‘He was here yesterday. I saw his card in the cubbyhole by the punch clock. Either he forgot to punch out, or he didn’t leave,’ I whisper, wishing I’d thought to mention it earlier. I only met him that one time, but he seemed like such a lovely man.
The footsteps above our heads resume, and we all look up in terror.
‘Hurry, come on, into the library,’ Rose says. ‘You too, Poppins,’ she adds, and the old dog gets up and trots behind her. As soon as we are inside, Rose starts locking all of the doors, trapping us in the small room. Conor starts pacing, and Trixie stands on her own by the window in the corner. She looks so small in her pink pyjamas. Trixie might be fifteen, but she’s still a child who has just lost her mother. I rush to her side but she barely notices, and I doubt she’ll ever get over this. I suspect none of us will.
Rose starts throwing her things into her bag, almost hitting Poppins with a wet jumper in the process. Then she freezes.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
She turns back to stare at us all. ‘My gun was right here on the chair earlier.’
‘And?’ Conor asks.
‘And now it’s gone.’
Forty-two
31 October 4:20 a.m.
less than two hours until low tide
‘So what you’re saying is that the killer has a gun?’ Conor whispers.
‘It’s possible,’ says Rose.
‘Great. What now?’ he asks.
She shrugs. ‘We barricade ourselves in here and wait?’
‘Wait for what? There is no way to call for help. Nobody is coming to save us!’ I say, feeling just as hysterical as I’m starting to sound.
Rose ignores me and checks that all three doors in the library are locked again – the one that leads to the lounge, the one to the music room, and the main one leading out to the hall – until she is sure that we are safe – or trapped – inside. Trixie looks exhausted and a little out of it. Her eyes are half closed. I remember that she’s been drugged with sleeping pills, injected with insulin, and witnessed the horror of her mother, grandparents and great-grandmother being murdered tonight. Her knees buckle as if she can’t stand any longer, and she slides down against the wall before I can catch her. I’m amazed she’s lasted this long. I sit next to her on the floor and try to hold her hand, but Trixie pulls it away. Her fingers form two little fists, and she wraps her arms across her chest as though hugging herself. I suppose if I were her, I wouldn’t trust anyone left here either.
Three of the four walls in Nana’s library are covered in shelves crammed full of books, but the one at the far end of the room, which has an old sash window, is what she liked to call the ‘Wall of Achievements’。 It makes sense that Rose chose to sleep in this room this weekend because most of the achievements are hers. There is a picture of Rose – the clever one – winning an award at school, some of her prizes and certificates for ‘best this’ and ‘best that’， and a photo of her wearing a graduation gown and cap at Cambridge. Nana was always so proud of Rose for going to university and pursuing her dreams. Unlike Lily, who she described as devoid of ambition. Your dreams can’t come true if you don’t have any. Nana used to say that to me and my sisters all the time. But she did frame a newspaper clipping of Lily winning a beauty pageant when she was ten, probably to keep my mother happy. It’s important to celebrate life’s small successes; like most things, they need to see the light in order to grow into something bigger.
There is a framed picture of Dad conducting his orchestra at the Albert Hall in London. Next to it, there is a childhood picture of me sitting with my father in the music room here at Seaglass. I’m holding up my Grade Five piano certificate, and we’re wearing matching smiles. Nana also framed a poem I wrote when I was eleven, perhaps because writing was her passion, and she secretly wanted someone in the family to follow in her footsteps.
Here’s what I think
About people who drink
Then say mean things to others
Without even a blink
Of an eye
Make them cry
Or worse, wonder why
They exist in this death we call life.
I think those who tittle and tattle
Or give the fears of others a good rattle
Should be wary of making smiles fade.
For what goes around comes around
And kills you without a sound
Leaving you dead in the bed that you made.
I confess it is rather dark, but I was a child living with a death sentence at the time. Perhaps if I’d known back then that I’d still be around now, I might have had a more cheerful disposition.