“People talk,” she says by way of explanation. Laura reaches the kitchen but doesn’t shut the door behind her just in case. “People talk all the time, especially around kids. Like we’re not even there. You can learn anything that interests you that way. For example, I know why you’re banned from the general store.”
Laura grits her teeth.
“Go on,” Michelle prompts. When Laura doesn’t move from the doorway, Michelle goes over to the cupboards, gets a glass, and then retrieves a bottle of milk from the fridge. She pours until the glass is so full it’s almost running over. Then she slides the glass over in Laura’s direction without spilling a single drop. “Go ahead,” she repeats. “What, do you think I’m trying to poison you?”
Laura looks at the glass of milk. The possibility looms in her mind. But Michelle’s stare is getting to her, and she knows instinctively Michelle will keep staring at her until she complies. She picks up the glass of milk and takes a sip, the tiniest sip she can manage. “There. Happy?”
“Laura”—the girl shakes her head—“I’m nine years old, you know. You’re my babysitter. I’m supposed to do what you tell me to do. Not the other way around.”
Blood rushes to Laura’s face.
Michelle shrugs. “Don’t give me that look. I don’t want any problems. I want us to be friends.”
Laura glowers at her. She doesn’t take another sip of milk.
“I’m going to my room,” the girl announces cheerfully. “It’s on the second floor. If you stay over there in the living room, I won’t be able to leave without you knowing because you can see the staircase from every spot in the room. You’re free to do whatever you want. Do we have a deal?”
Laura gives a curt nod. “What are you going to do the whole time?” she asks grudgingly.
“There’s lots to do in my room. You should come upstairs and see it.”
The invitation is delivered in the same upbeat, cheerful tone, but for some reason, it makes Laura’s skin crawl. Michelle turns around, and with a swish of her French braid, starts on her way back to the living room. Laura stands stock-still and doesn’t follow her.
Michelle’s voice reaches her when the girl must be halfway up the stairs. “Are you coming or not?”
Left with no other options, Laura follows her. And she can’t lie—a part of her is dying to see what’s upstairs. She tries to remember if she’s ever been inside a house with two stories before. Most of the houses in town are squat, low to the ground, as if whoever built them was afraid of getting too close to the sun.
Laura finally follows Michelle up the stairs, holding on to the shiny brass railing before self-consciously pulling her hand away, afraid to smudge the shiny surface with the humid heat of her clammy hand.
She arrives at a landing with a tall vase on an accent table. In the vase, a sumptuous bouquet of flowers, their petals so fresh she swears she can still see tiny dewdrops.
“They’re fake.” Michelle’s contemptuous voice snaps her right out of it.
Laura feels herself blush deeply. Of course the flowers are fake—she can see that now. You have to look really close, but when she does, she sees the plasticky stems and the thorns on the roses that are a little too symmetrical. She glances around, desperate to look at anything else, anything but those fake flowers that have embarrassed her.
There are three closed doors down the hall and one that’s half-open, and through it, she can see what she figures is Michelle’s bedroom. Michelle pushes the door open all the way. Laura finds herself reluctant to go in. Her knees seem to lock, her legs refusing to carry her. She goes anyway, determined not to show this brat how intimidated she feels by it all.
The room could belong to a small child, she thinks in dismay. All those ruffles and bows. And those dolls, that whole wall of dolls with their empty glass eyes. Their faces look dusty, like Michelle hasn’t touched them in a while and has no plans to touch them ever again.
“My mother thinks I still play with dolls,” Michelle says, shaking her head good-naturedly. “I can’t bring myself to break her heart.”
“Madame Fortier seems very nice,” Laura chokes out, weathering Michelle’s expectant glare. She immediately kicks herself. What is this? Very nice? What a pathetic thing to say. She just felt like she had to say something, to fill the uneasy silence.
Michelle chuckles. “Not so nice,” she says, “when you get to know her.”
Laura feels a chill.
“And my father,” Michelle says. “He’s a very mean man. He hates all this, you know. I don’t even think he loves her.” (Laura takes her to mean Marie.) “I don’t know why he bothered with all this. And with me. All for appearances? No one here wants appearances. The people in this place are as rotten inside as the town itself. They’re bitter. Envy and jealousy eat away at them day and night. They hate those who are better off because they have more, and they hate those who are less fortunate because they see them as inferiors.” She gives Laura a sly sideways glance. “Sometimes, I think the only people who are earnest are those who don’t have all their marbles.” She twirls her finger at her temple and grins at Laura. “Like that poor Tony Bergmann. Everyone is afraid of him, but I’ve always felt kind of sorry for him.”
At the mention of Tony, Laura gives a start. It’s entirely unvoluntary but powerful, and there’s no way Michelle doesn’t notice.
“How do you know Tony?” Laura asks in what she hopes is a normal voice.
Michelle laughs. “Everyone knows Tony. Tony is the soul of this place.”
Laura has no idea what the girl could possibly mean by it. Every minute spent in her company creeps her out more and more.
“Tony is a good guy. With Tony, what you see is always what you get. He’s like a mirror. That’s why people are so afraid.”
Michelle crosses the room and turns to face the window, her back to Laura. She pulls the frilly curtains aside.
Laura can’t help but be impressed. The view is so lovely here, especially at this time of day when the sun is setting. It’s breathtaking.
“Isn’t it beautiful? This is my favorite part of living here,” Michelle says. She motions for Laura to come closer. Laura hesitates, but the sight is too compelling. She doesn’t want to look away.
Without any buildings in the way, the view is unobstructed. She sees the yard below, the riverbank beyond it, the shimmering ribbon of the river, and the copse of trees. She leans closer to the glass. You can see really far into the distance, she thinks. Her gaze follows the river as it twists and turns within its banks. And there’s the forest, far away but not too far to see.
Her heart skips. She freezes, her hands cold on the windowsill.
She sees the steep riverbank, the sparse trees, the spot right above the drop down to the water. If she were a little closer, she might still be able to see where the moss and leaves have been disturbed by the struggle.
She tries to tell herself this isn’t it. It’s not the spot. It’s just another spot like it, right? It has to be. She would have known she was within sight of a house. She would have noticed it. Then she tells herself there’s no way anyone could have seen a thing from here, it’s too far away. No one could have seen anything, not in any detail, without binoculars. From here, she and Tony would have been the size of ants.
“Laura.” Michelle’s displeased voice snaps her back to the present moment. “Laura!”
She springs back, away from the glass, away from the view. “What?”
“Did you fall asleep just now? I said I was hungry!”
