Page 68 of The Only One Left

“There very well could be,” Detective Vick says. “But a week passed between Mary’s death and your arrival. During that time, anyone could have taken it from the room. Why are you so certain Mary had it with her?”

“I found a piece of it on the terrace.”

“You did?”

Detective Vick’s tone changes from dismissive to interested in a snap. I allow myself a smile, even though he can’t see it. It feels warranted. A small moment of triumph.

“A metal hook that attaches the handle to the suitcase. It was bent and lying on the ground, making me think the handle broke when someone snatched the suitcase from Mary.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Detective Vick says. “Do you still have it?”

My smile falls away. “I lost it.”

Detective Vick doesn’t ask how, and I don’t volunteer that information. Telling him I dropped it when I almost fell off the terrace will only make him more convinced that what happened to Mary wasn’t murder. Not that he doubts himself in any way.

“I knew it,” he says. “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I really did. But please, enough of this bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Kit. It’s the exact same thing you attempted this afternoon. You’re taking what happened to Mary—a very serious, very tragic event—and twisting it into a way to ease your guilt.”

“Myguilt? You still think I’m making all of this up?”

“I’m not blaming you,” Detective Vick continues, as if I’ve said nothing at all. “I don’t even think you’re aware you’re doing it. But it’s obvious what’s happening. Your mother took her own life. How big of a role you played in that is still up for debate.”

“It’snotup for debate. It was an accident.”

“So you keep trying to convince me,” Detective Vick says.

I want to scream.

And cry.

And rip the phone off the wall and smash it against the kitchen floor. Considering its age and my rage, I suspect I’m capable of it. Butcommon sense grips me harder than frustration. If I sound hysterical, Detective Vick will be convinced that I am. Which is clearly the only thing I can convince him of.

“I am telling you I think a woman was murdered,” I say. “Shouldn’t you take that seriously? Shouldn’t you at least investigate it?”

Detective Vick sighs. “I have investigated it. After talking to you and everyone else at that house, my conclusion is that Mary Milton took her own life.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“The coroner’s preliminary findings show that her injuries are consistent with a fall from that height. There were no defensive wounds, which there would likely have been if she had been attacked in the manner you suggest. I had officers search the grounds, the beach, even the terrace. They found nothing to indicate there was a suitcase or a struggle or a murder. In fact, they found nothing at all.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Detective Vick says. “I’m not the person you thought I was.”

I grip the receiver tight, flummoxed. “What?”

“Mary’s suicide note. That’s what it said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not the person you thought I was.’ Found neatly folded in the pocket of her uniform. The paper sustained heavy water damage, but it was still readable. Now, give me one reason not to hang up right now.”

“Lenora didn’t kill her family,” I say, more out of desperation than anything else. I certainly have no plan. But I hope dropping a bombshell like that will keep Detective Vick listening. “At least, I don’t think she did. We haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“We?”

“Me and Lenora. I told you, we’re typing her story, just like she did with Mary. But there was a worker here. Ricardo Mayhew.”

“I know,” Detective Vick says. “I used to work there, remember?”

---