Page 108 of The Lost Heiress
Across the room, Ransom Towers stood up. “There is a line, Detective, and you have crossed it,” he said, fuming. “My family has endured enough abuse from your department over the course of your investigation. I will not sit idly by and let you slander my sister’s name with your wild, unfounded allegations.”
Detective Church looked back over at Florence, a whisper of hope in his chest that she would answer his question, but she only stared indignantly back at him.
“I’ve had just about enough,” Florence said.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Talbot,” Ransom went on. “I will remove Detective Church from the premises myself.”
“I’ve had just about enoughof the interruptions,” Florence went on, heatedly. She looked pointedly at Ransom. “Detective Church and I are trying to have a conversation, and I would very much like to finish it.”
“But, Mrs. Talbot,” Ransom said, confused.
“Ransom, please,” Florence said curtly. “Sit down and be quiet. You need to hear this too.”
Ransom looked dumbfounded. Florence gave him a stern look, and he sat back down on the sofa like a chastened child. She turned her stern gaze on Elena next, who looked equally confused but made no move to protest.
“Now, Detective Church,” Florence said, looking at him expectantly. “You were saying?”
Church cleared his throat. He didn’t understand this turn of events, but he wasn’t about to question it. “Mr. Santos was the perfect victim in many ways,” Church went on. “He had no family to miss him. He lived an itinerant lifestyle. He was no longer under Senator Towers’s employment or on his guest list. He wasn’t supposed to be here that night, so no one gave any thought as to his absence. And,” Church said, “he had a peanut allergy, which you would have certainly known about.”
“I am very meticulous about the household’s dietary restrictions, yes,” Florence said.
“You loved Saoirse,” Church said. “More than anything. More than you loved even yourself. You caught Mr. Santos and Saoirse trying to run away together that night, didn’t you? And you couldn’t bear to see it happen, to see Saoirse taken away by that man. So you took care of him, made it so he couldn’t take her away. You gave no thought to yourself, of what it would do to you, or the potential consequences. You did it to save her.”
Florence was silent for a moment.
All these years, she had carried this secret of what she had done silently, by herself. How strange it must be, Church thought, to havesomeone finally speak it aloud to her. For someone to finally know and for her to be able to talk about it. It must be freeing, in a way.
“I knew what would happen if they ran away together,” Florence said. “I’ve seen firsthand what happens when a man marries a woman under false pretenses, for his own selfish reasons. What happens when he takes her away from her family. What a man is allowed to do to a woman. I’ve lived it. I wouldn’t let it happen again. Especially not to her.”
Across the room, Ransom Towers let out a breath. “Mrs. Talbot, what are you saying?” he asked.
Detective Church ignored him and remained intently focused on Florence. “You had the best of intentions,” he said. “You wanted to protect her, to save her. But something went wrong.”
“I sent her off to change her clothes,” Florence said. “She was soaked to the bone. I didn’t want her to catch a cold. And I dealt with ... that man ... while she was gone.”
“And what happened next?” Church asked. “Did Saoirse come back before you were expecting her? Did she see what you had done?”
Florence shook her head. “No,” she said. “I dragged Mr. Santos’s body into the next room, hid him under my bed so she wouldn’t see. She never knew.”
Church was puzzled by this. “So the two of you didn’t get into an altercation regarding Mr. Santos?” he asked. “You didn’t—maybe, in a fit of desperation, the heat of the moment—inadvertently harm Miss Towers?”
He had been so sure that this was the direction her confession was headed—that Saoirse had discovered what Florence had done and Florence had had no choice but to kill her, too, to keep anyone from finding out.
“No,” Florence said, shaking her head adamantly. “No, never. I would never harm a hair on that child’s head. Never, never.”
Church leaned forward, on the edge of his chair now. “Then, what exactly did happen to Saoirse, Florence?”
Florence had tears in her eyes. She took a deep breath.
“The very worst thing,” Florence said, her voice full of despair. “The very worst thing that could happen, did.”
Chapter Forty-Four
August 28, 1982—The Night Of Saoirse’s Birthday Party
When Saoirse returned to Florence’s rooms, Florence was standing over the stove, stirring a pot. The fire in the hearth was still going, and the room was warm and cozy, much more comfortable than the drafty hall that Saoirse had just come from.
“Ah, good, child, you’re back,” Florence said when she saw her. “Can you do me a favor and fetch me the salt? It’s in the pantry, just over there.”
