The Women in the Walls Read Online Free PDF Page A

stay away from me, I shouldn’t push. Clearly, she’s chosen to go through all of this alone. Maybe I just need to accept that and give her the space right back.
    There is a dark place inside me that wonders if Margaret is shutting me out because of how things were between her and her mother. Penelope and I were always closer, sharing more of the same interests and acting with similar attitudes that were so different than Margaret’s, who didn’t care as much about things like order or rules or tradition. Penelope rarely grew angry with me, or my father, but she was more often than not snipping back and forth with Margaret over this or that.
    My father and Penelope never kissed or hugged or touched in front of Margaret and me, but between the curl of his half smile and the twinkle in my aunt’s eye whenever we caught them chatting over lunch or tea in the courtyard, it was clear that neither of them was feeling too lonely.
    The chemistry was practically electric, although Margaret and I almost never spoke of it to each other anymore, as I think we were both afraid of getting into an argument over it. Every time it would end with Margaret saying the same thing: cousins are not supposed to be sisters.
    I spend the afternoon reading in my bedroom, where I accidentally fall asleep until it’s dark. When I wake up, I expect to feel refreshed, but I’m somehow more tired than I was before I lay down. I go back downstairs to the dining room, where dinner has been served and my father and Margaret are eating in silence. It’s a good thing I woke up on my own, because apparently neither of them were planning on coming to get me.
    The candles in the middle of the table are lit, and a slow jazz record plays from out of the record player in the corner. Margaret’s black hair is wet and combed back, and she’s wearing a long-sleeved pajama set made of gold satin. Even though I’m still upset about what happened in the attic, I’m at least relieved to see her clean and comfortable.
    Without meeting my cousin’s eye, I sit in front of the empty plate at the end of the table and serve myself from the platter nearest to me, which is loaded with thick slices of roast beef and a small mountain of roasted potatoes and carrots. I take some salad and bread before pouring gravy from a tiny silver pitcher all over my meat and potatoes.
    â€œNow that you’re both here,” my father says in between a bite of roast, “I can remind you that Miranda’s daughter is going to be moving in tomorrow morning, in order to help with preparations for the upcoming annual holiday party for the club. She’ll be staying in the spare room at the end of the hall on the second floor, the one just past Margaret’s.”
    Neither my cousin nor I say anything. Miranda is the new cook who replaced Walter—her food pales in comparison, although I can’t claim not to be biased. Still, I couldn’t care less about her daughter, just as long as she leaves me and Margaret alone. I hope she doesn’t think that just because our rooms are close that we’ll all be friends.
    â€œThere is also a smaller dinner party to be scheduled between now and then. Miranda won’t be able to keep up in the kitchen with the demand for so much food, especially with Penelope gone. So that’s where the cook’s daughter comes in.”
    Of course! Walter is dead and aunt Penelope is missing, so obviously the task of utmost importance would be to make sure that the precious country club isn’t inconvenienced at all. My dislike for all of those stupid old men just keeps on increasing. Can’t they all just go out and get real jobs? How do they even make all that money to waste, anyway?
    Margaret pours herself a glass of milk from the pitcher next to the bread but doesn’t take a drink from it. I bet she’s thinking the same thing that I am.
    â€œThere’s also a more serious