PART TWO Fear crawled slowly from Lucille’s fingertips into her mouth, her throat tensing to the point she felt she could not speak. This sickening feeling of familiarity was more horrifying than anything she had ever felt -- she knew this brutality. “Lu, we need to talk about this,” he said again, his voice quiet but firm, as though he did not wish for anyone else to hear them. She glanced at the album, still open in Marcel’s hands - the photograph showed a young girl, her long blonde hair laid out like a halo behind her head. The name VERA was written beneath in a scratchy, pointed hand, different than the handwriting she had seen before now. Vera’s eyes had been removed, whether pulled out or pushed in, it was impossible to tell, and there was a dark line spanning the width of her throat. “This one looks about my age,” Lucille said. Marcel followed her line of sight and nodded. “Just about,” he said. “Please, tell me what you’re thinking.” Lucille wrapped her left hand around the fingers of her right, twisting until they cracked. “I don’t trust anyone with anything,” she admitted, planting her eyes on his shoes. “I don’t want to trust you with this.” Moving to Preim had already changed her, though not in the ways she had hoped. She closed her eyes, completely aware of Marcel’s presence and could feel him leaning toward her, invading the space between them. Her heart pounded in her chest, as though it wanted to be nearer to him. She inhaled the scent of the crisp mint pomade in his hair, the warm, earthy smell of his skin. She wanted to fall asleep engulfed in it, to ignore the dark things licking at the back of her teeth and stay suspended in the cocoon of his calming presence. “But I do trust you,” she continued. She almost laughed. “Isn’t that curious?” Marcel did not respond. He licked his lips and watched her, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his hand, waiting. “I know this pattern. I’ve met these corpses before.,” she said, wrapping her left hand around the fingers of her right, twisting until they cracked. “It was the same five years ago, when my mother was murdered.” Two weeks before Christmas 1927, Lucille arrived at the front door of her parents’ home carrying a suitcase in one hand and an empty pack of cigarettes in the other. “Oh, darling” her mother said, ushering her inside. “What’s happened?”
In appearance, Linda Marston was the antithesis of her daughter. Lucille inherited her father’s black hair and olive skin, the only physical trace of her mousy-haired, fair-skinned mother were the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and wide, brown eyes. In personality, they were more similar than either cared to admit. Endlessly curious, sometimes impetuously so, they both lived their lives waiting for something better to come along. Linda left Preim, married her sweetheart, and had three daughters. Lucille wanted nothing more than to go to Preim and discover all of the secrets her mother left behind. “Fight with the landlady,” Lucille admitted. “Sorry I didn’t phone first, she wouldn’t let me near the telephone.” “Nonsense, don’t apologize. Your room is always ready for you.” Lucille moved further into the living room, unsettled by how immediately she felt as though she had never left. The smell of freshly-baked bread floated through the air, she could hear classical music crackling through the speakers of the wireless in the kitchen. The floors of the living room were the same grey wood covered in the same worn-out pink rugs. On the grey walls were scattered photographs of Lucille, her sisters, their parents, and her father’s parents. Perched on a table in the corner was a small Christmas tree, modestly decorated with handmade ornaments. Lucille set down her suitcase and slipped out of her coat. She sank into the armchair in the corner of the living room, dreading having to tell her mother what happened. But her mother had a way of guilting the truth out of anyone and begrudging them for not telling her in the first place. The sooner she told her, the easier it would all be. “Pa at work?” She asked, secretly hoping he was home. His calm demeanor usually acted as a natural buffer between the headstrong personalities his wife and youngest daughter. “He is. Have you heard from your sisters recently?” Her mother asked, shuffling into the kitchen. “Got a letter from Rosa a little while ago. Nothing much, just a brief update on the family. Can’t recall the last time I spoke with Gladys,” she said, hoping this vein of conversation would not carry on much longer. “You should get in touch with them more often,” her mother yelled to her from the other room. “They are much busier than you, Lucille, it’s not as easy for them.” Lucille rolled her eyes. “I know, Ma,” she sighed. “I’ll be better about it come the new year.”
“I hope so,” her mother replied, coming back into the living room with two teacups. “Just finished a brew when you knocked on the door.” “Thanks, Ma,” she said, taking a cup and setting it on the end small table next to her chair. “Now,” her mother said, sitting down on the couch. “You want to tell me what happened?” She looked at her over the rim of her glasses. Expectant in a way that told Lucille she would not be able to avoid it. Lucille sipped nervously at her tea, prolonging the conversation as long as she could, despite the scalding liquid burning it’s way down her throat. “She accused me of using a false name. She thought I was trying to swindle her, that I would pack up my things without paying rent and leave without a trace.” “Why would she accuse you of using a false name? That’s very unusual, Lucille, even for you.” “Well, because I was using a false name.” Her mother hummed disapprovingly into her teacup and set it on the table between them, the clang of the china resounding off the walls. “What name did you use?” Lucille pretended not to hear her. “She had no basis for it though. I always paid my rent on time. That horrible old woman just did not like me, I’m convinced.” “Lucille. What name did you use?” She bit her lip. “Lucille Farrow.” Her mother straightened in her seat, waves of anger radiating from her body. “How many times must we go through this? What is this ridiculous obsession?” Her eyes bore into Lucille like drills, hard and cold. “What is your obsession with hiding things from us? Why can’t we know, Ma?” Lucille’s pulse throbbed through her, so strongly she could feel it in her palms. There was silence for several seconds. Neither of them moved, they only stared at one another, the glistening reflection of light in their eyes the only indication that they were still present in their bodies. “Why are we not good enough for you, Lucille?” Tears formed as she looked at her, pleading. “What do we have to do to be worthy of your love?” Lucille folded her hands in her lap and focused her breaths, trying to calm her erratic heart. “I deserve to know, Ma. I want to know my own history, I want to understand the parts of me that you and Pa can’t explain.” Her mother scoffed and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I wouldn’t have left them if I didn’t have good reason. You must believe that.” In all the years Lucille had begged her mother for more information on the Farrows, she never once doubted that she had a good reason for leaving. Her
father was more patient than either of them combined. Had his wife had an unworthy reason, he would have talked her into making amends long ago. Lucille stood, unwilling to carry on this fight. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a nap. It’s been a very trying day.” Her mother pursed her lips. “We are all meant to suffer greatly, are we not, darling?” Lucille forced her mouth into a smile, already feeling heavier than when she had arrived. She planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek and walked the familiar path to her old bedroom. Although Lucille did not take many of her possessions with her when she moved out, her room felt more barren than ever. The walls were vacant of life, the bookshelf and bedside table covered in dust. It was easy enough to see that neither her mother nor her father came in here often, if they had at all in the ten months she’d been gone. The sight of her stagnant life made her feel ill. She crawled into the stale sheets, wrapping them around her, just under her chin, and fell asleep, wondering how long before something would change. It took less than a week for her to fall back into the old habits she developed while growing up. In the quiet, early morning, she rose hours before anyone else, desperate for the peace of solitude she was so infrequently allowed while the others were awake. It was less chaotic with her sisters gone, but she could not help feeling a sense of being invasive, parasitic. Alone in the mornings, she felt as though she were on her own again. In her own, beloved room, fending for herself, in company only when she wished. Lucille sat up in her bed and pressed her feet onto the cold wooden floor. She stood slowly, yawning into the back of her hand. The pitch-black darkness of night had not yet begun to pull away. It was earlier than when she planned on waking up. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was not yet six. The warmth of her blankets called to her, begging for her return, but she resisted. We are all meant to suffer greatly, she said to herself, rolling her eyes. She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she breathed in and out, watched the bones of her chest expand for her lungs. Her skin was more flushed today, her cheeks glowing. She put a hand over her chest and felt her heartbeat tapping against her fingertips. This may be the day when everything changes, she hoped, smiling at herself in the small, oval-shaped glass.
Still in her nightgown, her robe tied tightly around her waist, she tread quietly down the stairs, careful to avoid the spots that groaned the loudest. A few footsteps into the living room, she stopped and surveyed the blackness around her. There was something peculiar lurking in the darkness. Something was not right. She ran her hands along the wall, searching for the light switch, bracing herself for whatever frightening thing might be waiting for her. The overhead light buzzed to life, casting the room in a dim, tired glow. The front door was slightly ajar. She frowned, wondering whether her father had left it open when he came home from his shift. She crept forward, pulling the top of her robe closed, shielding her skin from the frigid air seeping into the house. A small amount of snow had started to build up on the threshold and the doormat. She paused, listening for any hint of movement in the house or outside. There was nothing but the deathly stillness of a snowy weekend morning. Carefully, Lucille pulled the door open so she could step onto the porch. Ahead of her was nothing but flurries of white, obscuring her vision of anything fifty feet passed her front door. It was lighter than it had been when she’d awoke, but only slightly so. The black night melted into grey morning and the sun was nowhere to be seen. Lucille inhaled deeply, allowing the cold air to fill her lungs and noticed the faint smell of tobacco lingering around her. She turned back toward the warm house, a flash of red at her feet caught her eye. Her sights had been so fixated on the dreary horizon ahead of her, she had not bothered to look where she stood. Blood dotted the snow all around her, coloring a trail the length of the porch, all the way to the opposite corner. At the far end, propped up in her rocking chair, was a person. Through the snowfall she could see a head of mousy brown hair. Lucille’s lungs seized within her chest, the cold air suddenly too much. She trudged towards the figure. The ache in her bare legs intensified with each step, her skin hot and freezing all at once. “Ma,” she said, her jaw trembling. Lucille stood in front of her, staring. Something putrid was bubbling up in her throat, but she swallowed it down and clenched her teeth against the sickness. Bruises patterned her mother’s jawline. Her long, pale neck was split open -- had it not been for the height of the rocking chair, Lucille suspected the head would be hanging down her back. Her big, brown eyes were glistening with fear. The snow melted in the sticky, wet heat of her blood-soaked nightgown. She opened her mouth to yell for help, unsure whether any sound came
out. She seemed unable to hear anything at all. Everything around her was still and silent. The snow continued to fall.
Marcel’s gaze was intense, she could not tell what he was thinking, but he did not seem surprised. “What happened after you found her?” The question threw her off. She arched an eyebrow at him before stammering out a response. “I… Well, I have a hard time remembering. I tried to bring her back in the house. Her skin was cold, but the blood got all over my pajamas, it was still warm. She was too heavy. I couldn’t do it. I woke my father, tried to keep him calm. I remember him telephoning the local police and screaming at them.” “Why was he screaming?” “I don’t know, he was scared. He phoned my sisters and cried so much he couldn’t speak. Detectives took some time questioning us, but let us go. Everyone in town was on high alert, thinking there was a rogue killer on the loose.” “But they never found who did it,” Marcel finished, tying up the story as though he had heard it a thousand times before. The certainty in his voice jolted her attention back into the present. “How do you know that?” “Marion told me,” he said, casually. “I thought you said you didn’t know her,” Lucille tried to wade through the memories of their brief conversations. Marcel shook his head. “I never said that.” “You said that you’d never been in this house,” she reminded him. “‘What would Marion Farrow think if she knew both of the Wolfe men stepped foot in her house in the span of a single week?’.” “Well, usually it’s only me. Only one of the Wolfe men,” he told her, smiling. “Don’t fucking smile,” she warned him. “Sorry,” he said, putting his hand over his mouth. Lucille rolled her eyes and folded her arms tight against her chest. “Why would you lie?” “Instinct, I think.” “The instinct to lie?” She grabbed the album from him, returned it to the box and placed everything back in the china cabinet drawer. “The instinct to hold off on the truth,” Marcel said. Lucille huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Look,” he continued. “I’m not trying to trick you or anything like that at all, but…,” he inhaled sharply, his breath running like a hiss through his clenched
teeth. “I needed to know what you knew.” “I told you I didn’t know anything. I told you that from the beginning.” He nodded. “People lie.” Lucille sat down again, resting her arm along the back of the chair. “Yes, they do.” “I promise you, I had to be careful. I couldn’t just waltz in here spilling all of my secrets when you came here completely ignorant of the history of your family, this house, yourself.” “Myself ?” The corner of Marcel’s mouth turned upward and his eyes darkened, mimicking the afternoon they had first met. “Yes. That’s why I’m here now.” “You didn’t come here just to bring me flowers?” “Opportunist,” he said, shrugging. “Killing two birds with one stone, as it were.” “Okay,” she said, the heat of blood rushing to her cheeks. Desire, this time. “Then tell me everything.” The blackness of a storm had descended completely upon the nook, and Lucille decided their conversation was best continued elsewhere. She led Marcel to the sitting room at the front of the house. Walking silently through the hallways, she bit back the temptation to comment on how he probably knew the way better than she did. “When I said earlier that I was surprised by how homey this place is, I wasn’t only trying to make myself sound convincing,” he offered, the low timbre of his voice even more pronounced in the stillness of their surroundings. “Sixteen years I’ve been coming here and each time I find myself entranced by something I hadn’t noticed before. The house always surprises me.” “I don’t know that I will ever get used to living here,” Lucille said. “You will,” he assured her. “You belong here.” “We’ll see,” she responded, looking over her shoulder to smile at him. She tried her best to stay calm, but could not deny how deeply these new fragments of truth stung her. When Marcel walked into Farrow House for the first time, Lucille was stepping over the threshold of mild fascination and into absolute obsession regarding the family she was never allowed to know. In her near-constant daydreams, she imagined herself running away to Priem, saying goodbye to her parents and her sisters forever. She became fixated on the idea that she belonged with the Farrows, and the more her mother fought her about it, the more Lucille resented her. Before she knew it, her mother was dead and there was no hope of making up those years of disdain.
We are all meant to suffer greatly, she reminded herself. Lucille turned her thoughts back to Marcel, trying to imagine him sixteen years younger. A decade and a half was ample time to develop the confidence he seemed to be a master of, but she found it difficult to envision him at age where he may have been hesitant or unsure about anything. She wondered if they would have been friends had they met under different circumstances. The sitting room, much like the rest of the ground floor, was decorated to show off personal effects, but managed to look more grand than anything Lucille had ever seen outside of motion picture sets and magazine clippings. The emerald green paint and soft, cream-colored rugs made her feel comfortable and safe. She took a seat in a red velvet chair near a large, paneled window that spanned nearly the full height of the wall and rested her feet on the ottoman in front of her. Again, Marcel focused on her movements and smirked. “What is it now?” she asked. “Nothing important,” he said. “That was Marion’s prefered spot. Funny that you chose it as well.” She had not expected his answer to set her heart racing. “Am I much like her?” Marcel put his hands in his pockets and fixed his gaze on her. “In some ways, yes. In most ways, thankfully, no.” “Oh,” she said, her eyes lowered. Marcel caught on to her displeasure immediately. “Now, trust me, being unlike her is not a bad thing. Marion has been part of my life for such a long while now that I wasn’t sure what it would be like without her. I miss her, very much, but, since you want me to be honest, getting to know you has been thrilling. I thought I wasn’t ready for you, but you are better than I could have dreamed.” Lucille failed to suppress a smile. “I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about you, Mr. Wolfe,” He laughed and moved toward the fireplace. “I am more than happy to lay myself bare for you.” They did not speak as Marcel began the process of lighting a new fire, but Lucille watched him closely. Once the fire began to spark beneath the wood, Marcel stood and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He leaned against the stone mantle, turning the poker in his left hand. Lucille noticed the twitching muscles in his forearm. Hoping to retain some sense of dignity, she looked out the window,
focusing on the icy rain as it pelted the glass. In the reflection, she saw Marcel turn his head toward her. “The best place to begin is at the beginning,” he said, settling into the chair opposite her, his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the feet. “I mentioned before that when I was in school, my mates would make a game of daring one another to taste the fruit of the Blood Tree. The biggest challenge in that, of course, was not actually eating the fruit, but rather finding the courage to get so close to Farrow House. We’d all grown up hearing the most atrocious, wild stories about Marion Farrow and her family from our parents, and even though we imagined ourselves to be brave, strapping lads, unafraid of an old lady and her witchcraft, it took time before any of us stepped foot on the property.” “But you did?” Lucille said, absentmindedly running her forefinger along the length of scar on her cheekbone. “I did. It was all humourous at first, daring one another to do something we knew none of us would ever even attempt, making fun of one person for being a coward, when everyone was equally frightened. Eventually, as it so often goes, the game became tedious. The next time I got a dare, I decided to put an end to the whole thing -- I opened the gate, walked to the tree, plucked a cluster of fruit and ate it. They couldn’t believe it, and when I got back, they were furious with me. Everyone was so god damn afraid their parents would find out. My heart was racing from the exhilaration of the whole thing and couldn’t find it in me to care that I’d upset them I didn’t care. Rather suddenly, they all decided that they needed to go home. Before we got to the end of the street, one of them looked back at the house. I think it was Sal Waldman. I can still hear the terror in his voice, it was so shaky we could barely make out what he was saying. We looked where he was looking and saw, in the center window of the tower, Marion Farrow staring down at us. The rest of the boys bolted for home, but I stayed behind a few moments longer, staring back at her, licking the juice off of my fingers.” “How old were you when this happened?” “Newly seventeen.” Lucille made a note of his age in her head -- thirty-three. She nodded, urging him to continue. “It took about a week for me to go back to Farrow House, and when I did, Marion was sitting on the porch waiting for me. She looked different than I’d imagined, different even than how I remembered seeing her in the window. Certainly didn’t appear to be a haggard old witch.” “A witch, that’s the second time you’ve said that. Is that really what people thought she was?”
“The dominant story changes every so often - when I was growing up, it was a witch. When my parents were young, it was that the entire family made a deal with the devil when they first settled here. When your mother left the family, it was whispered that the Farrows had her killed because she was too different than the rest of them. They didn’t want her causing any trouble for them. A lot of folks would go around saying what a tragedy it was, that Linda Farrow was the only sane one in the bunch.” Marcel paused and closed his eyes. He started tapping his thumb repeatedly against the arm of the chair, his exhaled breaths coming out harsh and fast, as though he had been running. Lucille fought back the urge to ask what was wrong and allowed him time to gather his thoughts. A few moments later, he opened his eyes, his brows knitted together in focus. He was angry, but he continued the story. “Whether they truly believed that she’d been killed or not, it doesn’t change the fact that every single one of them treated her like shit before she disappeared from Priem, just like they did the rest of the family.” “I wonder if my mother knew they thought she was dead,” she said aloud, not expecting an answer. She laughed. “She probably would have been thrilled.” Marcel’s anger was beginning to subside. “I’m sure she wasn’t privy to what these buffoons were making up about her after she left. From what I knew, your mother ended all communication with Marion and their parents when she left, and Preim is far enough from Lorrell that rumors probably would not have made it that far.” “Did Marion really just allow her to leave like that?” He nodded. “Marion was quite a lot older than Linda, so, I don’t think she ever really saw it as any great tragedy. They were never close to begin with and I don’t think any party even attempted reconciling. Their parents tried to find her, but Linda was very good at hiding. Marion knew where she was the whole time, but she didn’t care enough to tell her parents the information. When Linda started having children, she started paying people to keep an eye on the family. That’s how she knew about you.” “Was that merely for curiosity’s sake?” Marcel shrugged. “That I couldn’t say. I didn’t even know she was doing it until a few years ago.” “I don’t think I’m completely ready to get too in depth about my family just yet. Can you go back to why people hate the Farrows so much? I’m having trouble understanding that aspect.” “Frankly, I don’t think many people here understand it either. A lot of it is simply years and years of fighting the conflict of not understanding your neighbors and passing the hatred that develops from that down to your children. …
The Farrows were more in touch with their humanity than this simple town could handle. It drove an everlasting wedge between them.” “What exactly do you mean by that?” Marcel paused, pulling his bottom lip with his teeth. “They gave into the urges that everyone else hid away. They never would have made a pact with the devil because they didn’t believe in God. They were their own gods, in a way. They answered to each other and to themselves, no one else. No church authority, no state authority. Their money kept them thriving and allowed them to live as they pleased.” “Why wouldn’t they just leave and live somewhere more remote, or more open-minded?” “Pride, I think. Besides, look at what they built,” he gestured vaguely to the room around them. “If you’d put this much time and money into a home, would you want to leave it just because some ignorant townspeople bully you in the streets?” Lucille looked around, admiring the curving detail of the woodwork in the walls and the care it must have taken to curate so many pieces of family history in a house of this size. “No,” she answered, grinning. “I would fight them.” “There’s my girl,” he said, his voice soft, eyes fiery with satisfaction. “I could use a drink. You want one?” “What?” Lucille declared as he stood. “Is there alcohol in this house? I would kill for a glass of scotch.” “Good,” he said. “I’ll go get mine, then. I’ll be back.” When he left, Lucille rested her head against the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling. The story so far was bizarre, but not as disturbing as she anticipated. A lot of this animosity could have been done away with, but she was familiar enough with stubbornness and pride to know that it is often easier said than done. “I’m afraid I derailed your story,” she said, breathing out a laugh as Marcel walked back into the sitting room, two empty glasses in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. “Sorry.” “Don’t apologize, it’s all important.” He carefully set the glasses on the table and poured them each two fingers worth. Lucille took a small sip, beaming when the familiar tingle hit her tongue and warmed a path into her belly. She sighed, thoroughly pleased. “That is marvelous. Thank you.” “My pleasure,” he said. “Where did I leave off ?” He sat down once more and drank from his own glass. “Marion was sitting on her front porch.” “Right. She was sitting on the porch, waiting for me to come back. She asked
what could have possessed me to walk on a stranger’s private property without their permission. Even though I was pretty arrogant as a young man, I didn’t see any point in lying, so I simply told her I’d been dared. She asked if I was afraid of the consequences, I said no. I asked if she was afraid I wouldn’t come back. The look on her face was unforgettable. It was that look that older folks get when you say something disrespectful and they can’t believe the audacity, but more than that, I could see excitement behind her eyes. She asked if I needed a job and would I like to help her around the house. I said yes.” “Your parents couldn’t have been too pleased,” Lucille interjected. Marcel shook his head, his eyes wide. “That’s certainly an understatement. My mother started looking at me like she was ashamed and afraid all at once. The idea that I would even consider working for Marion Farrow, let alone that I had accepted, troubled her deeply. She felt like she must have raised me wrong. My father… I think he hated me after I accepted Marion’s offer. But none of that was much of a change to our relationship, we never really got along. They loved me, but out of obligation, maybe. Or out of necessity, something like that. I was their only son, their little miracle. They were stuck with me and by the time they realized that they didn’t want to be stuck with me, it was far too late.” “You took good care of your mother after your father died,” Lucille offered. “From what I could see.” He shrugged one shoulder. “She had no one left. I had to do what I could.” “Okay,” Lucille said, realizing that he did not wish to discuss it further. “What happened next?” “I moved out of my parents’ house and into a small flat just up the road here,” he pointed out the front window to the cobblestone street which led to Lucille’s property. “My parents were furious when I left. I assured them that I was only helping to care for the garden and maintenance of the house, and that did ease my mother’s mind, but my father hated Marion Farrow so much, he began to hate me, and until Marion died, he stopped speaking to me. When she died, he was… God, he was elated. I’d never seen him so happy.” Lucille furrowed her brow. “Why?” “Well, he thought that Marion was the end of the Farrow line and assumed her property and fortune would be left to the only other person he knew to be in her life -- me. He bragged about it to his workmates, told them that soon enough the Wolfes would take over Farrow house and all of the mysteries within would be solved and Priem would be rid of the evil that had plagued it for centuries.” Initially, Lucille thought Wallace Wolfe had a little too much kindness in him to turn away a stranger asking for help, no matter what her name was. Now, she began seeing him as an altogether different person. Wallace must have agreed to
help her in order to get inside the house, possibly even to gauge the kind of person she was, to intimidate her. Although Marcel had just buried his father, Lucille could not help feeling relieved that he was dead. Wallace Wolfe was no longer a problem. “What did you and Marion do, then?” She asked, trying to veer the conversation away from his dead father. “Apart from tidying the garden, of course.” He chuckled into his glass. “It took some time for her to completely trust me, but eventually, within the first year, I became her right hand man. I would have done anything she asked me.” “But why?” Lucille could not wrap her head around such commitment to any one person. “She was teaching me,” he told her, as though it were the most straightforward relationship in existence. The silence was so heavy, Lucille could feel it throbbing against her ears. She thought back to the album, the careful, neat script below every photograph, and the sudden change in handwriting toward the end of the book. “You were killing for her,” she concluded, surprising herself as the words left her mouth. Marcel stayed quiet for a long while, the crackling pops of the fire filling the empty air between them. Lucille considered him, trying to decipher the feelings his expression might betray. He did not appear to be upset or guilt-ridden. Instead, he looked as though he was having a lengthy conversation in his own head. His eyes darted back and forth, so quickly she had not noticed at first. “Yes,” he said eventually. He turned his attention back to her. “She knew she couldn’t keep doing it forever. She was nurturing the darkness within me, rather than denying it existed. She thought I was her only chance, until she found out about you.” Lucille’s head jerked up. “Found out what about me?” “I told you we were keeping tabs on your family,” he reminded her. She nodded. “She watched you throughout your whole life, but never really had any idea what you were capable of until five years ago.” “What happened... five…,” she repeated, dazed, as her mind careened backwards into the past. Her hands felt sticky, her face was warm, her eyes stung with tears, a chill ran over her skin. She wanted to sink into the chair and shake the memory away from the front of her mind. In rapid succession, Marcel stood, set his empty glass on the table, and was seated on the ottoman in front of Lucille. He held his palm against her cheek, his thumb tracing the part of her scar that ran just under her eye. She locked her gaze on his and felt that ancient thing stirring within her once more.
“Lu, don’t disappear into your head. Eh? Come on, stay with me.” Lucille swallowed the knot in her throat. “Who killed my mother?” “You know, Lucille,” he said, touching his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “Did you and Marion kill my mother?” “No,” he told her. Lucille exhaled sharply and settled her hand on top of his. “Did I kill her?” “You remember the blood,” he said, his mouth at her ear, warm breath hitting her skin like fire. “Can you feel the ghosts of that night crawling back into your mind?” She shivered, guiding Marcel’s hand along the path of her scar. “Yes, I feel them.” “Can you feel the weight of the knife in your hand?” “Yes.” Marcel’s thumb pressed into the meaty part of her cheek. “You did so good, Lu. Just on instinct.” Lucille looked at him, wondering so many things about him, wanting to ask so many questions. It’ll keep, she thought to herself. She leaned forward, setting her forehead on his shoulder. “I loved it,” she said into the white cotton of his shirt, letting out a soft laugh. Marcel combed his fingers through her hair and gripped at the back of her head, pulling slightly. “I know you did. Is that why you killed my father, too?”