He answers without looking at her. ‘My father was in rehab, again, and Nana offered to look after me.’
The silence that follows is smashed by the sound of the clocks in the hallway. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and we all look exhausted, especially my mother. She takes a sip of cold tea.
‘Is there a way to turn off the clocks? I don’t want them to wake Trixie,’ Lily says.
My niece has been so quiet, sleeping on the window seat at the back of the room, I’d almost forgotten that she was here. I’m surprised that the sound of the TV didn’t wake her, never mind the clocks, but then I remember the sedative they put in Trixie’s drink earlier. My mother’s sleeping pills are strong enough to take out an elephant. Lily gets up from the sofa to check on her daughter.
‘Where is she?’ Lily asks.
We’re all up and out of our chairs within a matter of seconds. We stand and stare at the empty window seat and the blanket on the floor.
‘Where is Trixie?’ Lily shrieks, asking the question a second time, but still nobody replies. She stares at each of our faces, looking for an answer. In the absence of one, we start searching the room – checking behind the sofas and curtains – but Trixie isn’t here.
‘She’s gone,’ Lily says. ‘I don’t understand.’
Rose comes to her side, the protective-older-sister autopilot kicking in, their earlier squabble forgotten. ‘Try to stay calm. She can’t have gone far. You know what teenagers are like, you used to be one.’
‘I thought we put a sleeping pill in Trixie’s tea?’ Nancy says.
Lily turns on her. ‘We did.’
‘But that would have knocked her out for hours. Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’ Lily snaps.
‘Someone moved her . . .’ Nancy whispers.
I don’t understand how anyone could have moved Trixie without one of us seeing. But the window seat is in the far corner of the room, and we were all staring in the opposite direction at the TV. Plus, it’s the middle of the night now, and we are exhausted with grief and tiredness. We all left the room earlier. Was Trixie here when we came back? Did anyone check? Despite her mother’s constant digs about her dress size, Trixie is a normal weight for a girl her age. If anything, I’d describe her as petite. Easy enough for an adult to lift. I think it is possible that someone could have taken her, and knowing that makes me feel even worse, because at least one of us should have been keeping an eye on her.
The clocks stop ringing in the hallway. Nobody speaks, but we all follow Lily as she rushes out of the lounge, through the hall and into the kitchen. She stands in front of the chalk wall, and when I see Nana’s poem, I understand why.
Daisy Darker’s family were as dark as dark can be.
When one of them died, all of them lied, and pretended not to see.
Daisy Darker’s nana was the oldest but least wise.
The woman’s will made them all feel ill, which was why she had to die.
Daisy Darker’s father lived life dancing to his own tune.
His self-centred ways, and the pianos he played, danced him to his doom.
Daisy Darker’s mother was an actress with the coldest heart.
She didn’t love all her children, and deserved to lose her part.
Daisy Darker’s sister Rose was the eldest of the three.
She was clever and quiet and beautiful, but destined to die lonely.
Daisy Darker’s sister Lily was the vainest of the lot.
She was a selfish, spoilt, entitled witch, one who deserved to get shot.
Daisy Darker’s niece was a precocious little child.
Like all abandoned ducklings, she would not fare well in the wild.
Daisy Darker’s secret story was one someone sadly had to tell.
But her broken heart was just the start of what will be her last farewell.
Daisy Darker’s family wasted far too many years lying.
They spent their final hours together learning lessons before dying.
The part about Trixie has been crossed out.
‘Oh my god,’ Lily whispers, staring at the chalk words and covering her nose and mouth with her hands, as though praying to a God I know she does not believe in. ‘It’s coming true,’ she says quietly, then turns to look at us all. ‘It’s. Coming. True.’
‘What’s coming true?’ my mother asks.
Lily is shaking now. She points up at the poem, searches the faces of our family for any sign of understanding and finds none. But I know exactly what she means, even if I’m too scared to say it out loud. There is a low rumble of thunder in the distance outside. I hadn’t noticed how hard it was raining. The storm is getting closer, and the house feels bitterly cold. Lily’s words tumble too quickly out of her mouth for the rest of the family to keep up.