Page 27 of One Last Breath

But I’ve gone through every corner I can think of and found nothing. Annebelle’s closet contains only shoes and clothing. Her bathroom contains nothing more secretive than the items normally found in a young woman’s restroom. Her drawers contain clothing and jewelry, but the only letters I find stashed are love letters from middle school addressed to a boy named Jimmy.

So much for my hypothesis about her and Sylvia.

That’s not the mystery I want solved though. I need to know what happened to Lila Benson.

It doesn’t appear that I’ll learn it from Annabelle’s room though. I sigh and prepare to admit defeat when I try one final location.

I chuckle as I get down on my hands and knees and look under Annabelle’s bed. It would serve me right if she were to return home now and catch me like this. A fifty-one-year-old woman with her bottom in the air, staring under her bed like a child checking for monsters. Part of me almost hopes I’m caught so I can receive the scolding I deserve and come to my senses.

But as fate would have it, I find the smoking gun I’m looking for. There’s a letter taped to the underside of Annabelle’s mattress. I carefully remove it, and when I see Lila’s handwriting, I nearly shout for joy.

When I read Lila’s handwriting, the joy is replaced with shock.

She knows I know now. She’s caught me snooping. She didn’t say anything, but I know she caught me. Now she watches me, and her eyes are so cold.

I didn’t believe Clara about Deirdre McCoy. It sounded too much like a soap opera for me to give it credence, but now I believe it. Those eyes are colder than ice and darker than night.

I think I’ll take my leave of this place soon. I can only hope that when I leave it’s of my own free will and to a destination of my choosing.

I read the letter twice more just to convince myself that what I’ve read is real and not something I’ve simply imagined. When I am convinces that there are no figments in this letter, I replace it, carefully matching the edges of the tape to the dust-formed outlines that indicate their original placement. I have no idea if Annabelle ever looks under here, but in my experience, Violet isn’t the only one in this family with eyes as cold as ice and as dark as night.

I leave Annabelle’s room and head straight to my own. Then, because it’s barely midday, and I don’t want to be seen as a hermit and raise suspicion, I head downstairs and make myself tea, then drink it on the porch.

I still have chores to complete, and it would be better for me to complete them before the family returns from their various jobs, but I need to finish my tea first. What I’ve discovered rattles me more than I care to admit.

It doesn’t seem real. It’s absurd to think that a woman in her seventies with dementia could somehow be a vicious killer.

At the same time, though, she can’t have had dementia fifty-two years ago when Deirdre McCoy went missing. She likely didn’t have dementia four years ago when Lila Benson went missing, or if she did, it would be far less advanced than it is now.

But it is advanced now, right? Surely I’m in no danger from her. She is watched by her family most of the day, and I’m sure that if there are any guns in the house, they’re locked away where she can’t get to them.

I need to calm my nerves. My mind is running away with itself. I sip my tea and take deep, steady breaths.

This is nothing I haven’t dealt with before. In fact, objectively speaking, this is far less dangerous than what I’ve dealt with before. I’ve faced a disgruntled ex-wife who did have access to a gun and a scorned lover who would rather have her rivals killed than share the man she wanted. Compared to Cecilia Ashford and Eliza Carlton, Violet is nothing. A senile old woman who might once have been a murderer but who is now a shadow of her former self in every way.

I’ll be all right. It’s not myself I have to worry about. This is not a fight for safety but a fight for justice. Perhaps Violet won’t fully understand if she is punished for her sins, but the ghosts of Deirdre McCoy and Lila Benson will rest more easily knowing that their killer didn’t go gently into that good night.

I finish my tea and head inside to complete my chores. My nerves are far steadier now, and I’m able to finish my tasks calmly.

Upstairs rests a woman who is likely a murderer. I only need indisputable evidence of her crimes, and I can ease the pull inside me and perhaps release the tension that drives me inexorably to madness.

Or, at the very least, I can prepare myself to answer the voice of my own sister's blood.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I find it far easier to be patient now that I am certain of the culprit. I even manage to interact with Violet without letting on that I know of her secret. I know the truth now. It is only a matter of time before I have what I need to act on it.

I suppose part of my calm is due to the fact that my suspect is less dangerous than any I’ve had so far. Violet is not a threat to me, and she’s not a flight risk either. The estate is kept locked at all times, and the only way to exit is to use a keycard. Violet doesn’t have a keycard, and I am certain no one in the family would allow her to leave the estate. I know that people with dementia are prone to wandering, but there is nowhere for Violet to wander.

I can be more prudent this time. With Cecilia and Eliza, I had to accuse them directly. In Cecilia’s case, that accusation nearly got me killed, and it was only the miraculous intervention of her lover—who happened to be a police detective and unaware of Cecilia’s crimes—that saved me. In Eliza’s, I had to concoct a scenario and manipulate a confession to be recorded by Scotland Yard investigators.

Both were rather shoddy pieces of detective work that succeeded more by chance than anything else. I don’t intend to leave anything to chance here. I am quite sure that all the evidence I need to make a compelling, even an airtight, case against Violet exists on this estate. I only need to find it.

The first order of business is to discover what’s hidden in the secret garden Elizabeth frequents. Now that I’m aware of her mother’s violent history, I suspect that Elizabeth’s fascination with the garden has nothing to do with some mythical Secret Keeper.

But I dare not risk disturbing the flower bed. If I find the evidence I seek there, it might be worth it, but if I don’t, or if what I find isn’t enough to bring the case to the police, then I will paint a giant target on my back, and that could indeed prove dangerous. The other Greenwoods are clearly very protective of Violet. Even Annabelle, who seems to hate her family, hasn’t told anyone that she knows of Violet’s criminal past. If the choice came down to me or her grandmother, I’m under no illusion which choice she would make. I need to find out what secrets that garden holds, but I need to do it without raising the family’s suspicions.

I have no idea how to do that, however.

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