Page 61 of The Villa

“Pierce,” Mari starts, moving toward him, and he lowers his head, meeting her eyes.

“She’s free now,” he says, and he actually smiles a little as he says it. “This world was rough for her, you know? She was… she was sweet and delicate, and it was just too much.”

Mari stands there, unsure of what to say to that, unsure of why it suddenly seems very important that she remind Pierce that the roughest element of Frances’s world washim.

“We’ll go get Teddy,” he goes on. “When we’re done here. He can come live with us in London.”

“In the flat? Pierce, it’s too small now as it is with the three of us—”

“We’ll make room,” he says, and then he grabs her face between his hands, kissing her hard on the mouth.

“And we’ll finally get married. Make an honest woman out of you.”

He’s openly grinning now, and Mari looks into this face she loves so much, and realizes that there’s no grief there at all.

She knows she’ll think about Frances Sheldon until the day she dies, but for Pierce, his wife’s suicide is just another obstacle removed, another worry he no longer has to deal with.

Will it be that way with her one day, too?

“Mrs. Sheldon is dead, long live Mrs. Sheldon,” Noel mutters as Pierce walks back up to the house, guitar slung across his back.

“Shut up, Noel,” Mari snaps, but when she goes to follow Pierce, Noel catches her arm, bringing her up short.

“Mari,” he says, his eyes surprisingly solemn. “I know you think I’m a despicable human, and most of the time, you’re not wrong. But listen to me now. Cut yourself free from all of this.”

“All of what?” she asks, and his mouth thins.

“You know bloody well what I mean. From Pierce and Lara and the whole mess. Use a knife, use a sword, use a pair of fucking kitchen shears if you must, but cut yourself free. Because if you don’t, you’ll drown just as surely as Frances has.”

He lets her go then, limping off back toward the house, and Mari stands there on the lawn, wondering how, on such a sunny and warm day, she can feel so cold.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The book is almost done.

Somehow, after a year of hardly writing anything at all, I’ve written an entire draft in just a handful of weeks.

As I sit at the little desk where I now know Mari wroteLilith Rising, I close my laptop, taking a deep breath. Outside, it’s another cloudy afternoon. Chess left earlier to go down to one of the shops in Orvieto, and the house feels very quiet.

I could probably push myself and finish the manuscript within the next couple of hours, but I’m not quite ready yet. I think I’m still waiting for Mari.

I’ve rereadLilith Risingall the way through again, certain that there must be another hint to discover, another clue in there about where the remainder of Mari’s pages might be. Because I am certain now that there are more. That fight with Pierce and Johnnie, Mari’s decision to stay at Villa Rosato—a decision which seals Pierce’s fate and hers—can’tbe the note she decided to end on. She wrote about that night, I’m sure of it.

But what has me so convinced? A writerly intuition? Or something more?

I don’t believe in ghosts, but it’s not hard to feel Mari’s presence in this house, and there are times when I wonder if it’s her nudging me on.

There’s more. Find it.

Or maybe I’ve just spent too long going down all these rabbit holes, reading and rereading the same book, filling my head with murder and secrets, and now I’ve completely lost the plot.

Sighing, I drop my head into my hands.

I haven’t had another bout of sickness in a few days, and my brain has felt very clear as I’ve worked. But it’s always there, this threat that my body might betray me, attacking me like some kind of boogeyman, rendering me helpless.

That fear is what makes me think I should just go ahead and finish the manuscript while I can, get it done and off to Rose before I somehow lose myself again.

Speaking of Rose, I remember that I’ve been meaning to email her to ask about Matt and his lawyers. I’ve been putting it off, first because I didn’t feel well, and then because it had seemed silly. What was I supposed to say, “Hey, did you tell my soon-to-be-ex’s lawyers I was working on a new book?”

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