Page 57 of One Last Lie

She presses her finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose, and it occurs to me rather absurdly that she doesn’t look nearly as happy with him as she does in the photograph. “I would love to talk about that at some other time. Maybe not when my husband’s body is still warm in the ground.”

“Once more, it’s Johnathan. It’s always Johnathan. It’s always been Johnathan. He’s finally gone, and he’s still standing in between us.”

She lifts her head to the sky and raises her hand, palm up, as though asking for divine guidance. “I have kids, Richard. I’m not twenty years old anymore. I want a future with you, but for fuck’s sake, can it wait ten goddamned minutes so my kids don’t hate me for the rest of my life?”

“I can give you kids, Cec—”

“All right,” she says. “It’s time for you to leave. First of all, thank you for having this conversation in front of Mary, I’m sure she loved hearing all about it.”

He turns to me in shock as though suddenly remembering I’m here. Then he reddens and looks down at his feet. He looks very much like a child and once more, I wonder what Cecilia sees in him. Or used to see in him. Judging by her expression, she doesn’t see much more.

“Second,” she says, grabbing his arm and ushering him to the door, “thank you for insinuating that my children are worthless just because they came out of another man and not your royal scepter.”

“I didn’t mean…” his voice trails off because that is, of course, exactly what he was insinuating.

“Third, and most importantly, don’t come to my house without calling first! There’s a reason we decided not to do that.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Yep.”

She opens the door, shoves him out, and slams it behind her. Then she leans against it and presses her fingers to her temples. I watch her warily, and after a moment, she says, “You can leave too, Mary. I meant it when I said you were fired. I’ll tell the kids you love them, but you remembered suddenly that you left the stove on and had to move back to New York City to turn it off. Sound good?”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod.

“Wonderful. Do I need to escort you out too, or can you manage that without suggesting that your needs are more important than mine?”

“No, I’ll… I’ll see myself out.”

“Praise be to Jesus,” she says drily. I start for the door, and she rolls her eyes. “You can pack your stuff first. Christ, do I really look like so much of a psychopath?”

I blink. Maybe I’m wrong to suspect Cecilia. Maybe it was all Richard. “Cecilia,” I begin hesitantly. “I think that Richard might have murdered your husband.”

She laughs and looks at me incredulously. “Oh my God. This is just the best day. First Theresa’s a thief, now you’re a detective. Did you deduce that from the lovely way he spoke about the kids, or was it the sinister gleam in his eyes when he talked about laughing over Johnathan’s body?”

“I found a picture,” I confess, “of you two together.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that clears up everything, doesn’t it? And didn’t you suspect me of being the killer earlier? Or did I misread your little speech about how I’ve robbed the children of their father?”

“I… I was just…”

“You said something about Samuel thinking of him as a soulless ghost, right? I can’t quite remember the words, but you were very eloquent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you are. Of course you are. You’re sorry. Theresa’s sorry. Richard’s sorry. Everyone’s fucking sorry. Richard didn’t kill Johnathan, Mary. That picture you found was probably of us when we dated. I kept a few when I left him for Johnathan because I imagined he’d develop enough self-respect to move on, and I thought I could look back on this later and think fondly of our little fling. But hey, that’s my fault too, right? I was grieving Johnathan, and I made the idiot mistake of opening my legs for Richard again, only guess what? He’s still obsessed with me. So now I have to deal with a clingy forty-seven-year-old man-child, three actual children who hate me, and a nosy bitch governess who thinks that I’m a murderer one moment and a victim the next.”

“I—”

“Get out, Mary. Forget about packing, I’ll send you your things. Or… fuck it.”

She stalks over to the foyer table and opens her purse. She pulls out a wad of bills and stalks toward me. I flinch when she grabs my hand, but she only presses the money into my hand and says, “I didn’t count it, but they’re all hundreds. I’m going to guess three thousand or so, maybe a little more. Buy whatever you want with it. I’m sure it’s worth more than the crap you have in your room.”

I swallow. “Shall I wait for Javi—”

“Nope. You know what? Take the car. Any car, I don’t give a shit. You want the Bentley? Take the Bentley. That’s my last gift to you. Just please, please, get the fuck out of my life.”

She pushes past me and stalks up the stairs. I stay where I am for a long moment. When my head doesn’t want to stop reeling, I head outside.

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