CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next two days pass in a fog. I don't suffer any more nightmares, but my waking hours feel dreamlike. I smile and laugh and play along with the children, but even my interactions with them feel… off, somehow.

I feel like I'm floating through a fantasy world. I'm not dissociated. I know that I wake and shower and eat and work and play and talk. I know that I am on the Greenwood Plantation in Savannah, Georgia. I know there is a summer thunderstorm on Friday that gives way to boiling sunshine on Saturday. I am aware that all of these things are real and not fabricated, but they all seem blunted, almost like I'm under the influence of a very powerful painkiller that mutes my nerves so I can't quite feel anything fully.

The last time I recall feeling this way is in the months following Annie's disappearance. For several weeks, I urge police to look for her, but eventually, they convince me to let her go. For some time after that, things feel as they do now, blunted and muted and not entirely real.

According to my medical record, I spent three of those months committed.

I decide I will visit for Mass, even if it's only to remind myself that a world exists beyond these walls. Father Doyle's church is in Avondale, a modest, though not poor neighborhood a few miles southeast of the estate. I'm surprised that the Greenwoods select this as their home church and not the Cathedral Basilica, but that fits with their secretive nature. They'd rather not rub shoulders with the other wealthy families of Savannah.

The children aren't enthused about going to Mass, but I lure them with the promise of ice cream after the service. Wharton offers to help me with the children today and seems quite pleased that I've chosen to attend Mass. Evidently, he is quite devout.

"I do hope you'll enjoy it, Miss Mary. Father Doyle is a wonderful priest, and the people there are kind and accepting of everyone. And don't worry about the children. They're perfectly well-behaved in the house of God."

"You're sure of this?"

"Oh yes. Lila and I used to take the older ones when they were little, and sometimes I still take them when their families aren't able to go." He grins. "They scammed you into that promise of ice cream, I'm afraid to say."

I smiled wryly. "Well, I suppose they deserve to reap the rewards of their hard work."

We take the bus to Mass since none of the Greenwoods' cars have seating for eleven. As promised, the children are gentle as lambs. Father Doyle beams when he notices my presence, and the sermon he delivers is no doubt intended for my ears as it is entirely about casting all of your cares upon Christ.

It's a good sermon, but I'm here to speak to Father Doyle privately. I want a chance to ask all of the questions I failed to ask on Thursday.

I get the chance to ask my questions, but not from Father Doyle. After the parishioners are dismissed, I see Wharton talking with a pretty blonde girl around Annabelle's age. As Wharton is in his forties and a perfect gentleman, I can't imagine he is flirting with a girl young enough to be his daughter. But perhaps he knows her through Annabelle.

My suspicion turns out to be correct. When I approach, Wharton smiles at me and says to his companion, "Miss Sylvia, this is Miss Mary Wilcox. She's our new housekeeper."

Syliva smiles at me and says, "Oh yes, Annabelle's told me all about you."

The fog lifts, and once again, I am firmly grounded in reality. I smile at her and say, "It's wonderful to meet you, Sylvia."

"Wharton tells me you're taking the children for ice cream," she says. "You must allow me to treat you. I know their favorite shop."

"You're very kind," I tell her, "but I can't allow you to buy ice cream for eleven people."

"Oh please," she says, as I know she will. "I insist."

I smile. "Well, if you insist."

***

The shop she takes us to is in one of the parks adjoining the historic district. The children finish their ice cream quickly, and a surprising amount of it reaches their mouths before melting onto their clothing. When they finish, they convince Wharton to take them to the playground thirty yards distant. As that's close enough for me and Sylvia to see all of them as well, he relents.

While they play, I take my chance to learn what I can from Sylvia. "So how long have you and Annabelle known each other."

"Oh, our whole lives. We were in school together all the way from kindergarten through middle school."

"Ah, yes. Then she was tutored through high school, correct?"

Sylvia's lips thin a little. "That's right. Her parents believed she would benefit from a personalized education. Her father's a real stickler for upbringing."

She puts a slight emphasis on that last word, but what surprises me more is that it's James and not Elizabeth she mentions. "Her father?"

"That's what she told me, anyway. The Greenwoods aren't old money."

That surprises me. "They aren't? But their estate is a century and a half old!"

"The property is, yes, but James is the first Greenwood to own it. Prior to that, it was owned by a family called the Blythes. A lot of the more established families in town still call it the Blythe Estate. Not that I or anyone else under the age of fifty cares about that."

"But James does?"

"So Annabelle says. She told me that he wants desperately to be a member of the aristocracy. When he bought the plantation, he imagined himself as the Southern Rockefeller. This is all what she said, mind you."

That's the third time she's insisted that she's only repeating Annabelle's words. I wonder if she doesn't trust her friend's claims. "How did Annabelle get on with her governess?"

Sylvia scoffs. "She hated her. Didn't listen to a word the poor woman told her to do."

"Really?"

That contrasts with the dismissive attitude Annabelle shows earlier but fits very well with the defensiveness that comes when I ask what happened to her. I wonder if Annabelle might know more than she tells me.

"Really," Sylvia confirms. "She was so cruel to her. Lila, I think her name was. She seemed a nice enough woman. I only saw her a few times when I'd come to visit, but I never thought she deserved the hate Annabelle gave her."

"What did she do?"

"Oh, typical teenage nonsense," Sylvia said with a shrug. "Telling her she hated her, that she was stupid and worthless and better off dead. One time, she even threatened to do it herself."

"What?"

"Yes. She said… I can't remember exactly what, but something like, 'If you don't stop harassing me about homework, I'll use you to fertilize the garden.' I remember that last part about fertilizing the garden. I just don't remember if it was homework that prompted it or something else. I feel bad because I could tell Lila was really upset by it, but I laughed. I mean, it was ridiculous. Use her to fertilize the garden? Like Annabelle was some mob boss or something." She sighed. "Children can be cruel. It was all in fun, though. At least for Annabelle. She didn't really understand what she was saying."

I don't correct Sylvia, but I don't believe her either. Not about the last part. A fifteen-year-old child might not understand everything about the world, but they can understand that threatening to murder someone isn't funny.

And the way she threatened her. Using her to fertilize the garden.

It all fits. Violet's distrustful behavior and her own dark past. Elizabeth's oddness and her obsession over a plot of geraniums. Her almost pleading conversations with people who aren't there, perhaps the Secret Keeper, perhaps the ghost of Deirdre McCoy.

Or perhaps the very real body of Lila Benson.

And Annabelle hated her enough to threaten to kill her. Did she hate her enough to follow through?

"Anyway, it all worked out in the end," Sylvia continued. "Lila moved away the winter before she finished high school. She attended private lessons at the school after that, then went away to Georgia State and got her bachelor's degree. Now, she's fighting with her parents over whether or not it makes any sense for her to get an MFA or if she can just start publishing her own works. Between you and me, I think she just needs to move away and turn her phone off for a while. She's too concerned with what everyone thinks. I think she needs some time to figure herself out, you know?"

I nod in agreement, but the truth is I'm no longer really present. The mystery I'm solving is finally clear: the disappearance of Lila Benson.

And the prime suspect is no longer Elizabeth but her daughter Annabelle.