Page 145 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“You can have her, a third Dravenhearst mother,” Margot said. “But not me. She’s the one you want anyway. The one who loved and betrayed you.”
She fired the gun. More blood bloomed on the floor, and Ruth’s labored breathing ceased.
Babette wavered, growing paler and paler with every passing second. She dropped to her knees and grabbed Ruth’s hand. Her mouth opened, but whether to lament or lash out, Margot would never know. Before she could say a word, Babette vanished.
There was still one Dravenhearst bride in the room. Eleanor. Several paces away, hands pressing into the veil over her mouth in shock.
“Eleanor.” Margot stepped forward, lowering the gun.
“I live here because I died here,” Eleanor whispered, tilting her head to look into the rafters. Her voice was tremulous. “Not all at once, a little bit every single day.”
“I know,” Margot murmured. For Babette, she felt anger. Her haunting was selfish, righteous and power drunk. But for Eleanor…
For Eleanor, Margot felt sorrow. And beneath that, forgiveness. It was a release.
It’s not your fault, nor is it mine.
Eleanor’s gaze turned to Merrick. “Did you mean what you said—do you love her? Truly?”
Merrick didn’t waver. “Yes.”
Eleanor continued to stare. “More than a child? More than the drink? More than the distillery?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it,” Eleanor said, beginning to fade. “Prove it, and I will finally rest.” She looked at Margot one final time. “Thank you for listening…thank you for listening and not looking away.”
And then she was gone.
Merrick exhaled, long and shaky. He started moving, approached the five tasting barrels, lined up in a row. He dropped them to their sides, one by one, then grabbed the first and started rolling. The seams of wood leached something red and sticky from within, leaving a trail across the floor.
Blood.
“What are you doing?” Margot asked.
“What I should have done a long time ago.”
Margot followed him outside, around to the back of the rickhouse. He slammed the bloody barrel into the dirt, just at the edge of the sinkhole, where the back wall was crumbling into the earth.
Four more rotting, rancid barrels rolled out, lined up.
Merrick called for Beau and tucked Margot under his arm. He walked them around the edge of the sinkhole, standing a safe distance away. He lifted the revolver, taking aim.
“Wait!” Margot cried, grabbing his hand. “There’s still bourbon in there.”
Half full, the upper levels…
“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the bourbon, Margot.”
She released his arm.
“As long as that rickhouse stands, those ghosts will be tethered to this place. It’s where they died. Blood mixed with bourbon, that’s the real family legacy. I should have destroyed it years ago. Should have faced it.”
Thecrackof the gunshot rang through the night. The first barrel exploded, followed by the rest, blowing out the wall of the rickhouse. Flames reared, licking inside. The earth gave underfoot, the sinkhole expanding with the force of the explosion. Hungry.
They watched together as Rickhouse One was consumed by flames. As the shell of the building went up. As the fire engulfed the roof. As the walls caved in. As the sinkhole devoured the remains, the earth reclaiming all that was lost.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
