Page 3 of One Last Secret

Those words were spoken to me by a truly horrible woman, a therapist and a snake like most therapists are. It’s preposterous. I would never harm my sister.

But…

But it’s best I not argue, especially with myself. I push these thoughts aside once more and settle in for my flight to Monterey. Whatever else happens on the West Coast, I will learn what happened to my sister after she left Boston.

CHAPTER ONE

The flight lands at six in the evening. The airport is crowded, and it takes nearly an hour for us to disembark, retrieve our luggage and obtain a car. Sean will keep the car, so I allow him to drive.

The view is beautiful. Northern California has one of the most scenic stretches of Pacific coast in the world. Towering evergreens crowd on the edge of majestic cliffs. The smooth blue waters of the ocean lap against the rocky bluffs. Soft gray clouds hover over the horizon.

It's breathtaking, but as with many beautiful things, it hides a terrifying truth underneath its pristine surface. The cliffs are majestic, but at any moment, they could fall into the ocean, taking with them miles of the highway on which we now drive, along with numerous homes that people have spent fortunes to own. The clouds on the horizon will be a dense thicket of fog in the morning. The ocean that seems so peaceful seems that way because we are several hundred feet above it. At surface level, those waves crash forcefully against the rocks. Anything caught by that fury will be dashed to pieces or else pulled out to sea by the strong rip current and left to drown.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Sean asks. “I’m not a lover of America, but there’s places that make for pretty postcards.”

I don’t feel inclined to a philosophical debate, so I only say, “Yes. It is beautiful.”

The drive takes another two hours, and it is nine o’clock when Sean drops me off in front of a squarish, four-story house with a gently sloped shingled roof. The house is of dark varnished wood and contains wraparound decks on each floor. The look is unusual and somewhat old-fashioned but not unpleasant. At least from the exterior, it is by far the smallesthouse I’ve worked in so far. That’s not to say it’s small. It appears to be around five thousand square feet, which is quite a respectable size for an oceanfront home and it’s probably nearly as expensive as the much larger Ashford estate in inland New York, my first posting as a governess.

I quite like it. Perhaps I’m superstitious, but the smaller size and more quaint appearance of the home makes it seem unlikely to me that secrets could be hidden here.

“Shall I walk you to your door?” Sean says. “He asks, knowing that you’ll refuse but unable to forget his parents’ lessons on gentlemanly behavior.”

I give him a smile. “You are a gentleman. And I do refuse. You may, however, help me remove my luggage from the trunk.”

He dutifully exits the car. “You must be the only Englishwoman I know who doesn’t call it the boot.”

“I am also American.” I remind him, “and I have lived all but twelve years of my life here.”

“Fair enough. You’re sure you don’t want me to walk you to the door? I’ve almost certainly been seen already, so if you’re trying to hide me, it seems a waste of effort.”

“I can say that you’re a rideshare driver,” I reply. “I don’t need to tell anyone that you’re a private investigator looking for my sister missing these thirty years.”

“Of course not,” he said drily. “Wouldn’t want anyone to worry. In that case, have a good night, Mary. Try to stay out of trouble. I’ll call you as soon as I have information for you.”

“Thank you, Sean. Be safe.”

He laughs. “If I were to take that advice, I’d drive straight to the airport and lose your number.”

I roll my eyes. “In that case, be good.”

“Even less possible.”

He gets in the car and pulls out with far more speed than is necessary for anyone to drive. For all Sean’s professed disdain for America, he’d fit right in here.

I walk to the front door with my luggage and knock. I told Victor I would be here late, so he should be expecting me.

No one answers. I knock again, and still, no one comes to the door.

I press my lips together. I would rather not have to call Sean back to pick me up. It’s not that I mind starting in the morning, but I don’t fancy hearing him gloat that he should have walked me to the door. He’s full of himself enough as it is, and he enjoys pointing out when I’m wrong and he’s right.

I lift my hands to knock again, but the door opens, and I get my first good look at Victor Holloway. He’s tall, well over six feet, and rail thin. His hair is a mop of unkempt gray that hangs thickly over deeply lined brow ridges and eyes as bright and gray as the fog creeping in from the horizon.

“Yes? What is it?” He snaps. “What could possibly be so important at nine o’clock at night that you need to come here and bang on my door?” Then he frowns. “Who are you?”

I take a step backward. “I… I’m Mary. Mary Wilcox.” When he continues to stare blankly at me, I add, “the governess?”

“Governess.” He blinks, then says, “Yes. Yes! Of course. Mary Wilcox. Come in, come in.”

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