Page 33 of One Last Goodbye

I stiffen and gasp at that. Sean must hear my reaction because he says—a little testily—“Don’t tell me you thought of me as a saint, Mary.”

I didn’t, but…

ButIhave a private medical history. Strauss obtained it somehow. I don’t believe that Sean was the one who gave her that information, of course, but perhaps it was someone like him. The knowledge that private investigators could be out there prowling for evidence of my insanity is disturbing in the extreme.

And really, what a cruel thing to do to use someone’s health against them. I suppose I understood that most of Sean’s clients would be divorcees or spurned lovers who feel malice toward their targets, but still…

“Are you still there, Mary?”

“Yes, I’m here. I… no, I didn’t think you were a saint, and I’ll refrain from telling you what I think of that particular practice. Just see if Strauss could have been involved with the killing too.”

“Anyone else?” he asks tiredly.

“No, that’s everyone. Everyone I can think of so far, at least. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will.”

I hang up and place the phone on the counter. I look up at my reflection and cry out.

For a brief moment, when I look in the mirror, I see empty black holes where my eyes should be.

I blink, and my eyes have returned. They are wide and bloodshot and sit above dark, sagging bags. The stress of the past few days and the lack of sleep have impacted me more than I thought. I am not a young woman anymore.

I have been in the bathroom too long. I turn the shower off and quickly splash some water on my face, then apply enough makeup to make it appear that I’ve actually freshened up. I return downstairs just in time to see the children finishing lunch.

Their faces break my heart. Ethan is coming out of his shock, and the pain in his eyes makes him appear very much the little boy he still is. Olivia’s lower lip trembles, and she also looks so small. The two of them are alone in a hurricane, and I’ve left them there.

It’s time for me to do my job. I’ve put Dubois and Sean on the hunt for this murderer. It’s time for me to focus on the children under my care.

I smile at them and say, “Come with me, children. We’re going for a walk.”

They look at me, a little surprised. I extend my hands and say firmly. “Yes. It’ll be good for both of you. Trust me.” I lower my voice and say, “Do not let yourself feel trapped in this house.”

What I mean, of course, is that they should not let themselves feel trapped with their mother. I don't know if they understand that, but they both nod in recognition and take my hands. Outside, the air is cold and biting, but when both children inhaledeeply and then relax as they breathe out, a real smile comes to my face for the first time since I found Frederick dead on his yacht.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I take the children around the side of the house to the garden, careful to avoid letting the boathouse in sight. Since it is mid-January, none of the flowers are in bloom, but there is a small stand of young spruce trees on one end of the garden that look absolutely enchanting covered in snow, and in the daylight, the ice and snow covering the garden's other fixtures arranges itself in interesting shapes. The air is cold but no longer biting now that we've been outside for several minutes. The soft sound of our footfalls provides a soothing background to the trek, and I feel a sense of peace settle over me.

I don’t say anything to the children. In my experience, grieving children must not be pushed to speak. Nudging them to physical activity is a good thing. They must not be allowed to wallow. But they must not be made to verbalize their pain either. Forcing them to confront their feelings can injure them, especially in so fragile a time as this. When they’re ready to speak, they will. I just need to be there for them when they do.

For a while, they are content to remain silent. The garden is organized so that the footpaths that meander through it give an impression of greater size than the two acres it covers. From the other side of the spruces, it is even possible to forget that we are on the estate if one doesn’t look too hard in the direction of the house.

I find myself grateful for the silence. I don’t realize until now how trapped I feel. Not just here but everywhere. It seems as though ever since I left my teaching post in Boston, I am… compressed is the word that comes to mind. Like I am surrounded by walls on all sides, and they close in on me inexorably regardless of any action I take to change that. Even the satisfaction I get when I solve a murder and bring justice tosomeone who otherwise wouldn’t receive any justice does little to alleviate the constant pressure I’m under.

But I don’t dwell on that now. Today isn’t about me. It’s about the children. I study their faces. Ethan’s shell has softened. He looks wistfully at the trees, and a small smile plays at the corners of his lips. Perhaps he remembers walking in this garden with his father.

I look at Olivia, but I see only anger on her face. Anger is a very common reaction to tragedy, and one of the more well-documented stages of grief, so it’s understandable, especially considering her mother’s flippancy over her father’s death and the law’s reluctance to solve his murder.

Still, I feel sorry for her. I hate that she’s forced to grapple with this emotion. I can only hope that she will speak to me about how she feels soon enough.

“Why were you spying on me?”

I’m so stunned by her choice of words that it takes me a moment to realize she’s actually spoken. It’s not until she turns to look at me that I realize she has actually said what I thought she said. I look around for Ethan and see that he’s stopped to examine the frost patterns on a dormant rose bush. He doesn’t seem perturbed by the fact that Olivia and I have walked on for several yards.

I turn back to Olivia. “You mean in the study? I wasn’t spying on you. I was just exploring the house.”

“Exploring the house?” Her voice drips with contempt. “Why?”

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