Free The Women in the Walls by Amy Lukavics

that follows. So much for holding out hope.
    â€œI only meant that you live somewhere special, dear,” Nancy replies drily, her eyebrow raised. “There’s no need to get feisty. Historical landmarks like this are something to be respected.”
    My cousin frowns. “Respect, huh?”
    â€œExcuse us,” I say as politely as I can manage, then walk with Margaret to the food table, where we’re alone. I watch as she inhales a tomato-sausage toast and two scallops straight from their shells. I want to ask her if she’s all right, but I feel like that’s one of the worst questions you could ask someone who just tried to convince you that she’s hearing voices.
    â€œSo,” I say after reaching for a tiny cup of puff pastry filled with avocado puree and spiced prawns. “How are you doing?”
    â€œI’m okay,” she says through her chewing. “Listen, I know I said some messed-up stuff before, about my mom, but I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for all that. I was...mistaken. Things are fine now, they really are.”
    â€œMistaken?” I ask, hopeful. “So you’re feeling better, then?”
    â€œYes,” she says, offering up a weak smile. “I’m feeling better.”
    Miranda calls out from the entrance of the dining room that dinner is being served. The club members make their way across the parlor immediately, talking about the food and recent golf scores and each other.
    â€œSo no more voices?” I ask as we trail behind the crowd, daring to feel relief. “And no more attic?”
    â€œNo, she’s still in there,” Margaret says, and I close my eyes in pained disbelief. “I just said that I was mistaken. She doesn’t want to hurt me. She just wants to be there for me. It’s quite amazing, really, how she had to die for us to get so close.”
    I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. We file into the dining room, finding our places marked with handwritten name cards. Margaret and I are placed together, as usual, but tonight I wish we weren’t. How does she know for sure that Penelope is dead?
    My father enters once everyone is seated, wearing a blue suit with a silver tie. He thanks everyone for coming, his voice artificially warm as he wishes a satisfying feast upon us all before sitting at the head of the table. The opposite head, where Penelope usually sits, remains empty. There is a black cloth draped over her chair.
    â€œI want to say again how grateful I am for all the warm wishes and support you’ve provided in the wake of Penelope’s disappearance,” my father says, which is the easiest he’s spoken of it in front of me yet. “Our family appreciates the help more than you could ever know.”
    â€œNo thanks necessary, my friend,” Gregory pipes up from where he sits across from me. “Your sister-in-law was one of the brightest and most outstanding members that this club has seen in years. Such potential she had. She will be sorely missed.”
    â€œHear, hear,” murmur random people from all around the table. A few members raise their glasses expectantly.
    â€œTo Penelope,” Gregory speaks over my father. The rest of the drink glasses raise together in one swift movement. “May we always remember the grace she brought to this wonderful estate, her family birthright.”
    My father’s eyes narrow, just in the slightest. Discomfort blooms in my belly, causing me to shift around in my seat. That mention about family birthright was a dig at my father, since he’s only an Acosta by name. What idiot convinced everyone into thinking that kind of thing even matters? These are grown men in expensive suits and all they ever put into the world is pettiness.
    Margaret’s eyes are stuck on Gregory, her glass of sparkling cider raised, her eyes soft with affection at his words. I’m not surprised that she doesn’t find the old