Page 54 of One Last Lie

So why? What am I doing this for? For myself? If so, then why? What do I hope to gain?

“What do you hope to gain?”

I lower my eyes, and tears come to them as the detective continues to stare at me, through me. “I just want to know. I want to know what happened.”

“Sometimes you can’t know.” Her voice is gentle but final. “It’s hard, believe me, I know. I hate it, but by pushing for answers when there are none to be had, we blind ourselves to the truth that actually matters.

“Your sister wouldn’t want you spending the rest of your life obsessing over her. She would want you to find joy for yourself. She’d want you to remember her fondly and perhaps even spare a moment or two of sadness every now and then, but she wouldn’t want you to lose out on joy because her life ended in tragedy.”

“But we don’t know that her life ended! We haven’t found a body! We haven’t found a killer. She could still be alive!”

She looks at me and says nothing. Her eyes communicate everything. I lower my head and weep.

She lets me weep for a few minutes, then says, “I’m closing the case, Mary. I can’t prevent you from trying to find answers on your own or through other people, but I hope you won’t. If I were you, I would go to the hill overlooking the ocean where you and Annie used to sit, and I would have a private memorial service just for yourself. Say goodbye to her there and promise her that you’ll always cherish her memory. Then move on. Give herself the gift of living a full and joyful life.”

I hate hearing her say this. I hate hearing that I’ll never know what happened to my sister.

But I’m so tired. And nothing I do will bring her back. If I can put this behind me and move on…

I lift my head and smile. “All right. I will.”

I collapse to my knees in the study and weep bitterly. The book in my hand falls to the floor and slides around my knees, nestled among dozens of its fellows.

My mother was right. I abandoned my sister. I could have—should have—fought to learn what happened to her. I should have never rested until we had answers. Instead, I let my own exhaustion matter more. I let them close the case and left my sister behind when I should have fought for her.

And she never left me. I never moved on and found happiness. I never led a joyful life. I didn’t even cherish her memory. It haunted me. It still haunts me. I don’t remember her as my beautiful, vibrant sister with whom I shared a glorious childhood. I remember her as the pale, lifeless ghost hanging on my shoulder as her empty eyes drain all of the vitality from me.

I’m doing this for myself. I’m trying to find the person who killed Johnathan Ashford because I want to believe that I’m not the same person who left my sister to vanish into the mists of the forgotten. I want to believe that I care enough to fight for justice.

I dry my eyes and keep looking. Knowing that I’ll fight for justice even if it means destroying those I’m supposed to care for doesn’t make me feel good about myself, but at least I’m not hiding anymore. I will see this through to the end. There’s no more point in wondering why.

There are only seven books left when I finally find the answer to my questions. The book—appropriately enough—is titled Hidden Things: who people really are when they stop lying to themselves.

The answer is in the form of a photograph. Cecilia’s in the photograph. She’s much younger in this picture, and the resemblance between her and Isabella is more noticeable and far more striking. She has her head thrown back in laughter, and the youthfulness of her figure in the modest but flattering summer dress she wears is the fantasy of every man who’s ever loved women.

There’s a man in the picture as well, but it’s not Johnathan. This man is handsome, more handsome even than the dashing Johnathan Ashford. He has chiseled features, striking eyes and a devastating smile. It will be some years before age matures his appearance into the rugged beauty he wears today, but there’s no mistaking the desire in Richard Holloway’s eyes as he looks into Cecilia’s own.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Once more, instinct seems to guide my actions. I stand and carry the picture to the desk. I set it on the desk and pull the crossword puzzle from my pocket. I unfold it and smooth it out on the desk, then take a seat in front of it.

I stare at it for a long moment before reaching for the pen and inkwell. The pen is an old Waterman, an 1892 according to the engraving on the feed. I can’t determine if the nib is an original. If it is, it’s been equisitely maintained to be free of pitting or corrosion after over one hundred thirty years. Or perhaps this is simply an excellent reproduction.

I realize I’m stalling and return my attention to the puzzle. One of the clues I leave blank before is the third to last down clue. It’s eight letters, and the clue is first across the finish line.

I assume that it refers to an actual footrace or perhaps a college friend who graduated before Johnathan. Another, rather crude but more pertinent meaning occurs to me.

First, across the finish line could refer to the first to experience all of Cecilia. I don't care to be any more graphic than that, even in my own thoughts. Besides, sex isn't the focus of this investigation.

I fill in HOLLOWAY and stare at the puzzle.

The pieces begin to fall into place. His dislike of the children. The violence in his eyes when he stares at Isabella. His jealousy of them as reminders of the man who may not have been first across the finish line but who escaped with the gold medal anyway.

And Cecilia…

My eyes are drawn to her expression in the picture with Detective Holloway. She looks so happy, but it’s not only the joy that strikes me. It’s the squaring of her shoulders, the swell of life in her chest, the jaunty swing of her gait. She’s young. She’s free. The world lays at her feet. She is no bird in a gilded cage. She is a bird taking wing, ready to seize all that life has in store for her.

Johnathan’s cause of death was suppressed. Who could have suppressed it if not the lead detective investigating his death? Cecilia couldn’t have suppressed it herself. She must have had help. Richard clearly had a motive to help.

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