CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The next day is Tuesday. I have been with the Greenwoods for six weeks. It hits me that I've worked for them longer than the Ashfords or Carltons. I was with the Ashfords for about three weeks and the Carltons for just over a month. I don't know why that seems important to me.

I think it's because I was with the Tylers for five months. The boring Tylers. The safe Tylers. The Tylers who, despite being wealthy, were a perfectly well-adjusted family whose twins just happened to be geniuses. Not evil geniuses either. Just garden variety academically gifted children. I worked for them longer than for the other three families combined, yet my time with them is just a footnote in my mind.

In contrast, the few weeks I spend with the Ashfords is a turning point in my life, the fork where I choose the road less traveled and forsake the quiet, comfortable life I've led for twenty-five years prior. The month with the Carltons is a reckoning where I accept the fact that my sister's memory haunts me and drives me to find justice for those who have had it denied.

And my time with the Greenwoods has been the mirror through which I examine myself and realize that there's no avoiding who I am now. My time with the children here is little more than a footnote, just as the Tylers were. I do like the children, but my weekends spent watching them have felt like interruptions in the mystery I consider my true purpose. I am here to find justice for Lila Benson, a woman who was murdered by an evil man and whose murder was covered up by a wealthy family selfishly seeking to protect one of their own, who is also a murderer.

I spend the first days of each of my jobs trying to convince myself that I want only to do my work as a governess or housekeeper. Each time, I eventually succumb to the thirst for justice that motivates me.

I don't think I'll lie to myself anymore. I can't be sure of that, because if there's one thing everyone is capable of, it's lying, especially to themselves.

But I don't think I'll succeed at that anymore. And I won't let fear control me. I've been waiting for an opportunity to act, but what I've really been doing is avoiding the risks I need to take if I'm to fulfil my purpose here and bring Lila to justice.

So, after the family leaves for work, I leave the estate and head to town. There's a hardware store a few miles away. I walk there and purchase a shovel. I don't intend to be careful with the flowers. Once I find what's buried underneath those geraniums, it won't matter if I'm caught.

I take the bus back to the estate, so I don't have to carry the shovel the entire way. I arrive at eleven-thirty in the morning. The groundskeepers will be working in the Glens today, so I should have the gardens to myself.

I pass the wrathful Moses, staff upraised to strike the rock. His visage frightens me when I first arrive, but now it motivates me. In his furrowed brow and bared teeth, I see the same strength that moves me. He is forced to fetch water out of a rock for the rebellious Israelites. It now falls to me to dig justice out of the ground in spite of the murderous wealthy.

I make my way through the gardens. As I suspect, I am alone. I walk through the solar garden with its orderly rays of red and orange and gold radiating from the bright yellow plat of sunflowers in the center. The heads of the sunflowers hang low, staring at me like the eyes of an ophanim.

I walk past the hedges of honeysuckle. Their cloying odor seems sickly to me now. The Romanesque statuary gazes impassively, mute witnesses to who knows how many crimes. Perhaps they are the rebellious Israelites, too foolish to know their crime, too shortsighted to foresee the wrath they've provoked.

The ground crunches softly under my feet, the gravel walkways a quiet alarm to the world around that vengeance walks among them. My sister's voice laughs somewhere in the back of my mind, but I don't heed her taunts, nor do I pay any thought to the image of her ghost with its blackened voids in place of eyes. I am here to right a wrong, and I won't allow myself to be stopped.

I reach the wrought iron gate and grasp the handle boldly.

It doesn't move.

I turn again, more firmly. It remains wedged in place. When I look down, I see a padlock slid through the bars of the gate and around the handle. It's this lock that prevents the handle from turning.

I stare at that lock, my heartbeat quickening with frustration. It's a strong lock, heavy and thick. It gleams dully, a quiet resistance to my defiance.

My hand tightens around the handle of the shovel, and I focus on my breathing to keep from shouting with rage. I should have seen this coming. Of course they would lock the gate. Behind it lies the most destructive secret their family possesses. The only mystery is why they haven't locked it before.

I lift the shovel, thinking to break the lock with the edge, but I lower it without even attempting. This lock is massive, the sort used to secure warehouses, not the simple lock people purchase for jewelry boxes. I would need a pair of sturdy bolt cutters, and even then, I would be better off cutting the bars of the gate themselves rather than the lock.

I will have to find another way in. I can't just throw my hands up in defeat. I can't find help from anyone else. I have no guarantee that doing so wouldn't work against me. The only thing I know for sure is that behind this gate lies proof of George's crime. I must see that proof, document it, and then call the police to show them the irrefutable evidence that will put George Baumann behind bars where he deserves.

I walk around the hedge that surrounds the garden, testing it every few yards. I learn this way that the fence surrounds the entire garden. By the time I return to the gate, it is nearly one o'clock. I still have at least two hours before anyone returns home, and four hours before Elizabeth arrives. I try to tell myself that's enough time to find an answer, but deep down I know I'm lying to myself.

I can't allow myself to be defeated, though. Not when I'm so close. There must be a way in.

I look up at the hedge. It's perhaps fifteen feet tall. I don't know how far up the fence extends. The gate is thirteen feet tall, but I don't know if it's taller than the fence, shorter or the same height. If I climb the fence and something goes wrong, I could injure myself severely. I could even fall to my death and join the ghosts haunting this property.

But I must get in. I can't wait anymore. George Baumann is growing more aggressive, and the Greenwoods are going more desperate. The powder keg lying underneath this estate is ready to explode, and when it does, Lila's chance at justice will disappear with it.

I take a deep breath and toss the shovel up toward the top of the hedge. It lifts nine feet into the air, then falls down. I shriek and dive out of the way just before the metal head buries itself into the ground where I was standing a moment ago.

Cheeks burning, I get to my feet and grab the shovel. I don't know what I was thinking. I am not a superhero.

Instead of trying to throw the shovel over the hedge, I walk back to the gate and slide it through the bars. It occurs to me at that time, that I won't have to wonder how tall the fence is if I climb over the one part of the fence that isn't covered by ivy.

I sigh and shake my head. Sometimes, I am more of a fool than anyone.

I grab the fence in my hands and try to pull myself up. I manage to lift myself onto my tiptoes only.

I stare at the fence, rage filling me once more. All of this, and I'm too weak to pull myself up?

I press my feet against the vertical bars of the fence and try to use that leverage to lift myself. It works! I pull myself up a foot or so off the ground.

Then I try to lift my feet higher on the bars, and as soon as I lift my right leg, my left slides down. I fall, crying out as my hands slide down the bars. When I hit the ground, I nearly fall, but I hold onto the bars with a death grip, so instead of falling onto my back, I slam my head forward against the gate.

Pain rockets through me, and I release the gate and sit in front of it, shaking with the pain and the rage that comes with it.

If the fence had horizontal cross bars, I could do this. If the hedge was stronger and the vines were thick enough to support my weight, I could climb it. Not easily, perhaps, but I could do it.

But I can't do this. That stupid padlock has locked me out of the answers I need to bring an end to all of this madness. I have failed.

I lower my head to cry, but before the tears can fall, I hear footsteps behind me. I stiffen and listen. I hear a voice muttering with the footsteps. I can't tell what the voice is saying or who it belongs to, but I can hear that it's approaching.

I get quickly to my feet and dash for cover behind a nearby bush. I make it three steps then remember the shovel. I curse and run back, then grab the shovel and pull it out of the fence. It clangs against the iron bars, and I curse again, then sprint away. I diver behind the bush just before the shadow of the approaching individual comes into view.

I still and force my breathing to calm. I watch the gate, and a moment later, I stifle a gasp when George Baumann comes into view.