Page 8 of The Only One Left

“Caregiver,” I say. A necessary correction. Nurses go to school. Caregivers like me get specialized training—a state-mandated 180 hours in Maine—teaching us the basics. Checking vitals, dispensing medication, light physical therapy. But explaining all of that to a stranger takes more time than it’s worth.

“Then let’s get this gate open so you can start.” The man pulls a pair of work gloves from the back pocket of his jeans. Making a show of putting them on, he says, “Safety first. I’ve learned the hard way—this place can bite.”

He yanks on the gate, and it lets out a squeak so awful I would have described it as pained if it had come from someone in my care.

“Do you work here full-time?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard over the sound of the gate.

“I do,” the man says. “There aren’t too many of us here anymore, although once upon a time this place was overflowing with hired help. For instance, there used to be a gardener, a groundskeeper, and a handyman, along with a bunch of part-time helpers. Now I’m all of them rolled into one.”

“Do you like it here?”

The man gives the gate one last shove, clearing it from the driveway. Turning to me, he says, “Am I scared, is what you mean.”

Yes, that’s what I mean. I’d intended it to be an innocent question. A natural one, considering what happened here. Yet in hindsight I realize how it also could be perceived as incredibly rude.

“I just—”

“It’s okay,” the man says. “You’re only being curious. I know what people beyond these walls say about this place.”

“I guess that means no.”

“A correct assumption.” The man removes one of his gloves and extends his hand. “I’m Carter, by the way.”

I shake his hand. “Kit McDeere.”

“Nice to meet you, Kit. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

I pause before driving away. “Thanks for helping me with the gate. I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come by.”

“I think you would have managed somehow.” Carter studies me, his head tilted in curious appraisal. “You strike me as being pretty resourceful.”

I used to be. Not anymore. Resourceful people aren’t suspended from their jobs, can find new ones if they are, and don’t still live at home at age thirty-one. Still, I accept the compliment with a nod.

“One more thing,” Carter says, coming to the open car window and bending down so we’re eye-to-eye. “Forget what everyone says about Lenora Hope and what happened here. They don’t know what they’re talking about. Miss Hope is completely harmless.”

Even though he intended them to be reassuring, Carter’s words only underscore the surreal truth of the situation. Yes, I knew what the job entailed when I left Mr. Gurlain’s office. But it was an abstract notion, pushed to the background by packing, dealing with my father’s ambivalence, trying to find this place. But now that I’m here, it hits me like a sucker punch.

I’m about to meet a woman who slaughtered her family.

Allegedlyslaughtered, I remind myself. Lenora was never convicted of any crime, as Mr. Gurlain so coyly reminded me. But who else couldhave done it other than Lenora? There was no one else at the house, no other suspects to consider, no one else left alive. The rhyme’s final line clings to my thoughts.

But she’s the only one not dead

A shudder runs up my spine as I pull away from Carter and head toward the main house. I drive slowly, my gaze fixed on the jaw-dropping structure looming up ahead. But as I get closer, the luxurious grandeur of the place fades like fog, revealing the neglect hiding in plain sight.

Up close, I realize, Hope’s End is a mess.

One of the second-floor windows is missing panes and now has plywood covering the gaping hole. Chunks of marble have broken off the detailing around some of the doors and windows. The roof is missing a fifth of its slate shingles, giving it a battered, pockmarked look that’s honestly a relief. At last, a place as broken as I feel.

The driveway ends in a roundabout in front of the house, with another spoke leading to a low-slung garage several yards from the main building. Turning through the roundabout, I count the garage doors.

Five.

How the other half lives indeed.

At the front of the house, I park, get out of the car, and hop up three steps to a massive set of double doors placed in the dead center of the mansion. Before I can even knock, the doors fly open, revealing a woman standing just inside. Her sudden presence startles me. Or maybe it’s simply her monochrome appearance that’s startling. White hair that brushes her shoulders. Black dress fitted tightly around a svelte frame. Lace collar that resembles the doilies my grandmother used to crochet. Pale skin. Blue eyes. Lipstick a bold cherry red. It’s all so dramatic and severe that I can’t quite pinpoint the woman’s age. If I had to guess, I’d say seventy-five, knowing I could be off by at least ten years in either direction.

A pair of cat’s-eye glasses hangs from a chain around the woman’sneck. She brings them to her eyes and peers at me for a breath of a second—an instant appraisal.

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