Page 4 of One Last Smile

The unease I felt earlier today fades along with my restlessness, and I consider the family’s behavior with a more practical eye. It’s clear that Veronica is a domineering mother and hides her need for control behind a veneer of carefree joviality. The older two have managed to escape her clutches, and Lucas now exists as the lightning rod for Veronica’s attentions. Eliza seems to have distanced herself somewhat from her emotions on the subject, but Oliver still holds her in resentment.

What’s not entirely clear is their opinion of Lucas. Do they resent him too, or do they simply resent their mother’s behavior toward him? Oliver seems to both pity him and resent him, and Eliza, once more, seems to have distanced herself. I can only wonder how this all affects poor Lucas. It’s no wonder he’s such an odd young man.

I shake my head firmly and put those thoughts out of my head. I’m not here to be the family’s psychologist, and I have no interest in becoming involved in their drama. I am here to tutor Lucas and ensure he graduates from sixth form. That is all I was hired to do, and it is all I will do.

To force my mind to occupy itself with something other than the Carlton family dynamic, I stride toward a portrait covered by a sheet and boldly throw the sheet back to see what it hides. I aim my phone light at the painting and…

My breath catches in my throat, and my jaw goes slack.

The forest is different this time. It’s not the dusky pine forest where I last saw Annie, nor is it the skeletal elm graveyard shrouded in fog where the ghostly woman tortured my likeness in the Ashford estate. It is the rolling woods of central England with modestly sized green oaks and poplars lending a gentle green to the landscape.

There is no mistaking the girl in the painting, though. The tall, lithe figure, the shimmering golden hair, the high cheekbones and the delicate lips pursed into a cupid’s bow underneath playfully seductive blue eyes.

I stare at my sister’s image and try desperately to convince myself that it’s only my imagination. I’m dreaming again. Just as I did at the Ashford estate, I’m only imagining this painting. I’ll wake up and learn that this painting, like the one at the Ashford estate, doesn’t even exist. It’s not real. It’s not—

“I wouldn’t stare at her too long if I were you.”

I cry out and spin around toward the noise. Lucas stands in the doorway of the attic, his dark eyes as wide as a vampire’s in the dim light of the stairwell.

“She hides in the walls now,” he says. “If you stare at her for too long, she’ll come visit you as she does me.”

To say I’m frightened would be an understatement. I’m convinced now that I’m having a nightmare, and it’s not until Lucas reaches toward the wall and flips on the attic’s lights that my fear begins to recede.

I click off my cell phone light and turn back to the painting. It’s an image of a beautiful young girl. She does bear a striking resemblance to Annie, but in the improved light, I can see subtle differences that show that she isn’t a doppelganger. My cheeks burn slightly with embarrassment. I turn to Lucas and say, “What are you doing up so late? It’s after midnight.”

“I rarely sleep through the night,” he says.

He glances back at the painting, and I ask, “Have you had a nightmare?”

“No, not recently. I only have trouble resting in such a restless house.”

I stand in the silence of the manor and can’t help but come to the conclusion that it is Lucas and not this house that is restless.

“Did you know this girl?” I ask him.

He starts slightly and turns to me. “Oh. Not really. She’s just a girl in a picture to me.”

That’s an odd way to answer the question, and I stare at him a moment longer, wondering if I should pry more. In the end, I decide now isn’t the time. And do I really want to get involved in another mystery so soon after the mystery of the Ashford family? Sticking my nose into my former employer’s business nearly got me killed. I’d much rather not repeat that experience.

“Well,” I say. “If she’s only a girl in a picture, then there’s nothing to worry about. Anyway, it’s late. I should get back to bed. You should, too.”

He nods once. “Yes. I just wanted to warn you.”

He turns and leaves me standing speechless in the attic. A shiver runs down my spine, and I hurry out, only just remembering to shut off the light.

I am sure now of one thing. The perfection of the Carlton estate is indeed only a façade. Behind its manicured gardens and pristine walls, rot festers here just as surely as it did with the Ashfords.

It seems my hope of an easy and relaxing tenure here was a false one.

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning dawns bright and beautiful. Songbirds greet the sun cheerfully, and I open the curtains just in time to see a bumblebee drift lazily past my window. I take a deep breath and release it in a cleansing sigh. Today, I am determined to leave behind the unease of the day before.

It’s my own fault, really. I’m a fifty-year-old woman. Why am I wandering around someone else’s house like a girl? That portrait is none of my business, and it clearly isn’t my sister. It was only a trick of the light and my own mind.

A thoroughly unpleasant memory comes to mind of a conversation I had with a psychologist visiting the Ashford estate. The man, a slimy and unscrupulous individual by the name of… was it Harlow? No, Harrow. This Dr. Harrow suggested that I had complained to him about nightmares of my sister. I was having nightmares, but I never once mentioned them to him in our brief interaction together.

Why am I thinking of Dr. Harrow now? I’ve admitted that my association of the portrait with Annie is nothing more than a trick of my mind. Perhaps that reminds me of his insinuation that I am unwell. It’s true that I suffer from occasional nightmares, but to suggest that I need professional intervention was wholly unprofessional on his part.

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