Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Mar 2, 2009 13:49:38 GMT -5
CHAPTER 7:
*~IT WAS ALL A LIE~*
Somebody tell me what made us all believe you
I should have known all along it was all a lie
(Should have known it was all a lie)…
*~IT WAS ALL A LIE~*
Somebody tell me what made us all believe you
I should have known all along it was all a lie
(Should have known it was all a lie)…
It[/b][/i] had been two years since the secret that had kept Esmé Salinger a prisoner in so many instances was revealed. She wasn’t sure how, but she’d somehow managed to maintain a portion of her promise to Fernald Widdershins. Esmé had never been able to forget the shattered look on his face when he’d seen her lying in that hospital bed, and made an effort to eat at least two meals a day for his sake. Though she almost always skipped dinner, she only threw up when she had the flu or occasionally during her period. She had put on nearly twenty pounds in the last two years, just the right amount to give her the curves she’d always wanted and a healthy, feminine glow that she’d never possessed before.
Because Esmé had recently graduated from the V.F.D. Training School, she was granted the privileges of attending meetings and participating in the organization’s activities. She kept in close contact with most of her old friends from school, including Beatrice and Geraldine. Beatrice and Lemony now had a two-year-old daughter named Violet, and the couple had plans to marry sometime within the next year. Esmé, however, had no intention of pursuing a serious relationship with Bertrand Baudelaire. Though the two had dated during the three years she had been at school, they had gone no further than holding hands and kissing. The first time Esmé had attended a meeting of V.F.D., she’d forgotten that she and Bertrand weren’t at school, and had hugged him in front of Olaf. This had, of course, dire consequences. Two hours later, Esmé had found herself on the floor of Olaf’s filthy bathroom, her lower lip split open and her head pounding unbearably.
A few weeks following this, Olaf had moved them out of his shabby apartment and into an even shabbier house that was located on the other side of town. Esmé didn’t think much more of her new residence than she had her old one, and would not have objected to living the rest of her life in her dormitory back at boarding school. The house was outfitted with only two small windows, one of which was in Olaf’s bedroom and the other in Esmé’s. The bricks making up the house were in dire need of repair, which they both knew he would never get around to. In the back yard stood a tall, slanted tower with a door that screeched horribly every time it opened. On the day of their arrival, Olaf had set to work carving an eye into the center of the door with a knife.
The interior of the house wasn’t much different from the exterior. Like the outside, the inside had been covered in dirt and grime, and it had taken Esmé over a week to get it looking even halfway presentable. While she spent her days tending to all of the chores Olaf had assigned her, the Count spent all of his time drinking wine and perfecting his so-called talents as an actor. Though Esmé would have appreciated some help, she’d lived with Olaf long enough to know that asking for assistance would do no good. And so she chose to leave the matter unresolved, reminding herself that she was lucky to have a (somewhat leaky) roof over her head.
Joseph Salinger had died of alcoholism just months before his forty-third birthday one year earlier. He now lay buried next to his beloved wife, and when Esmé could scrounge up enough money for a cab she went to visit them. She had chosen not to keep in contact with her father even after she’d reached adulthood, preferring not to open up old wounds. She had never hated him or her mother for a situation that had been out of their control, knowing they had done what they felt was best for her. Esmé was determined to keep the memories (both the good and the bad) of all they’d shared together as a family in her heart forever.
Olaf had given up teasing Esmé about her weight— though his shiny, shiny eyes had been following her more closely ever since her new curves had appeared. She had stopped wearing her hair in pigtails long ago, and often tied it up in a clasp to keep it out of her eyes while she did housework. She had cheekbones now, too, though her wide eyes were still that of a naïve child. She liked to think that her maturity and innocence were what beguiled the thirty-three-year-old man who was no longer her guardian, but one could never be too sure with Olaf. These questions were answered one day, when Esmé looked up from scrubbing the upstairs floorboards to see Olaf leaning against the banister, his hands in his pockets and a curious grin on his face. It was almost kindly, and Esmé felt her own crimson lips twist up into a sweet smile of hope.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, her small hand pushing the scrubbing brush back and forth across the floorboards.
“Long enough,” Olaf said, his shiny eyes flickering mysteriously. “Stand up, sweetheart. I’d like to have a better look at you if you don’t mind.”
Esmé could hardly say she did, and scrambled obediently to her feet. Olaf rarely ever referred to her as “sweetheart” unless he was praising her, and she couldn’t imagine what she’d done to earn this latest term of affection. As he strolled forward slowly, she held her head high, ignoring the idea of being regarded as some product on display. He circled her three times, leaving her with the impression that he was a shark and she his pray. There was no way she could decipher his reason for examining her so closely, and it wasn’t until he spoke his thoughts aloud that it all became painfully clear.
“You’ve put on weight,” Olaf said at last, and Esmé felt her breath catch in her throat as tears stung the backs of her eyes.
“Have I?” she choked out, her blurred eyes staring straight down the hallway at the Count’s bedroom door.
“Mm-hmm…” His hand stroked a short path around the slight curve of belly peeking out from in between Esmé’s tank-top and cut-off denim shorts. “You remind me of something juicy and plump, like a…”
The rest of the words became lost to Esmé’s ears, as tears slipped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. A sob was building in her throat and she swallowed, which caused her to let out a frantic little choke. She was expecting him to strike her for crying, for being too fat and disappointing him, but nothing of the sort ever took place. Instead, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. When she still refused to look at him, his sharp-nailed finger slid beneath her chin and tilted back her head.
Olaf’s face loomed nearer to Esmé’s, until at last their lips were touching and he was kissing her. He reached up with his other hand and undid the clasp holding her hair in place, ignoring the sound the hairpiece made as it clicked against the floor. Esmé’s long, coal-black hair fell from its place on top of her head and spilled down her back.
Olaf let go of her soon afterward, and then did something even more surprising: he wrapped his arms around her, and held her as if they were two long-lost lovers. She had no idea how to react, because he had never shown her this type of affection before.
“What a fool I’ve been,” the Count murmured into the young woman’s hair, “for not having seen it until now.”
“What?” asked Esmé, whose face was pressed into his shoulder.
“Isn’t it obvious, Esmé? You’re no longer the child I adopted five years ago.”
Esmé shivered in Olaf’s arms, which may or may not have been what drove him to begin stroking her hair.
“Go straight to your room and collect all of your clothing,” he informed. “From now on, I want you spending every night next to me.”
It wasn’t an offer, but a command rather, and Esmé was not about to refuse. If she did, then she knew that she’d come to regret it sooner than she could blink. Olaf was being so kind and amorous in ways she always knew he would be once she had earned the right to be loved. Now that she had, she dared not do anything that might jeopardize his fondness for her.
Olaf let go of Esmé, and she went immediately to fulfill the latest task he’d assigned her to.
***
Olaf was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless as he took a long drag of his cigarette. After five years of living with him, Esmé had grown tired of reminding him time and again what the smoke did to her allergies. She took a deep, gasping breath, and sneezed loudly into the sheets, sniffling as she heard the actor chuckle.
“So tell me,” Olaf said, and exhaled the smoke from his nostrils. “Was it everything you imagined?”
Ignoring her minor discomfort, Esmé forced herself to lie: “Yes.”
Olaf’s following words indicated that he had picked up on her dishonesty, though he hardly sounded angry. “Think of it as acting. The more practice you put in, the more you’ll improve.”
Esmé wasn’t so sure she agreed, in view of the fact that love-making was something she had always assumed was done behind closed doors. But she was a smart girl— smart enough to know the comparison that Olaf was trying to make, which encouraged her to nod in response.
Smiling, Olaf extended his arm and with his freehand patted the curve of Esmé’s hip through the sheets. “Your childhood is over,” he said. “You’re a woman now: body, mind, and soul. And you’re mine.”
Deep down, Esmé knew that she was nothing more to Olaf than a doll to be placed up on a high shelf. She would end up like her mother almost had, a woman trapped in a relationship with an abusive and possessive man. The only difference was that Adelle had never felt anything even remotely like love for her first husband. Esmé, however, was infatuated by the man who was no longer her guardian, but her lover. She would easily meet any request he asked of her, if she knew it would please him.
The door was closed, and the smoke from Olaf’s cigarette was quickly filling up the tiny bedroom. Esmé’s eyes were starting to water, and she let out a second high-pitched squeak. She was just about to announce that she was heading to the bathroom as an excuse to escape the room, when Olaf interrupted her thoughts.
“Stay here,” he instructed, and kissed the girl’s forehead. “I just have to run into town on an errand. But I promise that I won’t be more than an hour at the longest.”
Esmé watched from her place in bed as Olaf left through the door. He closed it behind him, and a moment later she listened to the sound of the lock turning. Starting from the first night she’d spent in his old apartment, he had insisted that she sleep with the door locked. If she woke up and had to use the bathroom, then she was expected to use a bucket.
Esmé had been hoping that since she was an adult now, then Olaf would have given her certain privileges. However, there appeared to be some aspects of his mind that still thought of her as a child.
Perhaps if she continued to please him, then there was a chance he would think of ways to reward her.
***
Nearly two hours had past, and Olaf still had not returned. Usually when he said he was going out to run an errand, it meant that he was going to pay a visit to Kit Snicket. Even after Esmé had come of age, Olaf had made no effort to stop seeing Kit, and Esmé was not about to make such a request. She did her best to put the thought out of her mind, but it was troubling, and made her realize just how little she mattered to Olaf.
Esmé was beginning to think that perhaps he had run off with Kit somewhere, when the lock clicked and the door pushed open. Esmé raised her head from where she’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, to see Olaf looking back at her. Her own eyes wafted to the pink shopping bag in his hand, before settling back on his face once more.
“I’ve brought you something. A gift,” Olaf said, and held up the bag. Esmé could tell by the fancy, curly writing on the front that whatever was inside had come from the In Boutique.
“What is it?” she asked curiously. She wasn’t at all used to getting presents— especially from Olaf, who had always forced her to work for everything she had. Esmé couldn’t imagine what he had bought her, or what had prompted him to do something so completely altruistic.
“Why don’t you open it and see for yourself?” suggested Olaf, and handed the bag to Esmé.
She took it, and set it on the floor in front of her. Reaching inside, she drew out the most beautiful ball gown she had ever seen made of red chiffon. As she held it up, she saw that it had a plunging neckline and puffy sleeves. The garment was very similar to the one belonging to Kit Snicket that Esmé had ruined by accidentally spilling wine on five years earlier. It didn’t take an expert to know whose pocket the money for the gown Esmé now held in her hands had come from. Still, that didn’t stop her from smiling up at Olaf appreciatively.
“It’s beautiful,” Esmé declared, though she wondered where she could possibly wear it to. Did Olaf expect her to wear it while she mopped the floors and cleaned the windows?
“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” he replied. “Because I’d like you to wear it this evening to the Opera we’ll be attending.”
Esmé’s blue eyes shown brilliantly in the late-afternoon sunlight as she smiled ardently. “The Opera?” she repeated. “Really?”
“Yes, tonight at the Ned H. Rirger Theater. There is to be a performance of Mozart’s The Magic Flute, and many V.F.D. members will be in attendance.”
“I wasn’t under the impression that you even enjoyed opera.”
“Normally I don’t,” Olaf admitted. “But we volunteers need to keep up our appearances, don’t we?”
“Who else is going to be there?” Esmé asked.
“Beatrice Taylor, as well as Geraldine Julienne.” Olaf smiled. “If we don’t run into them at the theater, perhaps you’ll have a chance to speak with them at the Veritable French Diner. I promised some associates of mine that we’d meet them for drinks after the performance.” The Count glanced at his watch. “It’s six o’clock now,” he said. “The Opera begins at eight, and so you’d best get ready now so that we may leave by seven-thirty.”
Esmé wanted to inquire about Bertrand Baudelaire, but knew that doing so would only provoke Olaf’s violent temper. Rather than risk it, Esmé instead chose to excuse herself from the room and go prepare for a night at the Opera.
***
Esmé had never been to the Opera before, and was amazed by not only everyone’s exquisite attire, but by the number of people in attendance. The Ned H. Rirger Theater was quite large, and could therefore house up to eight-hundred people. Esmé just hadn’t expected to see so many people packed into one place at the same time, and she found the idea a bit overwhelming.
While she and Olaf made their way up the stairs to the balcony, Esmé glanced around for the first sign of her acquaintances. It wasn’t until she felt him tug firmly at her arm and beckon her to hurry up, that she actually concentrated on what was in front of her.
Esmé and Olaf eventually found a pair of empty seats at the front of the balcony, where they sat down. From their positions, they were given a clear view of the actors and actresses onstage below. Giddy with excitement, Esmé bit her lip and placed her hands— which were clothed in white gloves, another gift from Olaf —on the edge of the balcony.
“Have you ever been to the Opera before, Esmé?” Olaf asked from beside her.
“No,” replied Esmé. “Never. My parents were always too poor to—”
“Now that you’re a fully qualified member of V.F.D., you’ll be given many opportunities.” Lifting his hand, Olaf placed it on Esmé’s, which was laying on the armrest of her chair. “But this, Esmé— this is only the beginning.”
Esmé turned her attention to Olaf and smiled. Along with the other male members of V.F.D., he was sporting his operagoer’s disguise (which consisted of a black top-hat, a black suit, and formal shoes). “The beginning of what?” Esmé asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Olaf said, and squeezed her hand just as the curtain went up.
***
True to his word, Count Olaf escorted Esmé across town to the Veritable French Diner following the performance. She was pleased to run into Geraldine, who led her over to a private booth while Olaf sat up at the bar and chatted with his associates.
Geraldine hadn’t undergone any dramatic transformations in the last two years like Esmé had, and was still equipped with the same bubbly personality. Geraldine was still chubby, though her face was not nearly as round, and her hair had grown out. She had gone back to wearing her glasses, explaining that the contacts she’d first worn two years ago had irritated her eyes.
Like Esmé, Geraldine had also come to the Veritable French Diner dressed in the formal gown she’d worn to the theater. It was a sleeveless dark blue, with a skirt that flared out all around and a rather revealing neckline. The gloves she wore were a silvery gray color and covered her wrists.
“Did you enjoy the performance?” Geraldine asked.
“Oh, yes,” Esmé said. “It was the first time I’d ever been to the Opera, let alone seen a live performance that didn’t include the people from Olaf’s acting troupe.”
“I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve had a chance to talk. So, how are things? I heard you finally moved out of that dingy old apartment and into a house. Is it nice?”
“It’s big. I wouldn’t exactly say it’s nice, but there’s more room than back at Olaf’s old apartment.”
“I miss you,” Geraldine said, and reached across the table for Esmé’s hands. “I was hoping that after you’d graduated, you might’ve wanted to get an apartment with me. I recently started a paid internship at The Daily Punctilio, and I’m making a decent amount of money. If you wanted, you could move in with me now and I’d support you until you got a job— that is, if you don’t already have one. My apartment is only a one-bedroom, but you could have my bed and I could sleep on the pullout in the living room.” Geraldine paused, and glanced briefly over at Olaf, who was apparently laughing at something one of his associates had said. She lowered her voice, and looked Esmé straight in the eye. “Come on, Esmé! We all know what it’s like for you living with Count Olaf. You’re eighteen now, and are no longer required to have a legal guardian.”
Esmé wanted to be angry with Geraldine, but simply could not bring herself to contradict the girl sitting across from her. “I know you’re worried about me, Geraldine,” Esmé said. “But I assure you that everything is fine. Just as long as I continue doing what I’m told and don’t try to argue with him—”
“But he hits you!” Geraldine hissed. “Olaf is an abusive man, Esmé, and no amount of devotion is going to change that!”
Too ashamed to look her best friend in the eye, Esmé instead chose to lower hers to the table. “You didn’t happen to catch sight of Beatrice at the theater tonight, did you?”
Geraldine appeared to sigh at the abrupt change in subject, but answered her friend’s question regardless. “She wasn’t there. And, coincidently, neither was Bertrand.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Esmé said, and forced herself to smile as a troubling thought entered her mind. It was no different from the concern she faced every time Olaf left on one of his ‘errands’. However, Esmé refused to believe that the same could be true of Beatrice and Bertrand. “Not all volunteers attend every event.”
“Yes,” Geraldine agreed. “That’s true. Monty couldn’t attend tonight, either— he was too involved in his research, as usual. But I promised The Daily Punctilio an article on The Magic Flute, and so it was rather essential that I be there.”
“It was nice seeing you, Geraldine.” Esmé looked over at Olaf, who appeared to be engaged in a deep conversation with his associates. “But I promised Olaf that I’d make an effort to mingle a little with the other V.F.D. members. He says he wants me to get to know other volunteers besides the ones I attended boarding school with.”
Geraldine said nothing in response to this, but smiled reassuringly at her friend. “I need to be up early in the morning for work anyway,” she said. “It was lovely seeing you again, Esmé. Call me next week— maybe we can go out for lunch or something.”
Esmé smiled back. “I’d like that,” she said.
Afterward, the two friends embraced, and then bid each other goodnight. Esmé waited until Geraldine had left through the two front doors, and then went over to the bar to sit with Olaf.
“I want some alcohol,” Esmé informed him. “Anything. I don’t care what it is, just as long as it’s strong.”
Olaf merely grinned, and raised his arm. “Barkeeper,” he called out to the man behind the counter. “Bring my girlfriend a Black Russian!”
***
Esmé awoke to the sight of the bright morning sun shining down on her face. Her mouth was dry, and her vision was slightly blurred from all the alcohol she had consumed the night before. She didn’t remember much of what had happened or what was said, though she vaguely recalled running into Geraldine Julienne.
Thankfully, Olaf had thought to leave a garbage pail by Esmé’s side of the bed. She lowered her head down into the pail and wretched, feeling the bile rising in her throat just before it poured out and splattered into the pail.
When she had finally recovered enough to lift her head, she was astonished to see that the time on the alarm clock read ten-fifteen— Olaf never permitted her to sleep past seven, even on a weekend. It was a Sunday morning, and the man who had slept with his arm coiled around her for most of the night was no where to be seen.
Esmé stumbled over to the door, and was pleased to see that Olaf hadn’t locked it. As she stepped (rather ungracefully) out into the hallway, she heard a pair of voices coming from somewhere downstairs. Remembering that the stairs in the old house had a tendency to creak underfoot, she tiptoed down to the last few steps and sat down. Located down the hallway from the staircase was where the kitchen was located, and as she listened she recognized one of the voices as Olaf’s. The other was male and sounded familiar, but Esmé couldn’t quite place its owner. If she listened carefully, then perhaps a clue might crop up and give her an answer.
“I see,” said the mysterious voice. “So they didn’t survive. I’m terribly sorry, Olaf. When did it happen?”
“Last night,” returned the voice belonging to Esmé’s former guardian. “The puncture wounds in each of my parents’ necks indicate darts.”
“Have you any idea who might be responsible?”
There was a brief pause. And then…
“Baudelaire.”
Esmé gasped inwardly, and she had to take hold of the banister to keep from toppling down the stairs in her moment of shock.
“What are you going to do?” inquired the mysterious voice.
“I’m going to make it an even trade,” Olaf said. “Two lives taken for two lives stolen.”
“You’d best be careful, Olaf. Some might begin to suspect something if you seek revenge so soon after—”
“Relax, Flacutono. I’m going to bide my time— many have said that it takes years to plan the perfect murder. And, if that’s the case, then I’m prepared to wait in line.”
“I heard from a most reliable source,” continued the man Olaf had addressed as Flacutono, and who Esmé now remembered as the associate her former guardian had once introduced her to, “that both Bertrand Baudelaire and Beatrice Taylor left the theater one hour before the performance ended.”
Esmé’s stomach lurched, and the floor below her began to spin. She held tighter to the banister, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and hoping to overcome the dizziness sweeping through her.
“There’s also been a rumor floating about the headquarters lately,” Flacutono said. “Something about a schism. Do you suppose your parents had acquired some comprehensive information that may have resulted in their deaths?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Olaf. “But at this point, anything’s possible. My father was the most respected member of the organization, and one of its original founders. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the murderer’s motive was connected to V.F.D.”
“If it was, that’s probably why there wasn’t a fire. It would have been far too obvious.”
“Which gives me all the more reason to believe that the ones responsible are Bertrand Baudelaire and Beatrice Taylor. They’re both very clever individuals.”
“There’s no way to know for sure,” Flacutono pointed out. “Unless you have a plan.”
“Have you ever known me not to have one?”
What followed was a brief silence, in which Esmé could hear the two men shuffling around in the kitchen. She listened to the sound of a bottle of wine being opened and then poured into two glasses. She heard Olaf clear his throat, and then listened carefully as he began to speak.
“Esmé is friends with Beatrice,” the Count went on. “And with Bertrand— though what they had during their days at the training school was a little more than what I’d call friendship.”
“You don’t think Esmé would take their side, do you?”
“Esmé isn’t bright. If I tell her that Bertrand is guilty, then she’ll believe it. It’s taken me five whole years to mold her, to convince her she’ll never be any good to anyone without me there to hold her hand.” There was a pause, in which Esmé pictured Olaf smiling at his associate. “Though I suppose it will be the noble thing to do if I get the full story before taking any action.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I was thinking of sending Esmé out on an errand this afternoon,” Olaf said, “to the library. Supposedly, that’s the place where Beatrice Taylor is said to spend her Sundays…”
***
Esmé had done her best not to act shocked when Olaf had come to her late that morning and revealed the fate of his parents. In the years since meeting them, Esmé had grown quite fond of Nancy, whom Esmé had thought of as a second mother. Esmé had in no way felt the same affection for William, whom she’d found to be much like his son: violent and intimidating.
On her way to the National Library that afternoon, Esmé thought back to when she’d first met Olaf’s parents. She had been frightened of them both, though for completely separate reasons: William for his violent temper, and Nancy for having a visible scar. But as frightening as William had been, Esmé had learned early on that Nancy was not meant to be regarded the same as her husband. She may have looked a bit scary, Esmé realized, but she was a kind woman whose only crime was being trapped in an unhappy relationship. Nancy had reminded Esmé a bit of her own mother, had Adelle stayed with her first husband. Later on, Esmé had made a connection between herself and Nancy, a connection she firmly believed had brought them closer together. Neither had ever told the other that they were wrong for loving someone who hurt them so badly, and had managed to comfort one another on several occasions.
Before leaving the house, Olaf had gone over with Esmé exactly what she was to say to Beatrice when the two women saw each other. “’Make it seem as though you’ve come there to check out a book on cooking,’” Olaf instructed. “’Everyone who knows you is well aware you don’t read, and so you’ve got to be careful not to attract suspicion. Use what you learned in your Disguise Training course to fool Beatrice into revealing her whereabouts of last night to you.’”
It took Esmé about fifteen minutes to arrive by foot at the National Library, and by that time her heart was pounding. She prayed that what Olaf had told her was not true, and that Beatrice and Bertrand had decided to go home early from the Opera for reasons unrelated to Esmé’s suspicions. There was also the possibility that something may have transpired between Beatrice and Bertrand. The very idea that this was true had been gnawing at Esmé’s heart ever since the fuzzy feeling in her mind had worn off earlier that afternoon.
The National Library was enormous, and was three floors high: the first floor was where the reference materials— such as dictionaries and thesauruses —were stored; the second floor housed the non-fictional works; while the third was where the fictional books were located.
Esmé felt she had known Beatrice long enough to also know which section of a library she’d be hiding in. After a few short minutes of searching, Esmé located Beatrice on the second floor in the biography section. In Beatrice’s hands was a book pertaining to the life of Charles headphonesens, and her eyes widened when she glanced up from its pages.
“Esmé!” Beatrice exclaimed. “I didn’t— I wasn’t expecting— what are you doing here?”
Esmé noted the tension in her friend’s voice, but dismissed it for the time being. She was determined not to believe in what Olaf was insisting, and smiled pleasantly. “I missed you at the Opera last night,” Esmé said. “I thought for sure you’d be there, seeing as how much you love the theater.”
Beatrice smiled, and Esmé took note of how strained it appeared. She watched Beatrice close the book and place it back on the shelf. “You’re thinking of Lemony,” Beatrice corrected. “Just because I’m an actress doesn’t mean I enjoy going to the theater.”
“Well. If you weren’t at the theater last night, then where were you?”
“I was there… for a while. But I started feeling ill toward the end of the performance, and so I went home early.”
“Oh,” Esmé replied, and picked up a book from the shelf. It was a biography on Charles Darwin, and she flipped through it for a moment before setting it flat on its back atop some other books. “Then I guess Bertrand must not have been feeling well, either, huh?”
“What are you talking about?” Beatrice asked.
Esmé shrugged her shoulders, strolling forward. “Nothing. I just think it’s rather funny that you and Bertrand were the only two volunteers who left the performance early last night.”
“I’m sorry, Esmé. But I haven’t the faintest idea what—”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
Beatrice let out a choked laugh. “What?”
“You heard me,” Esmé said, and this time there was anger in her voice. “Are you or are you not sleeping with my boyfriend?”
“No,” Beatrice denied. “Of course I’m not. How can I be when I’m engaged to Lemony?”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“I would never betray Lemony. Whether it was with Bertrand, or anyone else.” Beatrice’s voice was fierce, and her eyes narrowed as she continued. “And besides, you haven’t spoken one word to Bertrand in months. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s moved on by now— you certainly did after graduation.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Esmé demanded. “I couldn’t get anywhere near him without Olaf—” She suddenly stopped, recognizing the place in which she was putting both herself and her former guardian.
“Hitting you?” Beatrice finished, and then lowered her voice. The library tended to be at its busiest during the weekdays, though the same could hardly be said for the weekends. Besides Esmé and Beatrice, there were only two or three people present, all of whom were on separate floors. Still, it wouldn’t hurt either of the young women to be cautious. “Oh, come on, Esmé. How stupid do you think I am? After he started taking you to those meetings and every time you had a bruise or swollen lip, everyone knew exactly what the two of you are all about. Olaf is a monster, plain and simple, and you just stand there and take it. As for his parents, they were certainly no better—”
“What did you just say?”
“I said Olaf’s parents are—”
“No,” Esmé corrected. “The first time you said it, you spoke it in the past tense.”
“So what?” Beatrice asked. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
Or does it, Esmé thought, and shut her eyes. From what Olaf had told her, no one else had been informed about the deaths of his parents. No one but him, Esmé, and Flacutono. The only other people who could possibly have known were the killers themselves. As she opened her eyes, Esmé could see the guilt staring her in the face.
She then lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “It was you,” she said, disbelieving as she watched Beatrice look away. “You and Bertrand. You killed—”
“It was the only way,” Beatrice reasoned, making sure to lower her own voice as she went on. “William was planning to rip V.F.D. apart— Esmé, he and some other members were plotting to burn down houses in an attempt to embezzle other people’s finances.”
“You didn’t have to kill them.”
To Esmé’s astonishment, Beatrice shook her head.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done, do you?” Esmé asked.
“I don’t regret anything,” Beatrice stated firmly. “William was a villainous man, and got what was coming to him.”
“What about Nancy? She was—”
“Innocent? She stayed with him, didn’t she? She had to have known what he was up to, even if she wasn’t helping him. As far as I’m concerned, she was every bit as guilty as her husband.”
These words would haunt Esmé Salinger for the rest of her life, but at the moment the only awareness she had was in how numb she felt inside. She didn’t say a word as she turned and headed up the stairs, nor did she glance over her shoulder to see if her former friend had chosen to come after her. Instead, Esmé stared straight ahead as she proceeded through the doors of the National Library, and continued down the sidewalk toward home.
Sometimes, she thought, it’s better for the truth to remain a lie.