keeps me on this cord every night. The door won’t open.”

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Kingsley says. He reaches for the sketchbook on his bedside table, a new-looking one of the same type I found in the Oyster Office. He fumbles with it, flipping pages, until he finds the thing he wants. He tears it out with a soft ripping sound and folds it in quarters. “Take this,” he says. “Bring it to my son.”

I put it in the pocket of my sweatpants. “I will.”

Kingsley presses his head against the back of the foldout couch. “I need Meer to understand.” Then his eyes grow foggy and he grabs for my hand. “Did you bring this madness? The tangle in my brain? The way my thoughts won’t string together, did you bring it? Or was it here before you? I saw the fire from my tower, Melinoe,” he says. “I saw the smoke. I heard the helicopters on their way.”

“Yes,” I tell him. “There was a fire on Beechwood Island. It happened before I came here.”

“I ran away from my father’s castle, and I built my own. I built a life I had only imagined. I brought it into existence, with my woman and our child. Now she’s a witch and he holds me down and you’ve brought the madness. Peter Pevensie’s castle went up in flames.”

I don’t understand, but I nod.

“They tried to make me see the doctors,” continues Kingsley. “But I don’t want them. I don’t want their pills to interfere with what I see. If I do not see, I cannot paint, so I don’t let them near me.”

“Dad,” I tell him, “I didn’t bring madness. I’m just Matilda. Isadora Klein’s daughter. Your daughter.”

He thrashes his head back and forth. “Bring me scissors, Matilda!” he bellows, digging his nails into my hand. “Bring them to me and unlock my door. Help me escape from this witch.” His breath is sour. He is spitting as he talks.

I wrench my hand from his. Reeling, I run down the stairs, through the studio, and into the stairwell. I am halfway to the ground floor when I stop and return.

Wincing, I press the studio door shut.

I turn the key in the lock and shoot the bolt. I race downstairs again, leaving my father imprisoned in his tower.





Part Seven


    Truth





55


My backpack, a change of clothes, my toothbrush, and my ID.

I can leave the rest of my things behind—the duffel, most of my clothes, makeup. I didn’t have much here anyway.

The ring of keys unlocks the office. I shove my phone, the chargers, and my computer into my backpack.

From the mudroom, I grab someone’s raincoat. Before I can stop to regret, before I can think about leaving my brother, before I can think about giving up Tatum, I am out the door and into the rain.

Running, my mind racing. I have to get away from here.

My father is in the throes of dementia,

he’s a prisoner,

he scared me.

He recognized me,

he painted me.

He sees me.

He’s not the person I imagined.