CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The three of us stand there a moment in awkward silence. Richard breaks it.

"Hey, Cecilia and I were going to grab some lunch at the Luxe Diner in town. You ever been?"

"No, I… I can't say I have."

"You really ought to try it," he says. "Great eggs benedict. Hey, you want to join us? I'm buying."

"Oh, um… I don't think—"

"No," Cecilia says. "Just… God, Richard."

"What? I was just being polite. She offered me coffee and all. It was nice to be treated like I mattered and not like I was just a tool."

She glares at him. "Well, maybe you two can go to lunch then. I don't feel like having the same argument with you every time we see each other."

"I just thought it might be nice to have an actual relationship," he retorts, "instead of sneaking around like teenagers."

She presses her finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose, and it occurs to me rather absurdly that she doesn't look nearly as happy with him as she does in the photograph. "I would love to talk about that at some other time. Maybe not when my husband's body is still warm in the ground."

"Once more, it's Johnathan. It's always Johnathan. It's always been Johnathan. He's finally gone, and he's still standing in between us."

She lifts her head to the sky and raises her hand, palm up, as though asking for divine guidance. "I have kids, Richard. I'm not twenty years old anymore. I want a future with you, but for fuck's sake, can it wait ten goddamned minutes so my kids don't hate me for the rest of my life?"

"I can give you kids, Cec—"

"All right," she says. "It's time for you to leave. First of all, thank you for having this conversation in front of Mary, I'm sure she loved hearing all about it."

He turns to me in shock as though suddenly remembering I'm here. Then he reddens and looks down at his feet. He looks very much like a child and once more, I wonder what Cecilia sees in him. Or used to see in him. Judging by her expression, she doesn't see much more.

"Second," she says, grabbing his arm and ushering him to the door, "thank you for insinuating that my children are worthless just because they came out of another man and not your royal scepter."

"I didn't mean…" his voice trails off because that is, of course, exactly what he was insinuating.

"Third, and most importantly, don't come to my house without calling first! There's a reason we decided not to do that."

"Right. Sorry."

"Yep."

She opens the door, shoves him out, and slams it behind her. Then she leans against it and presses her fingers to her temples. I watch her warily, and after a moment, she says, "You can leave too, Mary. I meant it when I said you were fired. I'll tell the kids you love them, but you remembered suddenly that you left the stove on and had to move back to New York City to turn it off. Sound good?"

I don't know how to respond, so I just nod.

"Wonderful. Do I need to escort you out too, or can you manage that without suggesting that your needs are more important than mine?"

"No, I'll… I'll see myself out."

"Praise be to Jesus," she says drily. I start for the door, and she rolls her eyes. "You can pack your stuff first. Christ, do I really look like so much of a psychopath?"

I blink. Maybe I'm wrong to suspect Cecilia. Maybe it was all Richard. "Cecilia," I begin hesitantly. "I think that Richard might have murdered your husband."

She laughs and looks at me incredulously. "Oh my God. This is just the best day. First Theresa's a thief, now you're a detective. Did you deduce that from the lovely way he spoke about the kids, or was it the sinister gleam in his eyes when he talked about laughing over Johnathan's body?"

"I found a picture," I confess, "of you two together."

"Oh, I see. Well, that clears up everything, doesn't it? And didn't you suspect me of being the killer earlier? Or did I misread your little speech about how I've robbed the children of their father?"

"I… I was just…"

"You said something about Samuel thinking of him as a soulless ghost, right? I can't quite remember the words, but you were very eloquent."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, you are. Of course you are. You're sorry. Theresa's sorry. Richard's sorry. Everyone's fucking sorry. Richard didn't kill Johnathan, Mary. That picture you found was probably of us when we dated. I kept a few when I left him for Johnathan because I imagined he'd develop enough self-respect to move on, and I thought I could look back on this later and think fondly of our little fling. But hey, that's my fault too, right? I was grieving Johnathan, and I made the idiot mistake of opening my legs for Richard again, only guess what? He's still obsessed with me. So now I have to deal with a clingy forty-seven-year-old man-child, three actual children who hate me, and a nosy bitch governess who thinks that I'm a murderer one moment and a victim the next."

"I—"

"Get out, Mary. Forget about packing, I'll send you your things. Or… fuck it."

She stalks over to the foyer table and opens her purse. She pulls out a wad of bills and stalks toward me. I flinch when she grabs my hand, but she only presses the money into my hand and says, "I didn't count it, but they're all hundreds. I'm going to guess three thousand or so, maybe a little more. Buy whatever you want with it. I'm sure it's worth more than the crap you have in your room."

I swallow. "Shall I wait for Javi—"

"Nope. You know what? Take the car. Any car, I don't give a shit. You want the Bentley? Take the Bentley. That's my last gift to you. Just please, please , get the fuck out of my life."

She pushes past me and stalks up the stairs. I stay where I am for a long moment. When my head doesn't want to stop reeling, I head outside.

The cold air brings me some clarity. I finally admit to myself that I'm unequal to the task of determining for sure who killed Johnathan. I'll need to turn this over to professionals.

So, I'm back to my earlier plan. I'll drive the car to Buffalo, catch a ride to New York, and report the crime to the police there. I'll tell them that my suspects are Johnathan's business partner, his wife, and a Buffalo detective who's in love with the wife. I'll give them all the evidence I have and hide only the children's involvement. That will have to be the extent of what I do.

As far as any guilt I feel about walking away from the case before I have answers? Well, I lived with it when the victim was my own sister. I'll find a way to live with this.

What a wonderful job I've done. What a wonderful governess I've been. Seriously, I think this is my calling.

I shake my head. I'm going back to teaching. I'm going back to my mundane life of following lesson plans and coming home to a glass of wine, a bowl of sherbet and an episode of whatever chintzy sitcom they're rerunning on cable. No more crime-solving, no more noble causes, no more trying to be someone I'm not.

I wonder why Cecilia let me go. Perhaps she simply doesn't have the energy to deal with me after Theresa's revelation and the compounding stress of the past several weeks. Maybe it's a sign that she truly is innocent. After all, if she were guilty, then letting me leave would be foolish. The smart thing for her to do would be to get me alone somewhere no one could see or hear me scream and dispose of me.

Somewhere like the garage.

A chill runs through me. She could have ordered me to wait on the porch until Javier could take me away. She could have called for a taxi or a rideshare. She could have simply sent me away and told me to figure out my own path out of here.

I realize how foolish I've been. Why on Earth would she give me a car? True, she's wealthy enough to buy another, but wealthy people don't get that way by behaving cavalierly with their money. They definitely don't give cars to people who accuse them of murder.

She wasn't sending me away. She was sending me away from everyone who could intervene with my murder.

"Stop where you are and turn around."

A chill runs down my spine. I've never heard that tone from Cecilia before. Even when she rushed at me with her fingers extended like claws, I never heard that tone.

I turn around slowly, knowing what I'll see before I see it, but still gasping when I find the barrel of a handgun pointed steadily at my chest.

"You meddling bitch," Cecilia says.