“No,” Charity said.
“Yes,” said Marion.
“Sabrina?” When Tristan caught her in his gaze, she remembered the secret conversation they shared in the woods. Off-camera, so did it really happen?
“No. And yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It changes, I guess.” She shrugged, but in her belly, stomach acid roiled.
“I don’t,” Linda said. She and Charity shared one of their annoying secret glances.
“I have a ghost story.” Tristan rubbed at the back of his neck. “You guys want to hear it?”
“Yes,” they all said, in unison now.
“Well now.” His lips were stained red from the wine. “I grew up on a farm, and we weren’t necessarily believers in the supernatural, my family, but we weren’t ones to tempt any spirits either. So, my mom didn’t allow tarot or Ouija or any of that.” The way he pronounced Ouija—oh-ee-jah—made Sabrina smile. “But one of my friends, now he was a troublemaker, and one night he brought over the leg bone of a murder victim his dad dug up. This kid said that a long time ago, someone in his family was murdered by a vengeful lover, some well-to-doer. Rather than turn the bone in to the police and get on the bad side of some powerful people, this kid’s ancestors buried the body and tried to forget this person ever existed.”
Sabrina frowned. The story was familiar; it was almost the same as the family ghost story she told Deja about when prompted during interviews. At the time, Sabrina thought it was an off-color question to gauge her storytelling abilities. Now, she felt like Deja was testing her, trying to make her accuse Tristan of lying. It would make him hate her, but it would be good TV. She pressed her lips together, her chest tight. She’d do no such fucking thing.
“That’s awful,” Marion said.
“It is! And this kid brings this bone over and tells us this story, and that his farm has been haunted for years by the ghost of this young man.”
“The vengeful murderer was a woman?” Marion said. “How could a woman do such a terrible thing?”
“You’d be surprised,” Charity said.
“Sometimes, a little lady goes over the edge, just like men do,” Tristan said, nodding. “That’s feminism.”
Sabrina searched the room for a hint that Deja might be trying to push her into acting up. Deja had told her she could make a name for herself but that Tristan was off the table, that she’d never win. But Sabrina had one thing Marion didn’t: a deep need. Her sister had laid out all the reasons why it was a good idea for Sabrina to find fame and carry her family on her coattails. Marion came from money. Sabrina came from dirt.
Tristan took another sip of wine. It seemed that he’d been talking, but Sabrina had zoned out. “So, this bone—”
“The haunted bone,” Charity said, deadpan.
“The haunted bone. Our friend brought it to our farm, for some forsaken reason, and he told us that he wanted to do a séance with the thing. My brother and I didn’t want to, but this kid and my older sister overruled us. So, he set up a circle of candles, with the bone in the middle, and we joined hands and chanted.”
“What did you chant?” Sabrina asked.
“I don’t remember now,” Tristan said. “Something about ‘speak to us,’ or some basic séance shit.”
Her mother and she had chanted words from a poem about death: And death does follow, but we bid it wait / For we aren’t prepared to leave this place / But you, the spirit, please go free / And take with you all the lessons you have gained. They soothed her in the face of death, but even the chant hadn’t been enough to stop her wailing at her mother’s grave.
“The standard,” Charity said. She and Linda shared yet another glance. So much of this experience was small glances between women. Sabrina wondered again: why was Charity here? She seemed to disdain everything Tristan said, and she had no qualms about letting that disdain show. She was the weakest link. Maybe Sabrina could take her out first.
“If you can’t say something nice,” Marion said. “Then please shut up.”
“I’m providing commentary,” Charity said. “Just because I’m clever doesn’t mean you have to jump down my throat.”
“You’re not clever,” Sabrina said. “You’re sarcastic. There’s a difference.”
Charity smirked. “Tristan likes it.”
“I doubt that,” Sabrina said. “Everyone knows you’re at the bottom of the totem pole.”
Marion pursed her lips, her eyebrows drawing down her face. “That’s what I was thinking,” she muttered.
Tristan set down his glass. “Ladies, are we not getting along? Is there something going on in the house?” He meant the mansion, but house had become a pseudonym for group, coop, collection—however he thought of the remaining women vying for his attention.
“Charity isn’t here for the right reasons,” Sabrina said.
“She won’t shut up, and I want to hear your haunted story!” Marion said.
The camera crew exchanged glances. Charity stood up. The full height of her was alarming, like an Amazon demigod. Marion stood four inches shorter than Charity, but she squared off against her, arms on her hips. The stance reminded Sabrina of her mother, who stood like that in every photo. Sabrina stayed seated beside Tristan, seizing the opportunity to scoot closer. She closed her eyes and imagined the future she wanted: the wedding dress, the man.
“I’m here for the wrong reasons?” Charity’s voice shook with rage. “You have no idea what I feel for Tristan. I’m not about to let a dumbass like her steal him from me.”
Sabrina opened her eyes and leaned to whisper in Tristan’s ear, letting her lips vibrate against his lobe. Distracting him, she snuck her hand onto his upper thigh.
“That was a scary story, Tristan,” she said. “Is it true?”
“Every word,” he whispered. “I’d never lie to you.”
She imagined him repeating those words—I would never lie to you—for the rest of their lives, like a promise greater than I love you, and because she believed it, it would be real. He would never again lie to her.
Chapter Nine
