Chapter 2 - The Shadow of Beatrice
The rest of the night passed in a blur of hushed arguments, cold coffee, and a mounting sense of dread.
By 3:00 a.m., Robert had fallen asleep in the armchair in the hallway, acting as a silent, protective barrier between the newlyweds' room and the guest room where Katherine was sleeping. Frank had gone home to his wife, promising to keep quiet but urging us to call the police if things escalated.
Caleb was locked in his study on the main floor. I could hear the pacing of his heavy steps overhead, back and forth, like a caged animal.
I couldn't sleep. I sat at the kitchen table, the wooden surface cold beneath my hands. On the counter sat the remains of the wedding feast—a half-eaten tray of sweet bread, a bottle of expensive tequila with the cork loosely replaced. Everything looked so normal, yet everything had shattered.
I closed my eyes and remembered the first day Caleb brought Katherine home.
She had stood on our porch, clutching a small pot of yellow marigolds, her knuckles white. She had looked so fragile, so desperate to please. When she spilled a glass of water during dinner, she had looked at Caleb with a sudden, fleeting terror, as if expecting him to strike her. But Caleb had only laughed gently, wiping the water away and kissing her forehead.
I had thought it was just nerves. Now, a darker question crept into my mind: Was her fear real, or was it part of an act?
I stood up, my joints aching, and walked down the hallway to the guest room. I pushed the door open slowly, the hinges letting out a faint groan.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. Katherine was awake. She was sitting upright in the bed, still wearing her white silk slip, her wedding dress draped over the back of a chair like a discarded skin. Her eyes were red and swollen, staring blankly at the wall.
"Katherine?" I whispered.
She flinched, pulling the heavy quilt up to her chin. "Grace... please. I don't want any trouble. I can leave. I can walk to the station."
"It’s three in the morning, child," I said, walking in and sitting on the edge of the mattress. "You’re not walking anywhere. Tell me what happened. What did Caleb say to you?"
Katherine looked at me, her lower lip trembling. "He... he changed, Grace. The moment the bedroom door shut, his face just... went cold. He didn't look at me like he loved me anymore. He looked at me like I was a monster."
She took a ragged breath, her hand reaching up to touch her collarbone, where a faint red mark was visible.
"He grabbed my shoulders," she whispered. "Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to keep me from moving. He looked into my eyes and said, 'Do you think she felt this scared when she was standing on the edge of that balcony, Katherine?' I didn't know what he was talking about. I asked him who he meant. And then he threw a photograph onto the bed."
"A photograph?" I asked.
"An old black-and-white picture," Katherine said, tears spilling over her eyelashes. "It was a picture of me and another girl when we were teenagers. We were at a summer camp in Michigan. The girl... her name was Beatrice."
My heart stopped. "You knew her?"
"Yes!" Katherine sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "Of course I knew her! Beatrice Thorne was my stepsister, Grace! My mother married her father when we were twelve. We grew up in the same house!"
I stared at her, the room spinning. "Caleb said she was his fiancée. He said you stalked her. He said you drove her to her death."
"That's a lie!" Katherine cried, her voice rising in panic. "A horrible, disgusting lie! I loved Beatrice! When my mother died, Beatrice was the only person who held me together. We were sisters! Why would I ever hurt her? Why would Caleb think that?"
"He said he has her diary," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "He says your name is written all over the pages, identifying you as the person who destroyed her life."
Katherine went completely still. Her face drained of all color, turning a sickly, translucent grey.
"Her diary?" she repeated, her voice suddenly dropping into a flat, terrified register. "No. That’s impossible. Beatrice didn't keep a diary. She hated writing. She had severe dyslexia... she never wrote anything down. She recorded everything on old cassette tapes."
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She gripped my arm, her fingers digging into my skin.
"Grace, whoever gave Caleb that diary is lying to him. Someone is setting me up. And if Caleb believes them... he’s going to kill me."
