Page 13 of Bitter House

I’m not sure why it bothers me so badly that Cole knows things about Vera’s life that I don’t. Of course he does. He remained here, and I didn’t. I still remember the day I moved into Bitter House—he was skinny as a rod back then, dark hair hanging into his eyes, that same cocky grin. I’d seen him around before, of course, during holidays when I was younger, but I never thought much about him. He and Edna kept to themselves and gave our family plenty of space. After I moved into Bitter House, he’d lock himself in his room for hours listening to that stupid metal music that sounded like someone was screaming at him. He acted like I didn’t exist, as if it was his house and I was the intruder.

Perhaps that’s why this has triggered so many conflicting emotions for me now. In a way, not much has changed since I was the little girl with two dead parents moving into a house with people who didn’t seem to want me there.

For the most part, Vera was locked away in her room, too, or traveling on some luxurious vacation that didn’t allow children.

If it wasn’t for Edna, I would’ve been alone in this big old house, filled with nothing but silence. She taught me how to braid my hair, how to play mancala. She introduced me to rom-coms and helped me with my school projects. I spent more time with her than her own son did, and yet she’d still choose him again and again. And so would Vera.

So had Vera, in fact. While I was kicked out at eighteen, Cole was allowed to stay here, and to come around in general, for much longer.

I’ll never understand what was so wrong with me that no one wanted me around. That I was a burden and a nuisance to everyone who wasn’t being paid to be kind to me.

A shiver runs over my body, and I turn back toward the house but stop short. On the mat is another letter, bent in the middle where it’s clearly been stepped on.

I didn’t notice it when I came outside. This envelope has no red ribbon around it, but it is marked clearly with a number one in the center. The first of six secrets.

I pick it up and tear it open this time, no longer trying to maintain the condition of the packaging. Inside the house, I lay the envelope down on the counter and open the folded letter.

The typed font is the same as the last one.

Bridget,

I’m sure by now you’re questioning why you should trust me and, of course, who I must be. Don’t worry. If you’re still here, if you’ve stuck with me on this, you won’t have to wait long for one of those answers. I’m going to earn your trust right now.

I have proof, you see. Proof that Vera Bitter was never the woman you thought you knew. She was a very good actress who never took off her mask, even for those who knew her best.

Vera Bitter was dangerous. She hurt people.

In her bedroom, there is a false wall in the back of her closet. Move it and you’ll see what I mean.

Remember: whatever happens, don’t make any decisions yet. There are more secrets to come soon.

Signed,

A friend

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRIDGET

My heart stalls as I read over the letter again. Is this really possible? A false wall in Vera’s closet? It feels like something out of some Victorian folktale or a children’s movie, not real life.

I’m somewhat concerned someone has a camera in there—Cole—and is planning to trick me into embarrassing myself.

Slowly, already regretting the decision, I head for the top floor, letter still in hand. When I reach it, I stop short at the sight waiting for me. Cole is standing at the top of a ladder, a tub of spackling paste resting on the ledge as he fills in what was apparently a hole near the top of the drywall.

I didn’t even know we owned a ladder.

“What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder slowly, like he’s not actually expecting to find anyone standing there, then jolts, a hand to his chest. The ladder shudders with the sudden movement, and once it’s steady, he plucks an earbud from his ear. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything. What exactly are you doing? Why do you have a ladder? Where did you get a ladder?”

He steps down, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead. “I’m fixing things. There was a crack in the wall that needed patching.”

I stare up at the wall. “And that’s your job?”

Anger flares in his eyes, but he quickly tamps it down. “I care about the house, Bridget. I don’t want to see it fall apart. Is that really so hard for you to believe?”

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