Page 1 of Bitter House

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

BRIDGET

Bitter House. They got that about right, didn’t they?

The house stands tall and desolate against the gray sky. Gray stone, white accents, with sharp angles and a fierce spire that towers several feet over the rest of the house. It’s grand, spacious, and filled with sadness. Just…not for the reasons you think.

The newspaper lies in my front seat, the article about my grandmother and her amazing, selfless life face up.

The problem? It’s nothing but lies.

Whoever wrote it clearly didn’t know her at all, only what she wanted people to know. Which isn’t unusual. No one knew her. Not even the children she raised. She wanted it that way. She was an enigma, a mystery. A giant question mark. A ghost that floated through that house and her life without ever making contact with anyone.

The funeral that was supposed to happen in a private ceremony yesterday—the one filled with close friends and family? It didn’t exist. If it had, there would have been no one to come. No one who cared enough to say goodbye. In fact, as far as I know, Vera slipped out of the world without anyone noticing at all.

No one’s lives will change in the slightest with her gone except for mine, and only out of a sense of obligation I don’t fully understand.

When I received the news that my grandmother had passed away and that her house—Bitter House—was left to me, my feelings were conflicted at best.

On one hand, she raised me when she didn’t have to, when I had nowhere else to go, but on the other, she was hardly warm. She was nothing like my mother, and I’m still trying to process my feelings about that.

When I graduated from high school, my grandmother all but dumped me on the porch steps of Bitter House with my bags and not so much as a goodbye, and I haven’t heard from her since. Not once.

So finding out the family house was left to me is a surprise at the very least. I make my way down the winding drive, the tall, menacing manor in front of me, iron gate behind me.

As soon as the gate swung closed minutes ago, I felt my throat tighten, and I’ve yet to take a normal breath.

I pull the car to a stop at the end of the long, paved driveway and stare over at the house where I grew up. How many nights did I spend looking out that window right there, second one from the right on the top floor, wondering if there was really life outside of it? If I’d ever actually be able to get away from Bitter House and its influence.

If I’d known the reality of what life would look like on my own, I’m not sure I would’ve been in such a hurry to leave.

I check my phone and spot a text from my best friend, Ana.

Hope you made it okay. I’ll manage everything here until you get back, so don’t worry. Let me know if you need anything, even if it’s just to vent. Always here.

I type out a response quickly, wishing I could explain to her how strange this feels. I’ve tried to, of course, but it’s not something you can put into words. Bitter House and the memories that come with it are heavy and thick, and wading through them is like swimming through batter. I’m not sure I know how I feel enough to understand it, let alone explain it to someone else, even to the person who knows me the best.

Made it safely. Thanks for taking over work for me. If you need anything or get behind, I’m just a phone call away and can always work from here if I need to. Miss you already. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

I step out of the car without gathering my bags. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. Edna, the executor, said it was important that I come back before I make the decision whether to sell. If I do—which I really think I will, since I have no desire to ever live within these walls again—she wants me to see the place, go through whatever things I’d like to keep, and give her permission to donate the rest.

She didn’t have to work too hard to convince me, though. Despite all of my conflicted feelings, regrets, and anger about the things that happened at Bitter House, it was still my home once. I’m, for lack of a better word, bitter about how things happened here. I’m angry and empty that Vera could cast me aside so easily, that she didn’t think I even deserved an explanation as to why.

I hate that I ever trusted her, that I let myself rely on her. And, maybe more than anything else, I hate the fact that I still care. That despite the icy, detached way my grandmother raised me, it still matters to me that she was my grandmother. I need to come back here to say goodbye, to find closure on my own terms, maybe even to try to make sense of what seems impossible to understand.

I can’t say goodbye to her without coming back to Bitter House, to the place where she shattered my already broken heart, and I have to say goodbye, even if it comes with a side of good riddance.

I cross the front lawn, walking on the grass and up the front steps. At the front door, I twist the key in the lock. The silver key had been included in the envelope Edna sent over, and it still feels foreign in my hand. I haven’t attached it to my key ring, wanting to do nothing that might allow me to consider staying in this place, calling it home once again.

I push open the front door and step into the foyer, breathing in the familiar scent. It’s lilac and dust—years of history and memories hidden within that smell—and it makes me feel sad and nostalgic and suffocated all at once.

With the door closed behind me, I tuck my hands into my pockets and stare around at a space that once felt like my entire world. A space that seemed to contract and expand based on my grandmother’s moods, but despite its enormity, it never felt large enough to contain me.

She’s everywhere in this place, though, even now that she’s gone. Even as her body is currently being cremated and I know she’ll never be anywhere else ever again, she’s here. In the wallpaper she changed every few years. In the art she had hung on the wall, the curtains adorning the windows, and the light fixtures that remain permanently covered in dust.

In the study, which was always more decorative than functional, I sit down at her oversized desk, running my hands across the wooden top. There’s so much here, I don’t even know where to start when it comes to sorting through things.