She ran her fingers along the buttons of his satin shirt but knew there could be no heart beating beneath it any longer. Her brother was dead lying in the same place they had found their father dead of a heart attack only a week before. Behind the great mahogany desk, in front of the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books they had never been allowed to touch. On the rug they had never been able to walk, now covered in blood. They were no longer children. Her light grey dress was ruined, stained an ugly black in the dark room. She noticed the moonlight coming in from the window shining off the blade. She opened the window and threw the knife as hard as she could into the neglected garden far below.
She had killed her brother. She screamed.
The housekeeper startled awake when she heard the girl’s scream. Someone must have broken into the house. That scream sounded like it came from the study. She stumbled out of her room and into the kitchen. The study was right on the other side of the dining room, but first she grabbed a butcher knife from the sink. She slammed open the doors to the study and fell into the room. No one was inside. She held the butcher’s knife in front of her and stepped further into the room.
“Was that you screaming, Mary?”She hissed. “Anybody here?”
She was bumped from behind and leaped forward, tripping over the dead brother’s leg and nearly cutting her hand all the way off. She got herself to her knees holding her bloody hand and seeing the four sisters standing over her. She followed their eyes to the dead body. Their mouths were agape. Their eyes returned to the housekeeper. To the blood. To the body. To the butcher knife. To the opened window. To the body. To the housekeeper.
And despite her screams, they grabbed her by the hair, and threw her out the window.