Page 7 of One Last Lie

She waits a while before answering, but yet again, I keep my gaze steady and wait patiently. Insecure people thrive off of making others uncomfortable. It makes them feel they have power. I don’t intend to give Theresa power.

Her frown deepens, and eventually, she says, “He’s probably off somewhere in the deep grounds.”

“The deep grounds?”

“Yes. Past the fence. That’s what Johnathan called the part of the grounds left undeveloped.”

“Ah. I’ll look for him there. Thank you.”

“Don’t bother. He’ll come home when he’s ready.” Her face softens somewhat. She might hold me in contempt, but she has genuine affection for the family. “His mother allows it, anyhow. Says he needs to be allowed time to himself.”

I study her face for a moment and decide she’s telling the truth. If he hasn’t returned by supper, I’ll look for him. “Thank you.”

The softness vanishes, and she turns away without replying. I head to the dining room and find the children sitting with their meals—sandwiches and fruit. Mine waits for me at the head of the table. I purse my lips and look at the kitchen. This is the second meal in a row that Paolo has managed to avoid meeting me. I’m of half a mind to walk in and force him to introduce himself.

“Don’t bother,” Isabella says. “He’s already gone.”

I look at her and see the same mixture of smugness and irritability I see earlier. This time, I push back very gently, but enough to make clear that she can't expect to behave this way for good. Besides, Samuel watches everything we do intently. He needs his older sister to set a good example.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he doesn’t think me rude for not meeting him after spending nearly an entire day in the house. I would feel horrible if a guest in my home went without meeting everyone in the household for so long.”

“Well, not everyone gives a shit.”

I sigh. Now I must intervene.

“Isabella, I understand that you’re going through—”

“No, you don’t,” she snaps. “Okay? I don’t give a shit that your sister died thirty years ago, or whatever. That’s not the same. My Dad’s dead. Is your dad dead?”

“He is. But regardless—”

“Did he die when you were a kid?”

“No, but—”

“Then you don’t understand.” She’s standing now, and tears are streaming down her face. My heart breaks for her. “Elijah’s just figuring out how to be a man, and now he has to figure it out all on his own. I’m thirteen, and now I have to go through high school with no one to talk to.”

“That’s not true. You have your mother, and you have—”

She laughs. “My mother? Clearly, you don’t know her. She’s the last person on Earth I would talk to about anything. And Samuel? He might not even remember Dad when he grows up.”

"Yes, I will!" Samuel protests. "You're being a bitch!"

“Both of you, enough!”

I don't raise my voice much, but that's another trick I learn from decades teaching. When you are normally mellow and soft-spoken, even a slight sternness in your tone will provoke an intense response. The children both flinch and lower their heads. Samuel says very contritely, "Sorry, Miss Mary."

“That’s all right, Samuel.”

I look at Isabella, who stares at me, lips trembling. Then she says, “Screw you,” and runs from the room.

“Sorry for her too,” Samuel offers helpfully.

“You don’t need to apologize for your sister,” I tell him. “You don’t need to be angry with her either. You’ve all suffered a terrible loss. That’s not excuse for poor behavior, but there’s no need to be angry.”

His lower lip sticks out in a pout. He’s a little too old to be making that face, but that sort of regression is also typical in grieving children. “She’s usually really nice. She’s just been so mean since Dad died.”

“We all handle grief in different ways,” I tell him. “You know what I think?”

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