Page 16 of The Only One Left

Their green is almost as bright as her eyes in the portrait downstairs. But what’s fascinating in the painting is downright startling in person, especially when surrounded by all that gray. They remind me of lasers. Theyburn.

That blazing green draws me in. I find myself wanting to stare into those startlingly bright eyes and see if I can recognize a piece of myself in them. If I can’t, then perhaps it means I’m not as bad as people think.

Even my father.

I take a wobbling step toward Lenora and the tilt returns, more pronounced this time. Then again, maybe it’s not the slanted floor that’s causing it. Maybe it’s simply because I’m in a room with Lenora Hope—a realization as surreal as it is surprising. The chant snakes back into my thoughts.

At seventeen, Lenora Hope

I wonder if I should be scared.

Hung her sister with a rope

Because I am.

Stabbed her father with a knife

Even though there’s no reason to be scared.

Took her mother’s happy life

This isn’t the Lenora Hope of that awful rhyme. It’s not even the Lenora of the portrait downstairs—young and ripe and possibly that very moment plotting the murders of her family. This Lenora is old, withered, a wisp. I think of readingThe Picture of Dorian Grayin high school. This is like the opposite of the book—the painting in the hall getting fresher by the day as Lenora’s crippled body atones for her sins.

I take a few more steps, no longer bothered by the tilting house. Maybe Mrs. Baker is right. Maybe Iamgetting used to the place.

“Hello, Lenora,” I say.

“Miss Hope,” Mrs. Baker says from the doorway, correcting me. “The help must never refer to the lady of the house by her Christian name.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Hello, Miss Hope.”

Lenora doesn’t move, let alone acknowledge my presence. I kneel directly in front of the wheelchair, hoping to get a better look at her startling green eyes. My body tenses, bracing for whatever insights might be gleaming within them. About Lenora. About myself.

But Lenora isn’t cooperating. She stares past me, out the window, gaze fixed on the churning sea below.

“I’m Kit,” I say. “Kit McDeere.”

Lenora’s eyes suddenly lock onto my own.

I stare right back.

What I see is unexpected.

Curiosity, of all things, shimmers inside Lenora’s gaze. As if she already knows me. As if she knows everything about me. That I’ve been trapped. And accused. And judged and ostracized and ignored. Gazing into Lenora Hope’s eyes feels like looking into that gilt-framed mirror and seeing my reflection staring back at me.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m going to take care of you from now on. Would you like that?”

Lenora Hope nods.

Then she begins to smile.

Before we continue, I need to make one thing clear. Don’t try to help me write this. I know what I want to say. You’re simply here to replace the hand I can’t use. Just do what I need you to do, when I need you to do it.

Understand?

Good.

Second, I’m not writing this so you’ll feel sorry for me. I neither want nor need your pity. I’m also not doing it to prove my innocence. That’s for others to decide, if and when I ever finish this.

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