The Death of Mrs. Westaway

“I told you to leave once, and I’ll say it again. Good riddance. Good riddance to you, and your trash mother before you.”

“Little milk-and-water coward. She was a conniving little gold digger, just like you.”

“But then it turned out Edward had been fucking some woman for about four years,”

“Harriet, I wouldn’t normally gossip about this, but I think at this point it’s better that you know. As far as I understand it, Abel proposed marriage to Edward last year, but then . . .”

“It’s just a house,” Ezra said briefly. “It was never a home—not even when I lived there.”

“It was never a home—not even when I lived there.”

“It—it’s strange, because it’s such a beautiful building, in some ways.”

“It’s just a house,”

“Please. I’m not one for hypocrisy. It’s a horrible place. Why do you think we all got out as soon as we could?”

Mitzi, if you had known my mother in the least, you would realize how very unlikely it would be for her to be motivated by anything as charitable as pity for an orphan.

There was a lock on the door. Two, in fact. They were long, thick bolts, top and bottom.

But they were on the outside.