Read Online The Women in the Walls by Amy Lukavics - Free Book Online

something in his tone that indicates truth, longing even. “And trust me when I say that any and all appropriate measures were taken, including what was necessary regarding the police.”
    Before my aunt disappeared, the idea of her and my father being together was so strange. But at this point, I yearn so much for a reality where she is here, and okay, and they are happy together. Maybe cousins could have been sisters, after all. There’s no way it could have possibly ended up being worse than what really happened.
    â€œThe way you’ve gone about things, your ‘measures,’ are pushing Margaret completely over the edge,” I say. “Something needs to be done for her. She needs to see a therapist, somebody that’ll help make sure she doesn’t hurt herself...”
    â€œShe’ll be fine,” my father says, without emotion. “The little girl just needs to suck it up and get a hold of herself.”
    The cruelness of his words takes my breath away.
    â€œNo, you don’t get it.” I’m angry now, more than I am scared. How could he say that? Does he not care about Margaret’s well-being at all?
    â€œI get it as much as I need to.” My father pushes the ashtray aside, then picks up the pen he set down previously. “We’re hosting a dinner for the club here in a few days, and organizing everything for it is killing me. Things are bad enough without Penny here to help—” He stops short when he realizes what he’s done, revealed his nickname for my aunt without even meaning to. How can he hold her in such loving memory but dismiss Margaret without a second thought?
    â€œMargaret has always been an especially dramatic child,” my father continues. “Give her time, and she’ll stop the destructive behavior.”
    So he’s not going to do shit to help; he’s just going to continue putting plans for a dinner party ahead of everything else? My thought circles back around to Margaret, of course. I wonder where she is right now, and what she’s doing.
    â€œPlease close the door on your way out,” my father says, which stings despite my will for it not to. He can never seem to get rid of me fast enough. “I’ve got a meeting with Miranda and a lot of paperwork to get through before the weekend is over.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    I slam the heavy door into its frame, creating a loud crash that echoes through the hall and all the way out to the entryway. In the massive silence of the parlor, I sit on a emerald velvet sofa that is positioned between a marble statue of an angel and an extra-tall houseplant. The chandelier that hangs from the vaulted ceiling glitters over my head.
    I don’t know whether to seek my cousin out or if doing so will only make things worse, push them further. She’s probably in that attic right now, knocking on the walls and believing she can hear God knows what. She’s in the walls. My cousin’s words echo in my head, and I turn to look at the swirling gold-and-green Victorian wallpaper behind me.
    I think about Margaret screaming when she saw the cemetery in the woods, and the desperation in her eyes when she first told me that she was being haunted. I think about how easily my father dismissed my concerns, how eager he was to get back to his work with his hobbies at the estate, his escape.
    Or is it something else? I chew on my bottom lip as I remember Margaret’s question about the police, how my father skirted around answering when I asked him just now, how my cousin remarked that we didn’t know the real Penelope. Paranoia thickens the air around me, immobilizing me, and all I can do is sit on the emerald velvet couch and bite the skin on my lips as the grand chandelier of the entry room twinkles overhead.
    When the clock strikes the next hour, I go into my bedroom to cut three neat little slashes into the flesh on my hip. As I wait for them to stop