Page 48 of One Last Lie

Cecilia recoils as though struck, and instantly, I realize my mistake. She turns pale and stiffens, and I step backward myself, certain that she’s going to slap me. “What?” she whispers, barely a breath.

I don’t know what to say. I want to backpedal, to say I was wrong, that it was idle speculation, that I’m a fool, and she shouldn’t listen to me, but I don’t. I can’t unsay a claim that her husband was murdered, especially the way I put it, that I have reason to believe it.

“You’re lying,” she says, still barely whispering. “You can’t know that.”

I can’t tell if her fear is due to guilt or to shock. Possibly both.

I’m such a fool. I’ve done exactly what I warned Elijah not to do, and for just as immature of a reason. I was offended at her for saying she hated Johnathan, and I wanted to let her know that I suspected her.

But what do I do now? Do I rush upstairs and confront her with proof? And what is that proof of anyway? Not hours ago, I acknowledge that it’s at best proof of a much lesser crime and perhaps even motivated by a desire to protect her children.

But a viciousness slithers up my brain. I feel a triumph not unlike that Cecilia expresses. I’ve caught her. I’ve told the bitch that I know what she did. She can no longer hide in the dark. She slipped up and revealed her true colors, and I see them. I see them clear as day.

That viciousness overcomes prudence, and I say, “I can. I’ve found more than enough evidence to prove it.”

She does slap me, moving so swiftly I can’t track her. My ears ring from the blow, and the force of it causes me to stumble backwards. For a moment, my triumph vanishes in naked fear as I stare in shock at her. She’s standing now, trembling and staring at me like a cornered animal. Flecks of red appear in her face, and her fists clench and unclench.

“You fucking bitch,” she hisses. “How dare you? What gave you the right to interfere with my family? You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know shit!”

I should back away now. I should apologize and leave the room. But that vicious triumph returns, and I say, “Yes, I do. I’ve found his notes, and I’ve found evidence that the cause of death was covered up.” That last causes her to flinch again, and I press my advantage. “Someone poisoned him. I don’t know who yet, but it would have to have been someone close to him. Did Elena visit the house the day he died? Maybe she killed him. Or maybe one of the servants—”

She rushes forward to slap me again, but I quickly round the table. She releases a sound like a muffled teakettle and says, “Stop it. Stop it now.”

That’s exactly what I should do, but an odd energy seems to have come over me. I feel as though something else is speaking through me, and even though I’m alarmed at my behavior, I can’t stop myself.

“Your children miss him, Cecilia. Elijah is just learning to become a man, and his guidance was taken from him.”

“Be quiet.”

“Isabella has no role model to look up to now, no one to show her how a man should treat a woman.”

“Shut up!”

“Samuel will barely remember his father. He’ll cling to his memories, but they’ll fade over time. His father will gradually lessen from the memory of a man to the memory of an image and finally to the memory of an idea. What was once real and valuable will be nothing more than a ghost with pale skin and empty eyes.”

Cecilia shrieks and rushes at me, hands outstretched like a harpy’s. In my frenzy, I lift my own hands and prepare to meet her assault.

Then we hear footsteps running down the stairs. A moment later, Samuel’s voice calls, “I’m going to beat you!”

Isabella’s replies, “Not with your tiny little legs, you won’t.”

And just like that, the spell is broken. Cecilia and I look at each other in shock. Her face hardens, and an unspoken agreement passes between us, and when Samuel bursts victoriously through the door into the dining room, Cecilia and I are smiling.

Isabella looks between us, and her brow furrows. "Why are you two standing like that?"

“Sometimes older people need to stand, dear. It’s hard on old joints to sit all day.”

She shrugs. “Whatever.”

“I beat you!” Samuel crows, pointing at Isabella and grinning.

“I let you win, you little monster!” she retorts, running after him, hands outstretched. She’s only planning to tickle him, but the way she grins and holds her fingers out like claws reminds me disturbingly of her mother.

“All right, kids,” Cecilia says. “Settle down. You have school today, so let’s get through breakfast and getting dressed quickly.” She looks at me and smiles brittlely. “Miss Mary will take you to school today.”

So you can hide the evidence, I think to myself. I wish that I had taken that report with its damning sticky note with me the other day.

Then again, what’s to stop her from going into my room?

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