Райли Сейгер - Home Before Dark - A Novel

“Your father realized that in order for this to work, we’d need to make it look authentic. Which meant leaving Baneberry Hall and telling the police why we left.” My mother takes a shy pause. “I know it all sounds so ridiculous now. But it felt like something that could be pulled off if done carefully. I agreed to it because, well, I loved your father. I believed in him. And, since I’m being honest, I hated that house.”

“So, none of it was real?”

“There is some truth behind it. Baneberry’s history. The stuff about the Carver family. And the kitchen ceiling, unfortunately. Although that was caused by a burst pipe and not, well, you know. As for the ghosts your father said you saw, they were nothing but your bad dreams.”

“I had night terrors even back then?”

“It’s when they started,” my mother says. “Your father took inspiration from everything, even though the end result was mostly fiction.”

I was right—the Book is a lie. Not all of it. But the important parts. The ones that involve us.

And Mister Shadow.

I always thought that if I was ever told the truth, it would feel like a weight lifting off my shoulders. It doesn’t. Any relief I might have is tempered by frustration over all that useless secrecy. When I was a child, the Book made me an object of curiosity to some and an outcast to others. Being told the truth might not have changed that, but I sure as hell would have been able to handle it better. Realizing some of those growing pains could have been avoided fills my heart with an angry, gnawing ache.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“We wanted to,” my mother says with a sigh. “When the time was right. That’s what we always said. ‘When the time is right, we’ll tell Maggie the truth.’ But the right time never seemed to arrive. Especially when the book became more successful than we ever imagined.”

“You were worried I’d tell someone?”

“We were worried you’d be disappointed in us,” she says. “Your father especially.”

She’s assuming I wasn’t already disappointed by years of lies and all the things left unspoken. But I was. Few things in life are more disappointing than knowing your parents aren’t being honest with you.

“None of that matters.” My voice cracks, and I realize I’m holding back tears. “You should have told me.”

“Everything you have is because of that book,” my mother says. “It put food on the table and clothes on your back. House of Horrors paid for your entire education. Not to mention that inheritance you just received. We didn’t know how you’d react if you found out it was all because of a lie.”

“Is that why you and Dad got divorced?”

Something else we don’t talk about. When they separated, the only thing my parents told eight-year-old me was that I’d be living in two apartments instead of one. They failed to mention that my mother would be in one of the apartments and my father in the other, never again living under the same roof. It took me weeks to figure it out on my own. And it took me years to stop thinking that the divorce was somehow my fault. Yet another youthful trauma that could have easily been avoided.

“Mostly,” my mother says. “We had problems before that, of course. We weren’t a perfect couple by any means. But after the book was published, I got tired of constantly lying. And fearing the truth would get out. And feeling guilty about all of it.”

“That’s why you refused to take money from Dad,” I say.

“I just wanted to be free of it all. In exchange, I promised your father I’d never tell you the truth.” My mother sighs again. Sadder this time. A soft exhalation of defeat. “I guess some promises need to be broken.”

The sunglasses go back on, a sign I’ve heard all she’s prepared to say about the matter. Is it everything? Probably not. But it’s enough to finally bring that sense of relief I’d hoped for. The truth at last, which ended up being just what I suspected.

Lunch progresses normally after that. Our new drinks arrive. My mother judges me from behind her sunglasses when I order a burger with extra bacon. She gets a salad. I tell her about the duplex Allie and I are trying to flip. She tells me how she and Carl are spending the entire month of June in Capri. When lunch is over, my mother surprises me with one last mention of Baneberry Hall. It’s dropped casually as she pays the check. Like an afterthought.

“By the way, Carl and I talked it over, and we’d like to buy Baneberry Hall from you. At full value, of course.”

“Seriously?”

“If we weren’t serious, I wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“That’s very nice of you.” I pause, appreciative but also suddenly apprehensive. There’s something else going on here. “But I can’t just let you give me money.”

“We’re not,” my mother insists. “We’re buying a property. That’s what Carl does.”

“But none of us know what condition it’s in,” I say. “Or how much it’s worth.”

“Just get the house assessed while we’re away, and we’ll give you the full value when we return. Quick and simple. We’ll reimburse you for the assessment. You won’t even need to set foot inside Baneberry Hall.”

I freeze, my sense of relief gone in an instant. Because although their words differ, my parents’ message is the same.

Never go back there.

It’s not safe there.

Not for you.

Which means I still don’t know the truth about Baneberry Hall. Maybe some of what my mother just told me is real, but I doubt it. If that were the case, why would she and my father both be so adamant about my not returning? They are still, after all these years, hiding something. The ache in my heart returns, more acute this time, as if my mother has just jammed the fork she’s holding right through my chest.

“You have to admit it’s a very generous offer,” she says.

“It is,” I reply, my voice weak.

“Tell me you’ll at least consider it.”

I stare at the darkened lenses of her sunglasses, wishing I could see her eyes and therefore possibly read her thoughts. Can she tell that I know I’ve been lied to once again? Can she see the pain and disappointment I’m using all my willpower to hide?

“I will,” I say, although what I really want to do is continue to beg for the truth.

I don’t, because I already know she won’t provide it. Not after all the begging and pleading in the world. If my father refused to do it on his deathbed, I see no reason why my mother would do it now.

It makes me feel like a child again. Not the odd, spooked girl in the Book, a characterization I never related to. And not the shy, mute version of me in that 60 Minutes interview on YouTube. I feel like I did when I was nine and, having read the Book for the first time, thirsted for answers. The only difference between us is that I now have something nine-year-old me didn’t—access to Baneberry Hall.

I plunge a hand into my pocket, feeling for the keys I stuffed there after leaving Arthur Rosenfeld’s office.

There’s a line I like to say to potential buyers before they tour a renovated property. Every house has a story to tell. Baneberry Hall is no different. Its story—the real one—might still be there. Why we left. Why my father felt compelled to lie about it. What I actually experienced there. All of it might be hiding within its walls, waiting for me to find it.

“I’m glad,” my mother says. “You’re so busy. The last thing I want is for you to be burdened with some old house you don’t want.”

“I won’t even think about that place until you and Carl get back,” I tell her. “I promise.”