The Women in the Walls Read Online Free PDF Page B

the question is legitimate, even if Margaret has been out of her mind between the attic and the photographs in Penelope’s room.
    â€œThe police came and took the report the day after she disappeared,” he insists after a moment, throwing his hands into the air. “What is it with you two and your suspicions? They didn’t need to question either of you because there wasn’t anything fishy about the situation. Clearly, she went for a walk and endured some sort of horrible accident. She may have been drunk, lost her way somehow...”
    His voice wavers with emotion, causing his cheeks to instantly redden in embarrassment. I think about how he and Penelope used to look at each other, and feel a sick mix of sadness for my father and secondhand embarrassment from his quivering chin.
    â€œClearly,” my cousin repeats, rolling her eyes. “Wow, you sure do seem to know everything, Uncle Felix.”
    â€œThat’s enough,” he says, his face still red. “That’s about as much as I can handle for one day. If there is just one thing I could ask of you girls for the next two weeks, it’s that you’ll stay out of my and Miranda’s way while we learn how to continue with the party planning in Penelope’s absence.”
    Then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing and fading throughout the dining room and parlor as he makes his way to his study. Since my aunt disappeared, it’s been startling, almost pitiful, how intensely my father is distracting himself with the country club. It’s like the parties are suddenly the most important thing in the entire world, even more important than getting to the root of why Margaret ruined the photographs. I stare at my cousin through wide eyes.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on with you?” I ask once she makes it clear that she intends to remain silent. “Why would you do that stuff to all of Penelope’s photos? She’s your mother...”
    â€œYou mean, she was,” Margaret says. “She’s gone now.”
    A lump forms in my throat. “I’m starting to worry about you,” I say. “You never talk to me about anything anymore, you’re acting different, and earlier in the attic—”
    â€œEarlier in the attic I was trying to scare you,” Margaret says dismissively. She stops chewing for a moment and reaches over for my father’s glass of unfinished wine. I think back to when Margaret told me she had something to show me in the attic. She was so serious about the knocking on the wall, desperate even. I don’t know if I believe that she was only trying to scare me.
    After Margaret chugs the wine, she sets the glass down and goes back to her roast beef. “The truth is that I’ve been thinking a whole lot about my mom,” she says. “And it’s stuff I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want to hear. That’s why I’m not talking to you.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, stuff I wouldn’t want to hear?”
    â€œWell,” Margaret says. “You act as if she just vanished into thin air, instead of dying painfully, scared and alone.”
    Her comment is like a slap to the face, especially after all of the torture my mind has been putting itself through over this very topic. “How do you know she died painfully?” I ask, my voice nearly a whisper. Why would she say that?
    Margaret does something startling then: she smiles , an unsettling and icy smirk that, for a brief moment, makes me feel as though I am looking into the face of madness. Suddenly my head feels light.
    â€œLet’s just say I have my ways,” she says after the pause. She wipes her mouth with a napkin and stands, smoothing the back of her satin pajama pants before facing me. “I’m going to bed now. Maybe we can...hang out tomorrow or something.”
    She hasn’t suggested such a thing in days. I might be happy about the idea if it wasn’t for