The Safe House

The boat docked at a private pier in Greenwich, the engine sputtering on the last drops of fuel. The storm had passed, leaving the night air heavy with humidity and the smell of ozone.

My sister, Tess, was waiting on the dock. I hadn't seen her in three years—since the Christmas Arthur made a comment about her husband’s income and she swore never to set foot in a Hawthorne house again.

She didn't ask questions. She just helped us off the boat.

"The guest wing is ready," she said, eyeing the blood on Julian's shirt and the haunted look in Margaret's eyes. "I sent Mike to get supplies. Medical. Clothes."

"Thank you," I said.

We walked up the lawn to the house. It was a sprawling colonial, safe and normal. A different world from the glass and steel prison of the penthouse.

We got Margaret into the downstairs bathroom.

She sat on the edge of the tub, trembling. Her hospital gown was stained, her hair matted. She looked frail, a ghost made of parchment and bone.

"Elena," she whispered. "Is he really gone?"

"He's gone," I said. "He can't hurt you anymore."

I turned on the water. I tested the temperature.

"Let me help you," I said.

I helped her out of the gown. Her body was a map of neglect. Bedsores. Bruises. The atrophy of muscles unused for a decade.

I helped her into the water.

She sighed as the warmth hit her skin. She closed her eyes.

"I thought I was dead," she said softly. "Sometimes, I wished I was."

I took a sponge. I began to wash her back. Gently. Rhythmically. Washing away the smell of the facility. The smell of antiseptic and fear.

"You're alive, Margaret," I said. "You survived."

"Did I?" she asked. She opened her eyes. They were sharp, intelligent. The drugs were wearing off. "Or is this just another dream?"

"It's real," I said. "And tomorrow, everyone will know it."

She looked at me. Really looked at me.

"You found the money," she said. "The glitch."

"I found everything," I said.

"And Arthur Jr.?" she asked. "Did you find him?"

I stopped washing. I looked at the tiles.

"We know what happened," I said.

She nodded slowly. A tear slid down her cheek, mingling with the bathwater.

"He was beautiful," she whispered. "He looked just like Julian."

She took the sponge from my hand. She began to scrub her own arm. Hard. As if she could scrub away the memory.

"I want to see my son," she said. "I want to see Julian."

"He's upstairs," I said. "With the kids. He's hurt, Margaret. But he's safe."

She nodded. She stood up. The water sluiced off her thin frame.

I handed her a towel.

She dried herself. She wrapped the towel around her body like a robe of state. She stood straighter. The frailty was still there, but something else was rising beneath it. Steel.

She walked to the mirror. She wiped the steam from the glass.

She looked at her reflection. At the gray hair. The lines of pain etched into her face.

She touched her cheek.

"I look like a victim," she said.

"You are a victim," I said.

"No," she said. Her voice was stronger now. "I was a victim. Now I am a widow."

She turned to me.

"Get me a dress, Elena," she said. "I have a party to attend."