Page 45 of One Last Lie

“What happened five years ago?”

He lifts his hands. "I don't know. I just know that she used to smile when he was around. Then she just… stopped. She would look at him like she… not like she hated him, but like she hated that he was around. Like he was a stain, she couldn't wash out and was just forced to live with. I kept telling myself that they'd make up eventually. They were just fighting like all married people fight. But they never made up. When they told us he was dead, she didn't even cry. She just nodded and started making arrangements like it was just another day."

I feel like I should say something, but I have no idea what. Everything I think to say falls flat. I could tell him that she loves him, and that’s true. In fact, that’s what I should say.

But she also killed his father.

Possibly not. I suppose all I know for sure is that she allowed the true cause of his death to be hidden.

It’s a testament to my affection for Cecilia that I grasp at that straw so desperately. She loves her children. She didn’t love Johnathan. So when he was murdered, rather than fight for justice for a man she didn’t love, she chose to protect the children she did love from the truth. A poor choice, to be sure, but an understandable one.

Thus emboldened, I say, “She loves you three very much, Elijah. You and Isabella and Samuel. Romantic love is a fickle thing. People grow and change, even as they get older. It’s very difficult for two people to grow and change so many times and still retain the same love they had when they met as two much younger and very different people. Some couples are able to navigate that change. Others aren’t.

“But the love of a mother for her children is eternal. It’s fierce and unshakeable. You three are the most important things in her lives, and always will be.”

As I say that I think of my own mother and remember that it’s not always true that the love of a mother is unshakeable. Not for all her children anyway. But that’s not helpful to Elijah right now, and anyway, the one thing I am sure of is that Cecilia loves her children—all of them.

Elijah doesn’t seem to think so. He looks up to where his mother is now in bed and says, “Mom loves herself. I think she wants us to love her, but I don’t think she cares about us. I get that she didn’t love Dad, but to be dating already? Even if she didn’t care if I knew, what about Isabella and Samuel? They’re not stupid. They know what she’s doing when she goes out dressed like she’s going clubbing. When Samuel asks me if Mom’s trying to marry someone else already, what am I supposed to say? When Isabella asks me why she doesn’t miss Dad, what do I tell them?”

“You tell them that she loves all of you very much, and that’s what matters right now.”

He searches my eyes. “You don’t believe that.”

"Yes, I do. I very much do."

“And if you find out that she did kill him? What then?”

His face still carries the marks of youth, but his eyes are strong and steady. My gaze falters, and he says, “Exactly. She could have divorced him. But she killed him.”

“You don’t know that.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not. But it’s convenient, isn’t it? She gets to keep the house, his money, his business.”

“She doesn’t want the business. She’s only trying to keep Elena from taking over.”

He smiles bitterly. “I know you like her. I don’t blame you. Mom’s always been good at making people see her as the victim. But I’ve known her a lot longer than you have. I know what she’s like when she doesn’t need to hide. Stick around long enough, and you will too.” He stands. “I’m going to bed.”

“Elijah—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to accuse her of anything. And I won’t tell Isabella or Samuel either. But you said you’d help me find out who killed Dad. If it’s Mom, then she needs to answer for it, whether she really loves us or not.”

He leaves without waiting for a response. That’s good, because I don’t have one. I can only sit and try to convince myself that the story I’ve become a part of has a happy ending.

One that doesn’t end with the empty eyes of a lost loved one drawing this family into insanity.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next morning, I find Paolo in the kitchen but not Cecilia. He smiles sadly at me when I arrive and pours a cup of coffee from the French Press. I lift it to my lips and find with relief that it’s the dark roast I prefer and not the blonde roast Cecilia favors. It’s odd how those little pleasures still matter, even in the midst of chaos and death.

“I think I will leave,” Paolo says.

I turn to him in shock. “Leave? The family?”

“Yes. I feel my time here is coming to an end.”

I offer the rather lame retort of, “So soon? When the children are finally starting to enjoy real food?”

He chuckles. “I very much appreciate your help with that. I enjoy making real meals much more than pouring powdered cheese out of a box, but as for the first part, it is soon for you, not for me.”

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