The Key to Anchor Lake ✓

39 : Blaire

B L A I R E

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It starts to rain when I'm halfway home. The heavens open, cracking a split in the dark grey clouds that steal the air and the light, and I'm drenched in seconds. Even the trees bending over the winding road can't keep the rain away, pellets of water pelting me as I pedal, hands slipping on the brakes. It only gets stronger, until I'm struggling to see and the rain is forming puddles, bouncing off the slick tarmac.

It's not a long journey, but it feels like forever by the time I make it back to Elizabeth's house, and I see the scuffed, rusted plaque on the gate, and now I realise why it's called Taighmartin. It's not the bird; it's not a house martin. It's the house of a Martin. Elizabeth Martins lives here.

I throw the bike into the garage, out of the storm, and my wet hands slip on the front door knob as I let myself into the house, shaking like a wet dog. Tact and sense are out of the window: I rush straight upstairs, only stopping in my room to switch out a sodden hoodie for a dry one, and I open the door to the attic.

I've never been up here, but I don't think before I storm up the steps and come face to face with a bewildered Elizabeth. She's standing in front of a canvas, a paintbrush in her hand, and I lose my balance when I see what she's painting.

Not what. Who.

Mum's face looks back at me, mid-laugh. Elizabeth has captured the light in her eyes, golden flecks in her hazel-brown irises; she's captured the dirty blonde of her hair, streaked with the occasional grey, the laughter lines around her eyes.

"What ... what are you doing?" I ask when I find my voice, all purpose floating away at the sight of the painting. "You're painting Mum? Why are you painting Mum?"

And then I look around. The attic is filled with paintings. I spot one that looks so like Mum and so like Elizabeth in equal measures, the smallest differences, and I just know it is Lissa. Alison. My aunt. And then I spot Fee, too. It's like looking at myself, fifteen years ago. We have the same hair, the same freckles, the same eyes.

"Who ... who are all these people?"

"Family," Elizabeth says. She looks concerned, and she advances towards me, and I almost fall down the stairs trying to get away from her. "What're you doing up here, Blaire?"

"This is all family?" I ask, ignoring her. "Where am I?"

She frowns. Puts down the paintbrush, and her phone. I see why the painting of Mum is so familiar - it isn't just because I know her face so well. Elizabeth's copying a photo, one of the best pictures of Mum that most of the news outlets used for their articles about her death.

"You're still here, Blaire."

"How long have you lived here?"

"I bought this h-"

"No, not here. Anchor Lake. Loch Iuchair. How long have you lived here, Elizabeth?"

There's a pause. A beat. She must know that I know. The jig is up. Time to see her cards.

"I've never left," she says.

"Never?"

"Never."

I sink onto a stool, staying away from the paintings. I can feel their eyes on me, so many eyes. "I know you're Betsy Martins," I say. Her expression changes. She pinches her lips, looks away, looks down. Her chin creases, her eyes going glassy.