Page 58 of One Last Lie

The cold air brings me some clarity. I finally admit to myself that I’m unequal to the task of determining for sure who killed Johnathan. I’ll need to turn this over to professionals.

So, I’m back to my earlier plan. I’ll drive the car to Buffalo, catch a ride to New York, and report the crime to the police there. I'll tell them that my suspects are Johnathan's business partner, his wife, and a Buffalo detective who's in love with the wife. I'll give them all the evidence I have and hide only the children’s involvement. That will have to be the extent of what I do.

As far as any guilt I feel about walking away from the case before I have answers? Well, I lived with it when the victim was my own sister. I’ll find a way to live with this.

What a wonderful job I’ve done. What a wonderful governess I’ve been. Seriously, I think this is my calling.

I shake my head. I’m going back to teaching. I’m going back to my mundane life of following lesson plans and coming home to a glass of wine, a bowl of sherbet and an episode of whatever chintzy sitcom they’re rerunning on cable. No more crime-solving, no more noble causes, no more trying to be someone I’m not.

I wonder why Cecilia let me go. Perhaps she simply doesn’t have the energy to deal with me after Theresa’s revelation and the compounding stress of the past several weeks. Maybe it’s a sign that she truly is innocent. After all, if she were guilty, then letting me leave would be foolish. The smart thing for her to do would be to get me alone somewhere no one could see or hear me scream and dispose of me.

Somewhere like the garage.

A chill runs through me. She could have ordered me to wait on the porch until Javier could take me away. She could have called for a taxi or a rideshare. She could have simply sent me away and told me to figure out my own path out of here.

I realize how foolish I’ve been. Why on Earth would she give me a car? True, she’s wealthy enough to buy another, but wealthy people don’t get that way by behaving cavalierly with their money. They definitely don’t give cars to people who accuse them of murder.

She wasn’t sending me away. She was sending me away from everyone who could intervene with my murder.

“Stop where you are and turn around.”

A chill runs down my spine. I’ve never heard that tone from Cecilia before. Even when she rushed at me with her fingers extended like claws, I never heard that tone.

I turn around slowly, knowing what I’ll see before I see it, but still gasping when I find the barrel of a handgun pointed steadily at my chest.

“You meddling bitch,” Cecilia says.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

In a way, this is almost funny. I’ve spent much of the past few weeks suspecting that Cecilia might be involved. Of all the suspects I’ve considered, she’s been the most enduring.

But every time, I've found a way to convince myself that I'm wrong, and it couldn't possibly be her. Now she's pointing a handgun at my chest, and the cold irritation in her tone and body language tells me that a portion of the metal she holds will be lodged comfortably behind my ribcage in a few minutes.

Well, stupid is as stupid does, and I’ve been stupid as hell.

“Why?” Cecilia asks. “Seriously. Why the hell is my life any of your business?” When I don’t answer, her eyes narrow, and she says, “I’m actually looking for an answer. Why did you have to stick your old, witchy nose into my life?”

A strange calm settles over me. Perhaps knowing that I’m about to die gives me courage. Either way, I feel bold enough to say, “Your children deserve to know what happened to their father.”

"Oh, for God's sake. They're kids. They're going to bounce back from this. They'll bounce back from fucking anything. Sammy's eight, he'll barely even remember Johnathan. The older two would have mourned him and then gotten over it. You’re the reason they started caring.”

“They always cared. He was their father.”

“Yeah, they cared that he was dead, they didn’t care about why! You put that thought in their heads!”

“No, they came to me.”

I regret saying that the instant the words leave my mouth. Cecilia frowns, and her eyes narrow. “What?”

“I just mean that they reached out to me for help.”

“So help them! Hold them! Cry with them. Talk to them. Read them fucking bedtime stories. Don’t go digging around like you’re Miss Marple trying to figure out whodunit?”

Hearing her use the word causes a bubble of laughter to rise in my throat, but I stifle it and continue to watch her warily. “I couldn’t do that. It’s not fair to Johnathan.”

“Oh,” she chuckles and nods. “Right. Not fair to Johnathan. Well, he’s what matters, right? He’s the great Johnathan Ashford, and the world begs for the chance to fall down and worship him.

“Let me tell you a little bit about Johnathan Ashford. Johnathan Ashford was a moody, petulant, irritable, spoiled child who treated his wife like property and his kids like irritants.”

---