The Mystery Guest

Now, Cheryl eyes me, then shrugs. “Muffins sound good. Anything to get out of work.”

And just like that, I’m walking up the stairs and through the lobby making small talk about the weather with my archnemesis and chief rival. I smile and smile and smile as I lead her through the glorious front lobby to the bar at the Social, where Mr. Preston is midway through a chocolate chip muffin that he’s lifted from the heaping plate Angela has placed on the bar. Lily sits stock-still on her stool.

“Oh, hello, Cheryl,” Mr. Preston says as he offers her his seat. “We’re thrilled you’re joining us. Do me the honor?”

Cheryl plops herself down. “Thanks,” she says as she helps herself to a muffin and snaps her fingers at Lily for a glass of orange juice, which Lily pours and hands to her without a word.

“Uff, nice to take a load off,” Cheryl says.

“Working hard this morning, though you’ve just arrived for your shift?” I say, which is when Angela shoves the plate of muffins at me and kindly suggests I stuff one in my mouth.

“Hey, if Snow wanders in and sees us all shirking, this was your idea, not mine,” Cheryl says.

“Of course!” Angela replies. “We wouldn’t want you taking the blame for something we did. What kind of people do you take us for?”

Cheryl rips into a muffin and starts chewing a hunk of it. Her beady eyes search our faces, but she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. “All right, this is too weird,” she says. “What do you all want? What’s really going on here?”

Mr. Preston clears his throat. “Since you mentioned it,” he says, “we have something we wanted to raise with you.”

Angela doesn’t waste a moment. She whips out her laptop, open to KultureVulture.com. “Such a nice day,” Angela says. “And yet a Grim one, too, isn’t it, Cheryl?”

Cheryl takes in the screen. “This has nothing to do with me. Nothing.”

“They know the truth, Cheryl,” Lily whispers. “I just told them.”

Cheryl swivels to face Lily. “You little snitchy bitch. The pawnshop just gave me thirty thousand dollars for that rare first edition. I would have given you a cut, Lily. How could you be so stupid?”

“I told you before,” Lily says, her voice a quiet knife. “I don’t want your dirty money. I just want my job.”

Cheryl’s beady eyes shift from Lily to Angela to Mr. Preston, then finally land on me. “Wait,” she says. “We can make a deal here, can’t we? Split the proceeds of my sales four ways as long as you all keep quiet? We’ll be a hell of a lot richer if you can just hold your tongues.”

If I were to hold any tongue right now, it would be Cheryl’s—for the express purpose of ripping it from her mouth.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” Mr. Preston says. “Do we agree?”

Angela nods and so do I.

“I’ve definitely heard enough,” says Lily, her voice no longer a whisper. The clarion sound fills me with overweening pride.

“Molly, would you mind fetching Mr. Snow?” Mr. Preston says.

“Would I mind?” I reply. “On the contrary, it would be my pleasure.”

I curtsy to Cheryl, bowing more deeply than I’ve ever bowed to anyone in my life, because it’s the last courtesy she’ll receive from any of us for a very long time.

Chapter 21

Before

There are moments in life that are so seismically altering they divide everything, cutting a clear rift in time between Before and After. I experienced this powerfully the day my gran died. But that was not the first time in my life I felt it.

The first time was the day I saw what Mr. Grimthorpe did to Gran in the parlor at the mansion. Though I did not understand it entirely until much later, witnessing that moment turned me from a child to an adult in an instant.

I suppose I should have known all along that Mr. Grimthorpe was a monster. My instincts told me so even before I met him. But as with many things, I couldn’t quite believe what was right there in front of my face. I couldn’t piece together the clues the way I can in retrospect.

Now I know why some days were so hard for Gran, why she’d open my curtains but forget to say “Rise and shine.” How she’d prepare breakfast in silence rather than humming her cheery little tune because she dreaded going to work and was so fearful that Mr. Grimthorpe would force himself upon her. I recall how some nights at dinner she’d sit across from me, her eyes dull, moving her food around her plate but barely eating anything, her mind clearly elsewhere.

She rallied—my gran always rallied—searching for the bright side, focusing on the positive, convincing herself that Grimthorpe was a changed man, that once he was sober, he would never attack her again. That was my gran. She had an infinite capacity to light hope in the dark. And for the most part, she was successful. She certainly convinced me that all was well in our cloistered little world, that our future was impossibly bright. Everything she did was so I would not just survive but thrive. Only now do I know just how much she suffered in the dark, how she carried her burden alone.