Hemlock Veils

His chest closed in on him, the disappointment leaving him breathless. It all made sense. “You lied,” was all he could manage.

“I never lied. Legally, that money is mine. And legally, I can use it. I have to.” Before he could question her, she sighed and leaned against the wall, as though the revelation of her secret had released a burden. Her eyes were glassy as she began explaining, about her brother and his addiction and his lies, and how Mr. Vanderzee hated the way she always helped him. She’d turned something off inside her, something that allowed her to disco

Then she said, with a hint of the emotion she fought against, “He…was going to die. He came to me and said if he didn’t pay off one of his debtors, they would kill him. And at first I denied it. But…then I saw it in his eyes: he was dead.” Her brows scrunched together and she stared so intently to the side she appeared to be examining her own thoughts. “There was something in him, something that said his life was over. And I was…desperate. I never pla

Henry wiped a hand down his face and grasped the counter.

“He hated Willem, hated what he did to me. And I knew he would never agree to it. I had only hours to decide if I wanted him to live, and I thought if I could just save his life, maybe that would be the one thing that could bring him back. Because it would all be worth it—going to prison, paying for what I did—if Willem would just…come back.”

Slowly, gradually, a breath seeped through her lips. Her face—beautiful even in shame—darkened a shade. “I knew what would become of me, Mr. Clayton. But I had nothing without Willem because every second, I lived for him. Without him, my life had no purpose. I also had a promise to live up to, the promise to my father that I would never give up on my brother.” She met his eyes, and it was the first time Henry had ever seen tears welling in hers. “I told him I would never give up. So how could I…how could I let him die?”

It seemed she didn’t want him to answer, for she already asked him another question. “And you know what happened instead?”

Again he didn’t answer.

“Willem got shot anyway, right in front of me.” A tear weaseled its way down her cheek, subtle and trying to sneak out u

Her breaths turned shallow, as though suffocation threatened her, and she held the pendant of her locket, staring at it. “I gave up my integrity to save him and he died anyway.” With the knitting of her brow, more tears fled her eyes, racing to join the first. Henry’s presence seemed forgotten, her confession only to herself.

“The money…” he urged.

“I tried to give it back to Mr. Vanderzee. Before Willem was shot, I knew he and I were both dead, and there was no way the killer was going to take our lives and Mr. Vanderzee’s money—not if I could help it. The cops came, just in time, just before…he could shoot me.” The look in her eyes said it all: that part of her wished he had.

“Mr. Vanderzee showed up at the hospital after they proclaimed my brother dead. And I thought I was going to prison. I wanted it.” She met Henry’s eyes. “But he wanted something worse.”

A smile born of irony lifted the corner of her mouth. “And it turns out that account wasn’t so pointless after all. Turns out it was for me. He was building it up for me, so that someday, when I decided to rid my life of my brother and start living one for myself, I would have something to start it with.” She shook her head, her voice an uneven, off-pitch song. “So I stole from a man who was trying to give me everything.”

She straightened, sniffing, trying to brush it aside. “He wouldn’t take it back, told me I had to keep it, because he knew making me use it would be a worse punishment than prison. He told me I could never come back to L.A., and wherever I went, I had to make a life for myself. And if I refused, or if he ever found out I gave it away or spent it on anyone else, he wouldn’t just have me thrown in prison for stealing, but he would put me away as an accomplice for Willem’s murder.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Not for him. And maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the money. Maybe I should have just taken whatever punishment he would have inflicted on me if I refused. I suppose that makes me a worse person.” She wouldn’t even glance at him now, as though the floor was the only thing deserving of her gaze. “That was why he was so insistent on me buying your house. He had to make sure I lived up to my end of the deal.” Finally, she looked at him, and it seemed to take a lot of willpower. “You said before I’m not a monster, Mr. Clayton, but I am.”

“Ms. Ashton,” he began, short-fused. “Nothing short of murdering your brother—”

“Because of me, my brother is dead, Mr. Clayton! Don’t you see that?” As though her locket had transformed into a poisonous scorpion, she yanked it off, the chain ripping away from her neck and sending tiny pieces of silver through the air. She threw it across the shop, where it hit the brick wall with a clink and fell to the tile.

Nothing but her heightened breathing filled the silence. “The brave Ms. Ashton,” he said, almost to himself. “The brave Ms. Ashton who hasn’t cried a tear in eleven years.”

She ground her teeth and turned away, and her trembling said she tried to keep the meltdown inside. “Get out of here, Mr. Clayton,” she said with a breath between every word. “I’ll be out of town as soon as you want, just please leave me alone.” She disappeared through the doorway of the kitchen and he made a mad dash for the front door, about to give her all the space in the world.

But he stopped with the door ajar, spotting her broken locket on the floor. The pendant was open, a silver butterfly flexing its wings on the tile. He let the door close and walked to the necklace, crouching. Holding it in his palm, he studied it. And the pictures twisted his heart: the pictures of a young Elizabeth with windblown hair, too young to know what life would hold, and an even younger boy—Willem. Her brother squinted in the sun, carefree and happy, and Henry knew it was this image she held onto—the one she used to remember when holding to her father’s promise.

His chest swelled, his throat closed, and with breaths that became difficult, he closed it in his palm and stood, putting it in the warmth of his pocket. He turned toward the kitchen, whose doorway was empty. He heard her movement inside, and regardless of how she wanted him gone, he couldn’t leave.

He peeked inside. Her back was pressed against the wall, her hands over her mouth as she appeared on the verge of hyperventilation. The idea seemed to panic her. Then it came out, sobs that violently shook her shoulders and left her body sliding down the wall. There, crouched next to the large refrigerator that hummed as loudly as it had when he was a boy, she wept into her hands, finally releasing years of pent-up emotions.

When he stepped toward her, she looked up at him with a start, rising to her feet and turning away. With her back to him, she wiped her eyes. “Mr. Clayton, what are you doing here? I told you to leave.” She tried to make her voice strong, as she usually did.

He didn’t answer, since he didn’t know what to say, and instead touched her shoulder. It still trembled, since she hadn’t been able to turn off the downpour. She inched away from his hand and between sobs that sounded only somewhat controlled, she managed, “Go.”

Touching her again, he turned her to him, and she pushed away. But her resistance was brief because before he knew it she was crying into his chest, grasping his shirt. He wrapped his arms around her, pushing her to his heart, and one hand stroked her hair. The sensation filled him with both wholeness and an ache for her sorrow. She cried for a long moment, but he would have held her endlessly.